Fiction: Captured in the Battle of the Sexes

This time, an image of a perfect specimen of femininity in a little off-white sequined dress, standing with hands on a rail.  The dress is not extremely tight, but enough to lovingly caress the hips, gently holding tight, curvaceous buttocks.  It drapes the thighs down to the tops of the knees; long, smooth, bronze legs, firm and sinuous, yet sensuously curvy, support that perfectly round little tush.  How did you learn so quickly to carry yourself that way?

Another image, relating back to the last story about the literal battle of the sexes: the men are crucified, still wearing their camouflage fatigues.  They are surrounded by their female captors.  They stoically resist, as they have been trained.  They will not succumb to femininity.  They are men of stone, steadfast and determined.  They are masculine to the unshakeable core, the mightiest, most virile men.  They all face a huge stage, backed by a massive screen.  Each of them watches the podium with trepidatious composure.  Their resolve rests upon the sanctity and purity of each man’s individual machismo, backed by confidence in each other’s strength, and ultimately held together by their illustrious godlike leader: a man so strong-willed, and so unquestionably virile that no woman can but fall to her knees and beg for his affections.  This man commands their hearts, their minds, their lives.  He is their foundation.  Together, they are the last of the army of men.  They know that they are incorruptible, because of his leadership.  He is the last hope; they are his elite guard.  The situation is grim, but they all suspect that their leader will somehow pull them out, perhaps by seducing and overpowering his would-be captors and bending them to his will.  One hundred men depend on it.

(Here the fantasy splits into two scenarios)

One: The video screen behind the stage shows a man on a cross near the front of the forest of men.  A bevy of gorgeous half-naked women begin to slink around him seductively, mussing up his hair and feeling his powerful chest.  They fiddle with the buttons of his uniform, slowly undoing them.  They begin to unbutton his shirt.  He squirms with discomfort.  Some of the men envy his luck, but wonder why he cringes.  Soon the women tug at his undershirt.  What is that beneath his white tank top?  A wide tuft of black chest hair?  Not surprising on such a man.  But no, it shimmers.  A thin black band rises from his pectoral to his shoulder.  His chest appears covered with something, but he’s shifting his body away from the camera.  Good God, it can’t be!  The women have now pulled back the camouflage shirt, and torn away one half of Johnson’s tank top, revealing a lace-trimmed brassiere.  The men gasp in horror.  One of their number was a traitor all along.  How could they have trusted him?  He has stopped resisting, and his femininely adorned chest becomes fully exposed.  He bows his head in shame.  The women who stripped him laugh at him cruelly as they undo his pants and pull down his boxers.  His panties match the bra.  He endures the hateful glares of his companions.

Now the camera cuts to Terwilligger, at the opposite end of the crowd.  He pleads for them to stop.  Him too, wonder the others, as another gaggle of lithe young hotties slowly strips him to an unmistakably feminine panty and bra set.  He weeps with embarrassment as the other men begin to mutter in disbelief.

Next went Smith, who wore a string bikini.  Then Parish in just panties.  Wang in his one piece swimsuit came after that.  Then Dalton.  Then Lee.  Then Patel, Schmidt, Torres, Garcia, Hakkannen, Visniewski, Dekembe, Miller, Groulx, and Santini.  One by one, the men were exposed in women’s skivvies.  By the time they had lost 20 men, those remaining began to question each other’s virility.  If so many could be traitors, how could anyone tell if the man he shared a tent with was another traitorous fairy?  Bolton harshly accused Silverman, who shook visibly with apprehension.  They came for Bolton first, revealing him in his frilly white silks to Silverman, who turned out to only have been hiding a garter.

After exactly half of them had been exposed, the women asked for volunteers.  Any man who spoke up now would be spared the humiliation of being stripped before his peers.  MacPherson, Moore, Cadieux, and Vandenburgh all screamed like the sissies they were, and were untied and sent to the stage.  Seeing that they weren’t being molested, seven more piped up.  All told, 23 men were too cowardly to get stripped down.  When it became evident that no others would give up, these men were made to strip anyway, one by one, to burlesque music.  Most were happy to have found asylum, and strutted like supermodels in their various lingerie outfits.  It was easy for them, since they knew that the traitors outnumbered the loyalists.  Once they had each proclaimed their abject femininity, they lined up on the stage holding hands.

There now remained 28 men.  Fifteen more were exposed.  Every one of the first 87 men exposed had something girlish to hide.  At last, Maartens turned out to be clean.  So did Franks, Julien, Chung, and the leader, Meyer.  All the others were sissies.

All told, 95 of the hundred last men were already corrupted.  Only five had remained true to their gender.

Now the women asked the 5 remaining naked men if they wanted to convert now to avoid the shame of being effeminated aggressively, publicly, and ruthlessly.  Chung begged for mercy, and he was given a French maid’s uniform, which he put on greedily and expertly.  Franks caved in, too, and was given a tight little bikini, which he struggled getting into, but appeared to enjoy when he got it on.  Then they let go all the crucified sissies, since it was no longer possible to shame them since they were all transsexual anyway.

That left Maartens and Julien flanking their beloved leader Meyer.  Maartens and Julien relied on their captain to lead them out of their predicament.  They needed Meyer’s strength to pull them through.  Meyer defiantly refused to co-operate, and his henchmen followed his lead.

The women decked out Maartens like a whore.  He wore lingerie fancier and more feminine than any of the other men had ever even imagined themselves in in their wildest dreams.  He whimpered in distress, but Meyer encouraged him to remain manly, to be strong, to not let the feminine accoutrements destroy him.  Maartens held fast, although he struggled visibly to restrain himself from expressing his long-repressed feminine side.  Julien did not fare much better.

Meyer, however, was released from his cross, and made to dress himself.  He had to wear the whole deal.  He looked like a whore.  When they marched him to the stage, he quickly learned to wiggle his butt in those 3-inch heels.  The lace and silk were too much for him.  He crumpled at the feet of the queen and came all over himself.  Maartens and Julien wept with relief, and came too.

Scenario Two: Much the same as One, except only 25 or so men prove to be traitors.  The other 75 are stripped naked one by one, proudly showing up the women by being well-endowed and manly to the very skin.  The last man is the leader.  He is more defiant than any of the others.  It appears that the women, in spite of having won the final battle, will not be able to add insult to injury.  The women are truly in awe of Meyer as they apprehensively go about their task.  They know that they have lost, but they crave to see the manliest of men in all his naked glory.  They long to ride him.  The other men feel their strength returning.  They could break their bonds and overpower their captors, and make a desperate escape...

