Working Out

For quite some time now, I've not been getting any exercise. I used to go jogging pretty regularly, and I had a routine of push-ups, crunches, and various other body-only exercises to keep in shape. I stopped, partly because of schedule changes and work and family obligations, partly because of laziness, and, crucially, partly because I didn't want to look so manly. 

Looking back to some years ago, my attitude to exercise has been corrupted by my secret desire for femininity since at least a few years ago. I used to exercise as a way to assert my manhood in the face of these feminine urges, but that stopped a long time ago. At some point, exercise became linked in my head with femininity. I love the way women look in tight athletic wear, and I yearn to join them.

Apparently, I never confessed to this here before, but for a while a few years ago, I had access to showers at work, where you'd have to borrow a key. I used to work out on the beach on the commute into work, and when I got to the office, in the shower, I would dress up in swimsuits. I remember this whenever I work out. Even then, I used to fantasize about working out on the beach wearing girl stuff. I need to write a post about that.

Anyway, By now it's been many months since I've done any kind of regular exercise, and I've got a pot belly, which looks just awful when I dress up. I want to get back into shape, and yes, a huge motivation is how I'll look in the mirror in a bikini or in lingerie.

Some of the few times I've jogged over the last couple of years, I've been possessed with the idea of getting in shape to be feminine. I long to wear women's workout clothes. Remember when I bought myself a sports bra and some workout pants when T__ took a brief trip that one time?

With all of this in mind, I've been strongly considering jogging in feminine workout clothes. I'm shopping online for some cute booty shorts, which I could wear under my male athletic shorts with nobody noticing. I could wear my sports bra under my shirt. This motivates me to work out, because it comes with the reward of going secretly en femme.

Once I have the shorts, I'll have a complete feminine exercise outfit. I'll start with jogging, but I'll be tempted to do my other exercises in it, too. Then the challenge will be concealing all of this from my family.

Lovely, Vivid Dream

I dreamed last night that I was whisked away to a place where it would be OK for me to be feminine, where there would be no adverse consequences at all. I was wearing a bikini under my clothes at the time, secretly, and I felt such relief at this new freedom. I specifically remember the bra being a sort of triangle top, but with wide straps. It was blue and green.

The first thing I did was shave. I distinctly remember spending a lot of time shaving my face and my legs, and thinking I'd have to go over my hairy chest, too. I was worried about irritating my skin. Then I put on makeup, and noticed in the mirror that my eyebrows needed plucking. Finally, I put on a leopard print dress and went to play bass in a Metallica cover band, and feeling absolutely marvelous. I saw myself from the crowd, and saw a flash of my panties as I bounced around in my short dress.

The dress had long sleeves, was short to about mid-thigh, and flared out at the hips, like this:

My hair was long and curly.

This was one of the most pleasant dreams I've ever had. Total wish fulfillment.

24 Hours En Femme: a Follow-Up

After I wrote about my day dressed as a woman, I took a long bath in the Jacuzzi tub. I played for a bit with my bathing suits, since I couldn't leave them out of the picture. I modeled each of them in the bathroom mirror, one after the other. It was such a tease, so different from my usual furtive sessions. I settled on the one-piece, which for whatever reason felt the most feminine to me. I tried to draw it out as long as possible, but I came pretty quickly, and very hard. While in the bath, planning my night's escapades, I had decided that I would taste my own jizz, as a way of succumbing to my desire for a feminine experience, so I slurped up some of it, even as the pink fog was lifting. It tasted gamy, not altogether bad, but overall quite gross. It's very hard to remain in the right frame of mind to enjoy it. Nonetheless, I was still excited about sleeping in panties and a nightie. I was fully committed to it.

I had washed some of my lingerie, and had it drying on my towel rack, and it was liberating having all my feminine stuff out in the open. I put on my nightie and panties, and got ready for bed. I had tossed my drab pajamas in the hamper already. As expected, I could hardly help myself from luxuriating in feelings of femininity and reckless abandon. I could take my time, enjoy the idea of remaining in my feminine attire all night, and probably repeat the experience, multiple times.