But wait: There is something under Meyer’s fatigues.  It’s a black silk corset with pink bows!  And a matching silk thong, garter belt, and stockings!  His skin is shaven smooth like a girl’s!  He’s laughing!  He’s shaking his girlish hips at his men in a seductive way.  He’s the most effeminate of them all! 

The men’s spirits sink, free-fall, splatter.  The women fall away from Meyer with mirth, and he breaks his bonds.  He then goes to each man in turn and sucks his cock, snowballing into the next man’s mouth.  Then each man is given a panty and bra set, and brutally effeminated.

Scenario Three: 99 men on crosses.  Then someone vaguely familiar appears on the stage.  She’s absolutely gorgeous in her sequined white dress.  What a gorgeous ass.  Is she a movie star?  Some kind of celebrity?  She steps up to the microphone and speaks.  In Meyer’s voice: “You’re all going to be girlies now.”

Of course, with scenario three, there are two further options: Meyer is either totally converted in a matter of seconds, much to his embarrassment, or he is already longing to become a girl, and has been leading his men to doom all along.

The conversion:

Meyer is led into a dark room with a spotlight in the middle and a mirror.  He is stripped naked and made to stand in the spotlight.  Someone tosses him a pink satin panty and bra set.  He reticently refuses to wear it.  The panty is a thong with snaps.  His arms are strapped to cables from the ceiling, and his ankles shackled to long chains on the ground.  Slowly the ceiling cables start moving apart, lifting him from the ground, and spreading his arms.  The chains also tighten from opposite ends of the room, leaving him suspended in air and spread eagled.  He is stretched so tightly that he cannot move.  A woman gingerly snaps the panties on, then the brassiere.  Meyer is made to face the mirror and contemplate how he looks in women’s underwear for 12 hours.

He remains mentally strong, and resists.  He tries uselessly to squirm out of his new underwear, but in the mirror he appears to be enjoying himself.  He stops struggling, and realizes that he can’t remain passive either, so he squirms some more.  He vacillates all night, determined to not betray his gender in spite of the circumstances.  He refuses to accept that he is doomed.  He convinces himself that no matter how feminine he looks as he tries hopelessly to squirm out of his panties and bra, it will not change him.  He convinces himself that if he can withstand this, he can withstand anything.

When they finally release him, they laugh when he does not immediately tear off his feminine underwear.  He instead massages his strained arms and legs.  When they laugh, he moves to undo the snaps on his panties, when he realizes how feminine this is.  His hand lingers on his hip.  Finally after a moment’s hesitation, he slides them down his legs and kicks them across the room.  He fumbles with the brassiere for five minutes before he can unclasp it, slide it off his shoulders, and fling it away. 

They then hand him a different panty and bra set.  He puts it on himself since they’re going to force him anyway.  They tie him up a bit more loosely this time.  He is horrified by what he sees in the mirror.  Every squirming movement of his hips only reinforces the feminizing effect of the panties.  He cannot abide it.  He must resist more!  He squirms harder and harder.  In the mirror he stares at a go-go dancer oozing sexuality.  With every movement, his defiance grows stronger.  Nothing can shake his manhood.  If these panties are the epitome of femininity, they cannot break him.  He squirms in defiant celebration.

When he awakens, his bonds have been released.  He does not know how long he has been sleeping in women’s underwear, unbound.  He feels humiliated and cheated, enough to slowly roll off his panties and snap off his bra.

Now they present him with a choice: a one-piece swimsuit, a string bikini, or black panty and bra set embroidered with red lace. 

Even though the swimsuit is less revealing, it is still unmistakably feminine.  It clings so tightly to his skin that he must squirm even harder to shake it loose.  His restraints are loose enough now that he can touch the straps of his bathing suit and rub his thighs together. 

The next time, he chooses the bikini.  It’s a test of his determination.  This time, the restraints are loose enough for him to squeeze his nipples as he withstands another onslaught of femininity. 

The next time, restraints are not necessary.  He dresses himself up in lingerie.  There is no longer any pretense of maintaining manhood.  Nothing is feminine enough.  He is given access to an entire inventory of women’s clothes.  He removes his body hair.  Not feminine enough.  He begins to take hormones.  Can’t get feminine fast enough.  He wears everything in the store to make himself more feminine.

Finally after only a week of feminization – all of it broadcast to his captured troops – he finds the little white sequined dress.  He is the girl in my imagination.  He goes out to his crucified men, and rubs his panties against their cocks.  They think he’s a girl until he speaks.  “You wouldn’t believe how good this feels,” he says between mouthfuls of cock.  “I can’t believe I resisted this at all!”

Fiction: Forced into a Swimsuit

An image that never escapes me for long (or is it the other way around?):

I can't move my arms or legs.  My feet and hands tingle from the lack of blood circulating into them.  I'm stretched out across the length of the bed, swimming in a pool of blue light from the huge video monitor hanging above me like a mirrored ceiling.  I can feel the air against my naked balls.

The girl climbs onto the bed and straddles me.  She's wearing only a one-piece swimsuit, red and black, high-cut, very sexy.  She has the type of body that would look sexy even in a space suit.  She's blonde and foxy, with a devilish glint in her eye.  My cock stiffens under her smooth, spandex-covered crotch.  I can't gyrate very well, because of the position I'm in.  I wish I could break free of these infernal leather straps so I could grab her and fuck her brains out.  

She lays her body against mine, and whispers milimetres from my face, "Do you like what I wore for you?"

"Oh, yeah!"

"I thought you might," she answers, and rolls off me.  She picks up an identical swimsuit from the floor beside the bed, and dangles it in front of me.  "I've got another one just for you!"

Suddenly, my body goes numb.  I can't move a muscle below my neck.  But I can see everything that she's doing to me.  I watch her unstrap my arms and legs.  I struggle to lift them, but can't even muster a twitch.  She brings my feet together, and gets off the bed.  At the foot of the bed, she slips my feet into the swimsuit, and through the leg holes.  She hops back on the bed, and lifts it snugly into place on my crotch.  Then she puts each arm into its bra strap, and adjusts the tight fit all around.  Finally, she ties me up again.
 
As suddenly as I lost control of my limbs, I get it back.  And she's lying on top of me again, rubbing our matching crotches together, and snapping the elastics at my hips and the thin straps on my shoulders.  I can't help but stiffen my cock again under her soft, curvaceous, undulating body.  Only this time, I feel the soft smooth material of a swimsuit from the inside.  She touches me in all the right places to make me feel what I'm wearing.  I'm trying not to enjoy this too much, but I desperately need to touch her, to hump her, to fuck her.  She's irresistible.  At the same time, I don't want to enjoy myself like this wearing women's swimwear.  Somehow, my manhood won't allow it, no matter how much I try to convince myself that it doesn't matter.

She slides off me, but continues to rub my cock through the bathing suit.  I continue to writhe with guarded pleasure.  "Wow!" she says, "I didn't think you'd like it this much!  You don't even need me around!"  With that, she withdraws her hand, and rolls off the bed.  My hips gyrate once or twice more without her hand, and I notice that the tightness of the bathing suit compensates almost enough.  "See!  You're doing just fine with your swimsuit."  

The screen flashes above me.  It shows a shapely woman, wearing the same swimsuit, tied up in the same way as me.  She looks familiar, somehow, but I can't quite place it.

"Sexy, isn't she?" says my tormentor.  "Look at her boobs!  Aren't they fabulous?  And her legs are so slim and smooth. . ."  I have to admit, she's quite a knockout.  I size her up and fantasize about myself tormenting her just like I'm being tormented now, by rubbing up against her helpless, supine body, and sampling every inch of her delectable femininity.  She's writhing around erotically on her bed, as though responding to my thoughts.

A feminine hand, not her own, appears at her side.  My tormentor's hand seems to be creeping beside me in exactly the same place.  "Wouldn't you love to tickle her slim little waist?" she asks, just as she pokes me in the waist. Amazingly, the girl on the screen gets poked in exactly the same spot, at exactly the same time.  She convulses sexily away from the tickling hand in total synchronicity with me.  Every move I make, she mirrors. 
"What is going on here?" I ask.  "Who is she?  Why are you doing this?"

My lovely tormentor giggles evilly.  "That's you, silly.  Or at least, that's who you're going to be if you keep wearing women's clothing."

"What do you mean?  You can't turn me into a girl!"

"In all honesty, you'll be turning yourself into a girl.  We're just helping you along."

"Do you really expect me to become female just by wearing women's clothes?"

"Of course!  And you do, too.  You know that the longer you wear that swimsuit, the more feminine you'll become."

"You're crazy!"

"Am I?  If it's so harmless, then why are you struggling?"  

She's right.  I'm pulling at all the straps, shuffling around desperately trying to break free.  The girl on the screen is, too.  And she looks damned hot doing it.

"Don't worry," she chuckles.  "You'll like it."

"No!  I'll never like it!"

"It looks to me that you like it already."  She slides onto the bed and melts onto my side.  Just as she does to the girl on the screen.  "You can have a fine female body, you know," she purrs, as she softly rubs my belly.  "Look at your hips!" she says, running her finger around the elastic at my hip, emphasizing the femininity of the girl on the screen.  "Look at how this bathing suit brings out all your feminine features!  You can't tell me that she's not beautiful.  And who doesn't want to be beautiful?"

I shrink away in revulsion.  The swimsuit clings to my body like a silky glove, from which I cannot escape, its femininity as much a part of me as my own skin.  I can almost feel it assimilating my throbbing dick, squeezing me into an hourglass figure.  My body convulses trying to escape from it, but it squeezes ever tighter.  Maybe she's right.  Maybe I will turn into a girl from wearing this.  Come to think of it, the girl on the screen, whose movements mirror mine so flawlessly, has my face.  And she's incredibly sexy.  I can't take my eyes off of her.  I'm wearing the same bathing suit, and on her it's the most feminine thing I've ever seen.  It clings to her body just as it does to mine, and boy does it accentuate her femininity.  I'm moving my body now just to see hers move.  I'm dancing around like a girl, just to revel in her erotic movements.  

My God, I'm wearing some revealing, sexy, women's clothing, and I'm acting all girlishly, all to please my voyeuristic fantasies.  I'm incredibly horny from looking at her.  And I must admit that the bathing suit feels pretty good around my crotch.  I feel myself blush as I realize that I'm wearing a woman's swimsuit, and I have the biggest hard-on in my life.  I'm acting like a girl, and I like it!  I am becoming feminine, and I'm enjoying it!  These thoughts torment me, and I struggle all the more to escape from my effeminate prison.  But the more I move, the more I notice the swimsuit; the more I notice the swimsuit, the more I notice its femininity; the more I notice its femininity, the more I get horny.  I can't stop moving, because it feels too good.  I don't want to stop.  And even if I stop, I'm still wearing it, still marveling at its femininity.  I can't believe it!  I'm becoming feminine, and I like it!

I don't even care anymore that I'm becoming feminine!  It feels so wonderful!  I can feel my body becoming curvaceous and smooth and delicate, and I love it!  And I love it because I'm becoming female.  The thought of becoming female makes me even hornier.  I want to be a girl now!  My tormentor was right!  I gyrate and dance even more vigorously than before, to amplify the feminizing effects of the swimsuit.  In my excitement, I somehow manage to free my left arm.

Jolted to reality by this sudden shift in mobility, I quickly grasp that this is my chance to escape.  As I turn on my side to reach the strap on my right arm, the cool air chills the sweaty, clinging swimsuit, and draws my attention momentarily back to my fantasies.  I shake off this fleeting thought, and continue to untie my legs.
At last I have a truly good look at what I'm wearing.  I really am wearing a woman's one-piece swimsuit.  It looks horrid on my hirsute masculinity, but the idea of wearing it still arouses me.  I glance up at the screen, and see my feminine self in all her glory, revealing a cleavage worth killing for, sitting in a position that accentuates her gorgeous, sensuous legs and her soft, delicate shoulders.  I take one last look at her before I slide the swimsuit off and roll out of bed.  I can't help but fondle myself a few times before I finally succeed in sliding the shoulder straps off.