I eventually dozed off, sleeping uneasily with my tired arousal keeping me in a state of semi-sleep. At some point, the baby woke up crying. He had never seen me in such an outfit, and I had to think about whether to change or not. In the end, I thought it best to just remain in my nightie. I comforted him for a good 30 minutes, rocking him back to sleep while wearing panties and a satiny nightgown! I was a little bit uncomfortable about it. What if he somehow remembers someday? Did he even notice at all? Certainly he rested his head on my bare shoulder, which is usually covered in a t-shirt.

In the morning, I brought myself to climax yet again, and thoroughly exhausted my drive to dress like a woman all day. I had decided to return a couple of things to the store, because I have far too much girlie stuff now to easily conceal. So I ended up not keeping the sports leggings, which I had planned to wear that day. I put them on one last time, and loved how comfy and cozy and sexy they were, and questioned my decision. But in the end, I had to part with them before I ruined them.

I was done for the time being. I cleaned up after myself, the guilt and shame washing over me in anticipation of T__'s return. I was anxious about leaving some trace of my activities. In the end, everything was fine, and she remained oblivious. I was a bit disappointed in my lack of determination to see my plan through, but in the end I came only a couple of hours short. 

Thinking back on it now, I fondly remember pushing the stroller around the neighborhood with girl clothes just under the surface, partly visible, and wish I could do it again soon. I think I might even do it in women's leggings, in public, for all to see, because who even cares? I even put on the dress and tights and shoes last week again during a brief moment alone at home, and thoroughly loved it.

A Pleasant Dream

Last night, after a rare lovemaking session with my wife, during which I fantasized about being the woman, I drifted to sleep remembering my old fantasies about becoming a lesbian.

I dreamed about T__ dressing me up in a pink bralette and panties, in good humor. I think I even had on a blonde wig for a while. I was happy and relieved that she accepted me like this. I put on a t-shirt and pants over it so that others wouldn't know, and I asked T__ if my bra straps were visible. "Of course your bra straps are visible, everybody can see them, silly!" she answered, not at all bothered by it. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the wide, satiny straps on my shoulders, not even close to being concealed by the unusually wide neck of my t-shirt. In retrospect, I know that women's t-shirts are often cut that way, so I suppose I might have been wearing one of those. In the dream, however, the point was to cover up my feminine undergarments, but even still I wasn't much bothered that my bra straps showed, because T__ was on board. My mother was visiting, and I still didn't want her to know, so I did hide from her, but I wasn't stressed out about it. I think I realized that I couldn't prevent her from seeing me, so I just happily went about my business, bra straps exposed for all the world to see. Then I met a famous woman singer/songwriter who doesn't really exist, and fawned all over her, telling her what a huge fan I was of her music, and how much influence she had on me in my early adulthood. I was ever conscious of my femininity, and happy and free and proud of it, even as I chatted with this famous person.

It was a wonderful feeling, and I'm still bathing in its afterglow!

24 hours En Femme

My wife is on a trip this weekend with the older kid. I'm at home taking care of the baby. I thought this would be an ideal time to spend as femininely as possible! The baby wouldn't know the difference.

My plan had been to head over to Target after dropping off my beloved family at the airport. There I would find some casual leggings and a sports bra that I could wear throughout the day. I had toyed with the idea of wearing a dress, but I worried that the baby might be a little confused by it. I could, however, wait until he went to sleep, then cavort around in a dress and heels to my girlish little heart's content!

That's exactly what I ended up doing. Since my last store excursion, which was almost disastrous in how anxious I felt, and how much time I spent staring at bathing suits trying not to look creepy, I learned not to give any fucks. Somehow, having the baby with me in a shopping cart made it all so much easier.

I took a bit of time choosing my sports leggings. It was hard to find exactly what I was looking for. I struggle to explain it now, but I wanted something sleek and feminine, with sheer parts and/or a floral pattern. I wasn't sure if I wanted capris or full pants. I was hoping for something with straps on the calves. I also didn't want anything too obviously feminine, to avoid giving the baby something to remember. Black is best, but I wanted some zing, something bright, or at least something not too plain. I found a few with a floral pattern, but there were none in my size. I grabbed something light blue and gray, capris, and figured that would be good enough.