I hold a woman's swimsuit in my hand.  I, a man, have worn it.  I enjoyed wearing it.  I blush again at the thought of it.  I can't take my eyes off of it.  It's very sexy, even when no one wears it.  It somehow exudes femininity.  I wore it!  I still can't believe it.  I can see how it could turn me into a girl now.  It's so wonderfully female.  It felt so good to wear it.  My masculinity somehow survived it, too.  I have tested my manhood with the ultimate in femininity, and it emerged unscathed.  I feel a rush of pride and adrenaline just thinking about my brush with girlhood.  

Then again, I was forced to wear it.  And I struggled against it.  I almost lost!  What would have happened if I hadn't broken free?  Or what if I had been wearing a bikini?  Or panties, a bra a garter belt, and stockings?  I would have succumbed for sure.  And the thought excites me: I could still be a girl!  Imagine the effects of wearing girls' undies!  Devastating.  Imagine the feel of silk and satin against my skin. . .

A flush of desire comes over me.  Feverishly, I slip back into the bathing suit.  Damn the consequences!  I want to wear it!  I jump back into bed, and fondle myself to climax, fantasizing about being female.  I imagine myself wearing all sorts of sexy lingerie and bikinis and dresses and skirts and heels.  I picture them shaping my horrible male body into something gorgeously female, worthy of the clothes.  

Fiction: Becoming a Body Double

Christina opened the door to my padded cell and walked in, wearing nothing but the bikini she wore when I ogled her at Alex's cottage last Summer.  She's a very sexy girl, with long, slim legs, firm but smallish breasts, and a fine, curvaceous figure.  I couldn't believe my eyes.  It had been weeks since I had seen any woman, much less had any sexual gratification.  

"Are we ready to begin?" she asked the two burly guards who watched over me.  They nodded and held me down as she strapped me into a bikini very similar to hers.

"What are you doing to me?" I whimpered.

She laughed as she tied up my bra and began to explain.  "You've surely heard about how my life is in danger?  Well, we need a lookalike to take some of the heat away from me.  We've run out of suitable women to imitate me, and you're the best of the rest."  

Christina is about 8 inches shorter than me, and 50 pounds lighter.

"But I don't look anything like you!"

"You'd be amazed what we can do these days with plastic surgery and makeup. . ."

"But I'm not even a girl!"

"That's the only snag.  And it's the first thing we'll work on.  C'mon, you'd better change your attitude, or you'll never get to be like me!"

With that, the men rubbed me down with some depilatory cream, and made me swallow some pills.  This continued for weeks.  Every day.

At first I resisted.  It took me a long time to get used to it.  Christina was very nice to me though.  She really wanted me to be just like her.  I loved to stare at her body, and I guess that pretty soon, her plan started to make a strange sort of sense to me.

The first few weeks were absolutely demeaning.  I wore all sorts of different female garments.  I got to experience it all: bikinis, one-piece bathing suits, leotards, panties and bras, garter belts, stockings, and all sorts of lingerie.  Every time, Christina would make me examine her body, admire its every curve, and smell it and touch it and feel it.  She didn't have to tell me how gorgeous it is, but she did.  She also told me that I would soon have one just like it, if I was good and co-operated with her.  This would make me horny as a toad, so she would bring in the goons to jerk me off, and fondle me like a girl.  Then when I came she would make me admit that I liked it because I felt like a girl.

Eventually, it became routine: a new set of undies to wear, more exploration of Christina's body, and the infamous rubdown.  By then by body was hairless and getting soft.  My nipples were starting to get sensitive from the hormones they fed me.  I started to look at her with envy rather than lust: I could relate to her underwear, because I wore it too, and I stared longingly at her crotch, admiring its shape not as something to fondle but to emulate.  

Finally, she let me get dressed by myself.  And I didn't hesitate.  I actually looked forward to it.  It dawned on me at last that I was going to be a girl.  I rather liked the idea.  I figured that I might as well enjoy it.  She noticed my enthusiasm, and began stage 2. . . .

Fiction: Chained and Forced to Choose

"So," said the captor to her prisoner. "Have you ever worn women's clothing?"

"Of course not!"

"You've never worn a dress as a practical joke?"

"No."

"Your big sister never forced you to play dressup?"

"I don't have a sister."

"You never snuck into your mom's dresser to try on her panties?"

"What the Hell are you talking about?"

"Aren't we defensive? And you're blushing, too!"

He didn't answer.

"We know all about your little secret, Mister. We know that you wear lingerie for fun. We know that you secretly want to be a girl, just so you can wear pretty little frilly lace undies that boys aren't allowed to wear."

"What?"

"Oh, I understand. Your fragile little masculine ego won't let you admit it to anyone. But I know that you want to be just like me."

"Am I supposed to be scared?"

"Not really. You're supposed to be excited, though. And I know that you are. Just thinking about wearing a sexy little garter belt turns you on."

"This is a joke."

She moved her face to his, and the scent of her perfume invaded his nostrils. She looked him in the eye, and he couldn't hold her penetrating gaze. Her breast brushed against him as she leaned over his shoulder to smell the back of his head. She stayed there a few moments, breathing heavily. Suddenly, she backed away, breaking the spell.

"Do you think I'm sexy?" she asked. 

 
She was, indeed, gloriously beautiful. She looked like a supermodel. Plus, she was in her skivvies, revealing her perfectly shaped body in its curvaceous majesty.

"Yes," replied the prisoner.

"Do you want to fuck me?"

"Yes."

"Oh, that's so sweet!" she exclaimed coyly, as she threw her arms around her prisoner's neck, and moulded her body against his. His naked body almost convulsed in ecstasy as she touched him. Unfortunately, he could do nothing, suspended by the chains on his arms and restrained by those on his legs. She backed away seductively as he gasped at this unexpected pleasure.

"You know," she said, "I'm not supposed to fuck my prisoners. So we'll have to make a little deal."

He was speechless. 

 
"I can't do anything for you unless you do me a little favour first."

"What? Tell me, what must I do!"

"You have to admit that you want to wear women's underwear."

He paused, shocked. "Is that all I have to do to fuck you?"

"Yes. That's all."

"But that's ridiculous! How can I fuck you if I don't feel masculine? How can you want me to be feminine?"

"Fine!" she snapped, and turned sharply away towards the door.

"Wait! Wait!"

She turned, fury distorting her gorgeous face.

He hesitated. He knew that this was a trick. She had him backed into a corner. He desperately wanted to have sex with her, and he knew that she probably wouldn't anyway. Moreover, he knew that she would likely torture him and force him to her will anyway. It was a tough call. "OK, I'll do it."

"You'll do what?" she asked, unable to conceal the glee in her voice. "Say it!"

"I'll wear women's clothes."

"You'll what?"

"I'll wear women's clothes!"

She clapped her hands joyfully and skipped over to him to kiss his nipple. "I knew you'd cave in, you little sissy! I can't wait to see you in a bra! You'll be so cute! You'll be so effiminate that you won't even want to fuck me anymore! Hee hee!"

He couldn't believe what he had gotten himself into. He began to think about his near future, and dreaded its approach. What would she do to him? He couldn't stop thinking about her in her wonderful underwear, and fantasized about all the different things in her dresser that she would force him to wear. He could hardly contain his shame when he realized that the thought of it aroused him in a strange, unwholesome way that aroused him all the more for its perversity.

When the time came, she did not force him to wear something of her choice. Instead, she presented him with many options. He had before him all kinds of underwear, lingerie, swimwear, leotards, garter belts, stockings, chemises, and nightgowns. All were unmistakably feminine. His very proximity to these dainty items brought hormones rushing through his body. He was very nervous. She left the clothes in his cell, and released him to pick out something girlish to wear. 

 
He picked through the clothes with apprehension, still unable to believe that he would have to wear it. He couldn't picture himself in any of it, but had no trouble imagining his captress.

"Pick something! You're worse than a woman!" she boomed from the microphone. She watched him from the room above, which overlooked his cell. Trembling, he snatched a one-piece swimsuit- the least sexy item he could find. He didn't want to give in too much.

"Put it on!" she screeched from above.

He slipped into the swimsuit, which clung to him like a second skin. The soft fabric and high cut gave him an instant erection, of which he was desperately ashamed. He was quickly chained up again, unable to remove his new garment. All he could do was writhe.

"Do you like it?" she asked when she came down from her perch to see him. She wore a bikini for the occasion, picking it from the selection he chose from and changing into it in front of him.

"What if I don't?" he retorted.

"Oh, I can tell you love it! Look at this bulge!" He reddened in guilty shameful pleasure as she stroked his covered penis. "Do you feel feminine?"

"You promised you'd have sex with me if I wore women's clothes! I wearing it now, so let's do it!"

"Tsk, tsk. Not so fast! You're all chained up there, and you can't exactly do anything about it, can you? Don't worry, I'll fuck you. But not now. For now, I just want to do girlie things with you.

She began to rub up against him. "I want you to feel like a woman. Just imagine what I'd look like wearing that."

She showed him pictures of her wearing exactly what he was wearing. "And just think: you're wearing it now!  You're dressed like a girl. And you seem to like it! Isn't it great to have something caress your body like that?  Don't you just love the delicate material?"

He convulsed with erotic shame. He writhed and struggled, disgusted with himself for becoming feminine. Listening to every word she said, and feeling jolts of exquisitely forbidden pleasure rising from his cock. He struggled to escape from her swimsuit. He felt trapped in it, but relished guiltily every moment of it. "Do you feel feminine?" she asked again.

"YES! YES!"

"Do you like it?"

"YES!"

"I think you've had enough. Let's get that off of you."

"NO!" he screamed. "Don't stop!"

The bathing suit seemed to shape his body into a girlish hourglass. He imagined that his crotch looked just like a girl's, that his chest looked busty. These thoughts sent jolts of intense ecstasy through his body. He had always found it sexy to see empty suimsuits and panties and bras, because it meant that there was probably a naked woman nearby. He felt that knowing the inside of a woman's underwear was incredibly intimate - and arousing. Only this time, he felt the inside of his mistress's bathing suit clinging lewdly to his body. Only women know what that feels like. And now, he does, too. And he felt proud and lucky for it. And feminine.

Fiction: The Ultimate Sexual Experience, Part 3

[Part 1] [Part 2]


That's pretty well how I spent the next week or so.  I wore lingerie all day and all night.  They treated me like a girl.  They did their best to make me feel like a girl.  And at the end of every day, we all cuddled together, wearing sexy lingerie.  The first few days, I was tentative about choosing which outfit to wear.  Presented with a matching bra and panty set, a teddy, or a nightgown, I had to pick one.  "What do you want to wear today?"  they would ask.  How could I say that I wanted to wear any of it?  Why would I want to wear women's underwear at all?  How could I go about choosing, anyway?  Still, I felt that I did have a preference: I feel turned on looking at one or another of them.  I suppose that there's something sexy about women's underwear in and of itself.  They kept pestering me.  "See?  He likes the matching bra and panties."  "Wouldn't you rather wear the teddy?"  "Leave him alone!  He obviously wants the bra and panties!"  I couldn't stand it.  But somehow they could tell which one turned me on the most.  And they gave it to me.  And they made me wear it.


My hands would shake as they got hold of them.  Normally, I would be unhooking these, or slipping them off of female hips.  I always did love the feel of silk and satin, and the feminine look of lace.  I always did love the look of feminine underwear.  I was getting a very close look at it, and it was bringing back all sorts of memories of sexual encounters when I would be looking at sexy girls wearing things just like this.  The panty and bra set was femininity itself.  Something about its shape, about the lacy trim, about the delicate elastic, all of it made me quite horny.  I held in my hands a most potent symbol of female sexuality: the style and design of the outfit is made to highlight feminine sexual traits.  It's made to make girls look even sexier than they are.  And I had to put it on my masculine body, a body that has been in contact with countless hordes of females wearing just this kind of sexy outfit.

They always had to push me into putting it on.  I mean, there I stood with a powerful female sexualizing tool in my hands, and I just couldn't make the connection to my own body.  They just couldn't connect in my mind.  They would snap the whip at me to get me going.  I was so confused.  I didn't really know how to go about putting it on, except for what I had seen the girls do here, and everything else I'd seen over the years.  I just stepped into the panties like I would my own underwear.  Except I hesitated.  In part, I didn't want to stop looking at the girlish garment I was sliding up my legs, particularly the crotch.  But I had to go up, all the way to my own crotch.  It looked just awful contoured on my male body.  But it was still feminine.  It hugged around my hips and butt just like it would on any woman.