The sports bra was quick and easy. I wanted something strappy, and I found one with thin double criss-crossed straps. I was tempted to get one with a zipper in front, but the straps got the better of me.

Last week, I had seen some velvety little dresses on a rack near the front of the store. That's what had gotten me thinking about getting one. It looked perfect from what I could tell at a glance. Now that I was in the store, looking at it, my dream came true. This rack was right in the front of the store, on a busy walkway. People definitely saw me looking at dresses, and putting one in my cart. I didn't care!
I nearly left at that point, but I couldn't just wear a dress without tights! I went looking for the hosiery, but it wasn't with the intimates. None of the panties got my attention, but I did consider getting a shaping girdle. I finally found the hosiery. I was going to get plain black tights, but I was presented with such a glorious variety that I spent more time looking at my options.

Lo and behold, among the tights and pantyhose, were leggings! I found some that looked like they had sheer windows below the knees, and snagged them. I also found sweater tights to go with my dress. My mission was complete.

I headed home, and immediately put the baby down in his play pen, so I could go change. I had brought in my stash of girlie stuff, and laid it all out on the bed. I put on my trusty black panties, and squeezed into my new sports bra. It was a little tight getting it on, but it was comfy. Then I tried on the leggings.

The leggings are black polyester and spandex, with interesting panels of different textures. I've seen women wearing similar leggings, and have longed to wear some myself. They're nice and tight, and very comfortable. I wasn't sure whether I should keep the sports capris, but I figured I'd try them on anyway. They're more comfortable than the leggings, by far, but somehow less appealing. It's so hard to choose! I think I want them both! I figure I'll wear the capris tomorrow, since I have most of the day until I pick up my wife and kid from the airport.

I spent the day with my baby, wearing a boring old t-shirt over my sports bra, but otherwise going about my day, only dressed in women's clothes (except for the t-shirt). I wasn't brave enough to go out like this, unfortunately. I decided to put some pants on over my leggings to take the baby out for a stroll. I found myself swinging my hips as I went. I worried a little that my bra was visible under my shirt. I also knew that nobody would notice, even if it were. I passed by several neighbors, and nobody seemed to notice anything at all. If they did, it wasn't apparent. In any case, I was too comfortable to care!

I put the baby to bed for the night, and changed into my lovely velvety dress, with my sweater tights and ridiculous glittery wedges. I've been hanging around the house, doing laundry, with this outfit on. I went outside a couple of times in it to take out some trash. I don't care if anyone sees me! In fact, I almost want the world to see me like this, because I feel so comfortable!

I've had a serene experience so far. The plan is to sleep in my pink nightie, then wake up and put on my sports bra and capris, and spend most of the day en femme again. By noon, I will have spent 24 hours dressed in women's clothes. This is something I've fantasized about for years! And finally, I've been able to do it!

Gurls I Admire

I've been longing for some feminine action lately, to the point where I'm contemplating wearing panties at the office under my man-clothes. I ran a quick errand today with my off-white satin panties, and it just feels so much more comfortable! I put on the matching bra when I came home, and felt what I can only describe as relief at feeling the soft fabric against my chest.

Kyoko Matsushita

Of course, I've been looking at my favorites as usual. Some gurls out there deserve recognition for what they've accomplished. They are an inspiration to me, and I envy them deeply.

First and foremost, there's Kyoko Matsushita. She mostly wears swimsuits and pantyhose, and she is absolutely gorgeous. She manages to look like a real woman every time. Her body is slim and curvaceous, and her pictures tickle my swimsuit fetish. She also wears all kinds of form-fitting dresses and lingerie.

Amazingly, she does this in secret. She lives as a man the vast majority of the time.

This makes me fantasize about how practice makes perfect: she's worn girl stuff so many times, and so many different outfits (surely hundreds!) that she practically looks like a woman now. I love the idea that wearing women's clothes will gradually turn a man into a woman. He may think it's harmless at first, that it's OK to get a thrill from it now and then, but that every time he does it, it makes him that much more feminine, until he starts looking like Kyoko Matsushita, and can no longer hide how feminine he's become.