Next, and most difficult, was the bra.  I didn't even know how to begin.  Danielle had to show me the first time, because she didn't want me fooling around for too long.  I guess she thought that I was procrastinating.  She took me through it step by step.  I couldn't help but stare at her incredible body as she showed me how to put on a bra.  She started off by holding it up straight, and right side up, so that the top was on top, and the outside facing away from her.  I did the same.  Then she grabbed each end and wrapped it around her waist, with the two ends at the front.  I did the same with mine.  She clasped the two little hooks.  I clasped my two little hooks.  It felt tight and smooth around my waist.  Then we turned them around together, in unison, and pulled our bras up by the shoulder straps, putting our arms through them as they came up.  I was so embarrassed when I realized that we both snapped the shoulder straps when we got them on.  I did it completely by accident.

Then, when I had it on, they told me to feel my underwear against my skin, until they had me dirty dancing like a girl in front of them.  I felt so incredibly horny with all this girlishness around me.  I couldn't get over having something so feminine on the source of my masculinity.  I wanted to feel every bit of that femininity all over me.  The outfit seemed to feed on my every move, seemed to become more and more feminine with every undulation of my hips.  Every touch reminded me of what I was wearing, and how girlish it made me.  Femininity was rubbing off on me.  I was moving more and more like a girl, and it felt better and better.  I think they could tell that I wasn't hamming it up anymore.  I could feel the panties and bra making me more girlish by the second, and I couldn't resist.  Worse, I was relishing it.  It just felt so good, I wanted more and more.  I knew what was happening to me, and with every second, I wanted it more.  While I wore that bra and those panties, I wanted to besmirch my manhood.  I wanted that outfit to effeminate me.  I wanted to feel like a girl.  


Those girls were smart.  They knew what was going on.  I didn't, yet.  They didn't let me come until the end of the day.  As I came, I experienced the most intense sexual experience of my life, and I knew it.  After I came, I was so incredibly degraded.  I wasn't a girl.  It was all an illusion.  I had worn women's underwear all day, looking like a freak, and wanting desperately to be feminine.  They had devastated my manhood; or rather, they had made me do it all by myself.  I never said to them how I felt all day, but there's no mistaking my actions.  I willfully pranced around like a girl.  I looked forward to wearing more lingerie as I did it.  I had abandoned manhood that day.  They knew that I had.  They also knew that there was no turning back.  I hoped beyond hope that there was a way out.

I lay there in a pool of my come when I realized this.  I was still male, still wearing women's underwear.  They kept me from taking it off.  I resolved then and there that I would never let them take me for a ride like that again.  I would not play their game the next morning.  If they insisted, I would leave.

The next day, as you no doubt know, didn't go quite as I had planned it.  I was forced to choose another outfit for that day.  I was still wearing the bra and panties from the day before.  Oh, how weak I was!  I didn't have the guts to tell them off.  They were still so beautiful.  They brought out the undies again, and I was captivated again.  It was far worse than the day before.  I had a definite desire to wear a pretty, lacy teddy.  I tried to deny myself.  I really did.  But they could tell that I wanted it.  I needed no help putting it on.

The next day, I had resolved the same thing as before.  I practically wept when I slipped into another gorgeous panty and bra set.  I didn't want to stop.  I was feeling so good when I wore their underwear.  I so desperately wanted to never take it off.  Until I came.  Then I never wanted to see women's clothes again.  Then the next morning, I wouldn't be able to resist another shred of silky panty.  Pretty soon, I wasn't just pointing at just anything to get the ordeal over with; I was begging to wear specific items of women's clothing.  At first, they would each bring something out, and I would take a long time to waffle it over before they finally figured it out.  Within a week, I was whispering coyly that I wanted the black silk teddy, or the red lace panty and bra.  "Ummm, could I please have the, uh," I would start, stuttering, mumbling.  


"You'll have to speak up, Pamela would say.  


"I'd like the, uh, the black silk teddy."  


"You'd what?"  


"I want the black silk teddy," I would say louder, blushing.  


"Why, what for?" they would ask.  


"I want to wear it," I would whisper.  


"Why?"  


"Because it feels nice."  


"What do you mean it feels nice?"  


"It feels sexy."  


"Hmm.  You're right.  It sure does feel sexy, doesn't it?  But it's made for girls to wear.  You're not a girl, so you're not allowed to wear it."  


"Please let me wear it."  


"But you're not a girl.  You have to be a girl to wear it.  Do you want to be a girl?"  


I would hesitate for a few seconds.  Then I would blush and say, almost inaudibly, "yes."  They had me.  


"Well, in that case, we'll let you wear it."  


And I slipped into it and reveled.


After that it got easier and easier.  I had nothing to be shy about anymore.  They offered me lingerie to wear, and I chose it.  It was all I wore, and all I wanted to wear.  Except when I came.  When I came, I wanted to crawl into a hole.  But I even got used to that; or rather, I came to terms with it.  Somehow.

But my new-found hobby ended abruptly one morning.  The girls came in as they had for the past two weeks, but didn't offer me anything to wear.  

There was something dangerous about the situation.  I had no direct access to women's underwear anymore.  As far as the girls were concerned, I didn't have to wear lingerie anymore.  They just wanted to have sex now.  

It was very difficult the first day.  I was clumsy.  I couldn't just fuck the shit out of them anymore.  I wanted them to stay in their underwear, so that I could play with the elastics.  It was such a let-down from the days previous, when I, too, pranced around in silky panties and bras.  I still wanted to dress up.  I mean, it was just so fun.  But it never came into the program.  I was embarrassed to ask.  But I was desperate.

"When do I get to wear your undies again?" I asked.

"Oh," answered Pamela, "That's over now.  We want to move on to something else."

It didn't sound like I'd ever wear women's clothes again.

I couldn't sleep anymore.  A part of me was extremely relieved that this problem I had had been taken out of my hands.  I wouldn't be pressured into wearing women's clothes again, so I would never do it again.  I would never damage my manhood again, because I had no access to women's clothes.  Yes, at one point I was very thankful of that.

It didn't last very long.  The girls weren't even mentioning it anymore.  I felt ashamed.  I couldn't ask them, because I would be completely embarrassed.  Yes, even though I was there for the ultimate sexual experience, and even though they were whores, I was afraid, deathly afraid to ask.  They would think less of me, I thought.

I had to take matters in my own hands.  Every night, I needed it more and more.  I sweated in my bed thinking about it, dreaming of wearing something girlish.  I felt like I was missing something.  I dreamed of wearing bikinis and one-piece swimsuits.  They had never let me wear any before.  I wanted to, desperately.  I felt that I could never be completely effeminated if I never wore it.  I fantasized that wearing a woman's bathing suit would push me that much further over the edge, and make me that much more effeminate.


The plan was so simple.  Three gorgeous sluts lived here in the same house with me.  All I had to do was sneak into their bedrooms, and steal whatever I wanted.  I planned it for days.  They just wanted to have sex, but I was staking out the room.

I waited until nightfall.  I needed that bathing suit.  I was sweating again.  I had left Danielle on the couch, where she fell asleep.  I carefully snuck into her room.

Once inside, I gave myself little time to act.  I hurried to her dresser, and rifled through her drawers.  I found a very nice silky smooth swimsuit, very sexy and high cut.  I stuffed it down my boxers and shuffled back into my room.

It took me a few minutes to put it on.  First, I wanted to make sure that no one was coming.  Then I examined it, to relish in all of its wonderful girlishness.  I put it on in the dark, under my covers.  It was incredible.  I felt so effeminate.  It was everything I had wanted it to be.  I could feel my masculinity choke in the tight spandex.  I rubbed my crotch against the covers as I felt my body all over.  The whole time I thought to myself that this was going too far, that I could never recover my manhood now.  I mean, I had worn all sorts of lingerie before, and I had been masturbated in it and came in it, but it was always at the insistence of others.  If I'm forced to do it, I can't be totally responsible for my actions, no matter how much I like it.  But this time, no one forced me.  I wanted it, and I went out and got it.  Nobody even knows about it.  And this very thought that I am damaging my masculinity beyond repair makes me feel even more effeminate, gives me even more pleasure, makes me want to obliterate my gender.  I don't ever want this feeling to stop; it feels so much better than sex.  Maybe this is how a girl feels when she's fucking...

Suddenly, I'm stopped dead in my tracks when someone opens my door.  Claudia is sneaking in here for some reason.  She thinks I'm asleep.  I lay still as a log.  She looks around a little, turns around, and walks out, closing the door behind her.  My heart pounds like a jackhammer.  But I slowly resume, and work my way back to a fever pitch, thankful that I hadn't been caught.  How wonderful it must be, I imagine, to be a woman!  And I affirm to myself my desire to become a girl, and come all over myself and the swimsuit.

Now I'm in trouble.  I can't bring this back to Danielle's dresser in such a condition.  It's filthy, and she'll know immediately what happened to it.  But I can't avoid replacing it, or else she'll miss it.  And Lord knows, I don't want anyone to know about this now.  I don't want to be a girl anymore.  I just can't understand how I got myself into this situation.

Clearly, I must take the chance that she won't miss it.  I can't put a dirty bathing suit back into her drawers.  I have to either destroy it or hide it.  Again, I can't destroy it without risking getting caught.  I stuffed it under my mattress.

As much shame as I felt after that experience, the very next night I wanted more.  All day I worried that Danielle would notice her missing bathing suit, or that someone would find it under my mattress.  I couldn't stop thinking about how much pleasure I had derived from my little crime.  And no one seemed to have noticed.  Sure, I was embarrassed after, but so what?  I had to expect that, considering what I had done.  And what had I done?  I had worn women's clothes and liked it.  Immensely.  The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to relive the experience.  I wanted to be a girl again.  So that night, I dug it out from under my mattress and masturbated again.

Again, the same result.  I was always ashamed.  It was like being brought down from a daydream, except that there was that shame, that gruesome shame, that made me regret my pleasure.  I knew that it was unnatural at the time, and I treasured it for that reason.  It made me so much hornier to think that I wanted to dress like a girl, and that it's socially unacceptable for me to do so.  Imagine what it would do to my image as a macho stud!

Unfortunately, I started getting sick of the bathing suit.  I needed more!  I dreamed of wearing lingerie again, and wearing a garter belt and stockings for the first time.  Soon, I had a basic collection under my mattress.  And no one seemed to be the wiser.  All day, I fantasized about wearing what the girls were wearing.  Sex didn't interest me so much anymore, except that my girls wore such sexy underwear.  It was only a matter of time until I got busted.

I had never felt so much shame in my life.  Pamela caught me one night while wearing her lingerie that I had stolen.  She noticed that it had gone missing, and all three of the girls staked me out.  I was fully into it when they knocked on my door.

"Yes," I answered, because they knocked loudly and persistently.  I could never have slept through that.

"R__!  Quick!  Come out!  There's a fire!"

I was shitting bricks.  I couldn't come out now, dressed like a girl.  "Hold on!" I answered.  "I have to get dressed.  There was probably a hint of a moan in my voice.  I was trying to pull off my panties, unable to get past the garter belt, when they all burst in and tore the covers off my bed.  My secret was exposed, for all to see.  And they all giggled at me.

They made me get out of bed.  I stood in front of them, even more self-consciously than ever before, wearing a black satin bra and panty set, garter belt, and stockings.  They had never made me wear a garter belt or stockings.  I stood there wearing both, and everyone in the room knew that I had put on the whole outfit of my own initiative.  And everyone in the room knew that I had worn it for my own private pleasure, and not to entertain anyone but myself.  They stood across the room, staring at me, decked out all effeminately.  They tsked, pointed, commented to each other.  I wanted to hide.  They had me cornered.  I wanted to take everything off, but I knew it was no use.  They already knew.  There was nothing I could do.  Finally, they spoke to me: "Oh, R__!  We thought you were so macho and sexy and masculine!  And now, now, you're dressing up like a girl!"

That comment made me blush.  I was so ashamed.  I curled up in the corner, mortally embarrassed.  The girls all came to comfort me there on the floor.

"Why did you do it?"

I couldn't answer.  They kept cajoling me, trying to get an answer out of me.  They seemed sincerely concerned and sorry.

"Is it because you're gay?"  


"Is it because you have some kind of fetish?"  


"Were you doing this all along?"  


They didn't even understand me.  They had introduced me to it, but they had no idea that this had happened because of them.  I started to cry.

"There, there, R__.  There there."

Danielle took me in her arms, and I wept on her shoulder.  "It's okay, R__.  It's okay.  We don't mind.  We just wish you had asked us, that's all.  We don't like you stealing from us."

"That's right," cooed Claudia.  "It's okay.  Don't worry, R__, we're not mad at you."

I sobbed some more.  I was a freak, and they knew it.  I still hadn't taken anything off.

"Maybe you should talk about it," urged Pamela.

I looked Danielle in the eye, still crying, and could see how honestly she cared about me.  She really did feel sorry for me.  She really did forgive me.  So did Pamela and Claudia.  And that's when it all came out.

"I just wanted to be sexy!" I cried.  "You girls get to strut around in all this sexy stuff, and I wanted to feel sexy too!"  I buried my head into Danielle's shoulder again.

"There, there!"  She giggled.  "It's okay.  I'm glad you think we're sexy.  But why did you want to wear our undies?  How does that make you feel sexy?"

"I dunno," I sobbed.  "It just does."

"You know, R__," Claudia whispered in my ear, "you do look kinda cute in that outfit."  

I giggled.  I was tickled.  "Really?"

"Oh, R__!  You're adorable!"

"You really mean it?"

"We sure do!"

"So you don't mind?"

"Well, we'd rather you wore your own lingerie."

"My own lingerie?"

"What, don't you want to wear sexy underwear all the time?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll need your own wardrobe, won't you?"

"I guess."

"Cool!  That means we get to go shopping!"  The girls all whooped and giggled together.

"You'll buy me some lingerie?" I asked, incredulously.

"No, silly, you'll buy your own.  We wouldn't want to pick it for you.  You know what you like."

"But I can't go into a lingerie store and buy undies for myself.  They'll think I'm a weirdo!"

"Why would they?"

"Because I'm a man, and I'm buying all sorts of stuff!"

"What makes you think they'll think you're a man?"

"What do you mean?"

"You do want to be a girl, don't you?"

I hesitated.

"Well?"

"I guess."

"Then we'll have to make you into a girl."

With that, they all picked me up off my feet, and walked me to the bathroom.  For the first time, I saw myself in the mirror.  I was a pretty gruesome sight, with my body hair sticking out all over the place, and my misshapen body distorting the femininity of the lingerie I wore.  In contrast to the girls, I looked just repulsive. 
"Let's get you naked," said Pamela, as she snapped the catch on my bra.  Before I knew it, I was stripped naked.  "We've got lots of shaving to do," said Claudia, coming towards me with a razor and some shaving cream.

When they were done, and I stepped into my stolen lingerie, I couldn't recognize myself.  Suddenly, I had very pretty, effeminate legs.  My belly was beautiful, even though my waist was too large in proportion to my hips.  My body looked almost female.  "Wow!  We're almost there!" giggled Danielle.

Then I slipped into a tight mini-dress and the girls made up my face.  I stuffed my bra with foam and toilet paper, and my tits looked really pretty.  Not only did I feel sexier than ever, I even looked like a beautiful girl.  I couldn't stop posing.  Then they gave me a pair of pills.

"What are these?" I asked.

"Those are female hormones.  You take enough of those, you'll have real tits and a nice waist."

My heart pounded as I tossed them into my mouth and swallowed.  This time, there really was no turning back.  It wasn't just fantasy: it wouldn't end when I come.  I was about to buy myself a wardrobe of women's clothes, and I had popped pills that would transform me into a girl.  I was very excited.  I knew that I could never be a man again, and that very thought made me hornier and hornier, and made me want to never look back.  

So there I was, standing a good foot taller than Danielle, Pamela, and Claudia, my muscular build almost bursting out of a mini-dress.  I was dressed like a girl, from inside out, down to the very underwear.  I had shaven off all my body hair.  I wore makeup and styled my hair.  I, who once prided myself on being a great macho stud, now pranced in public as a woman, to go shopping for feminine wardrobe, yet.  I, who had striven my entire life to be the most masculine man alive, had just willingly taken pills that would infuse me with female hormones that would metamorphose my proud manly body into a sleek, slender, girlish body.  

And how did I feel about it?

Fantastic!

It was then that I knew how right this was.  I stepped out in public as a girl, and I felt sexier than I ever had as a man.  For all those years, I had wanted to be the master of the female body.  I wanted to show womankind what pleasure was all about.  But I really knew nothing.  These women had shown me.  I, who had done everything imaginable with so many different women.  They showed me the ultimate sexual experience, and I was hooked.  Only now could I truly begin to know how to please a woman, because I would be a woman.  

Fiction: The Ultimate Sexual Experience, Part 2

[Part 1]

. . . until I came all over the place.  

I just couldn't help it.  I must admit that I had never come while wearing women's clothes before.  I felt so utterly degraded, in a way that no dominatrix had ever succeeded in making me feel.  There I was, tied down, unable to escape.  They kept telling me how cute I was in women's underwear.  They snapped my elastics, to keep reminding me of what I was wearing.  They had me in a feminine position.  They kept asking me how much I enjoyed being one of the girls.  They could tell that I was quite overwhelmed, even though I begged them to stop.  They let me sleep bound to the bed in their underwear, so that I could wake up in it again.
They roused me from my deep sleep and untied me.  "So," asked Danielle.  "What do you want to wear today, Sissy?"

I remained silent, and probably blushed.  

Pamela and Claudia brought out a few lingerie outfits.  I had to choose something to wear. "I'm not wearing that!" I raged.  "I'm paying for this, and you can't make me wear that."

Danielle almost busted a gut laughing.  

"Nobody's making you do anything," explained Claudia, mirthful herself.  

"This is your fantasy, don't forget.  Everything that happens to you, you allow to happen."

"Yeah?  Well I don't want this to happen."

"Fine, then.  Suit yourself."

"You can leave any time."

I thought about this.  For a long time.  It was true, nothing was stopping me from leaving right then and there.  But I figured, hey, I paid for it, so I might as well stay.  I was sure that they would stop making me wear their panties now.  Except for this one last time.  Besides, it was a new experience, and, I had to admit, a pretty good one, degrading as it is.

So I just selected a lace teddy and put it on.  The three girls cheered.

The day went on much as the last one.  I got a serious boner as I pranced and danced in that teddy.  It just felt so fresh and dainty.  And feminine.

Another accident.