Almost Caught

My wife has a reasonably predictable schedule. Since I got her pregnant, she's been going to a particular place for some exercise twice a week. I have often taken advantage of these 2-hour absences to frolic girlishly in my secret stash of lingerie and swimwear. As I noticed her preparing to leave a couple of days ago, my heart leaped with anticipation for the fun I was about to have.

Janet Leigh wearing a gorgeous teddy in A Touch of Evil

No sooner did she leave did I retrieve my secret stash from its difficult-to-reach hiding place. I eagerly stripped out of my male clothes, and pondered my many feminine options. I had ivory satin on my mind from a scene in an old film noir I had just watched, so I chose my matching panty and bra set. It wasn't really anything like in the movie, except for the color and fabric. I put on my fishnet pantyhose and my little black dress, and finally my lovely 4 1/2 inch heels.

I figured I had a plenty of time to savor my femininity, so I pranced around like this for some time. I made myself a cup of tea, and tried (but failed) to take pictures of myself in my outfit. I love how my shoes make my ass stick out, and how lovely it looks in my LBD, and I wanted to capture it for posterity. I fiddled around with this for a little while and gave up because I wasn't getting the photos quite right.

By now I had worked myself up into quite a lather, so I retired to the bedroom, and wanked. I had just cleaned up the semen, and taken off my dress, when I heard the unmistakable sound of keys fiddling in the front door! And here I was in the bedroom with my stash on the floor, wearing high heels, fishnet pantyhose, satin panties and a bra! I had to hide myself and all my stuff, and fast.

I picked up my stash, and locked myself in the bathroom. I frantically stripped out of my girl clothes, as quietly as possible, and shoved them into my overflowing secret stash box. I had trouble closing it properly because of the haphazard way in which I threw everything in. Once I got it to close and snapped it shut, I noticed a baby blue ribbon from my garter slip sticking out the side. So now I had this ridiculous box, with nowhere to hide it in this small bathroom! She would undoubtedly see my stash box, and wonder what it is and why it's there, and what the blue ribbon is sticking out of it. I was carefully shoving it into a cabinet, the only one where it might fit and not be immediately obvious, when she finally came looking for me.

"Honey," she said from the other side of the door, "you seem to have lost your clothes. What are you doing?"

"I'm taking a crap," I replied, voice quivering, much too close to the door, still trying to conceal my stash box, and making all kinds of suspicious noises.

"Are you O.K.?"

I muttered something in response, and heard her walk away to the other bathroom. "You're funny," she said. I took this opportunity to finish hiding my stuff, put on a sweaty t-shirt I had hanging on the hook on the back of the door, and came out of the bathroom. I wasn't wearing anything but the shirt. She came back as I was putting my pants back on.

"What's wrong," she asked, concerned. "You're so pale! And you're all clammy. Are you sick?"

"Uh, yeah. It must have been something I ate."

"Hey, didn't I make the bed earlier? Did you take a nap or something?"

"Umm, yeah, I was feeling bad,so I had to lie down for a bit."

I couldn't believe I was getting away with this so easily! My heart was pounding as she comforted me in my presumed sickness. I think I was trembling a bit, too. She gave me a couple of almonds to eat, which she had read are good for digestion, and which she happened to be munching on at the time. They were like ashes in my mouth. "I need some water," I said, and stumbled to the kitchen, relieved that she was following me. I poured myself a glass from the tap, and gulped it down. Even that was difficult, but it did help me play sick.

"What happened to you?" she asked. "I leave for half an hour, and all Hell breaks loose!"

Things settled down after that. She's 8 months pregnant, and no longer feeling very mobile, so she sat on the sofa to watch some TV and catch up on Facebook. This gave me a chance to eventually move my stash box from the bathroom to a closet, where I could hide it a little bit better and less conspicuously. But then I worried about it constantly for the next few hours, and eventually moved it somewhere better. I couldn't put it back to its normal place without making a ruckus.

My wife isn't stupid. She surely suspects that I was jerking off in her absence. But bless her heart, she hasn't mentioned it since. This stage of her pregnancy makes it pretty hard for us to be properly intimate, so she knows I'm losing my mind from lack of sex. But at least she still has no idea that I'm a sissy. Somehow, especially now, it would be disastrous if she found out.

The icing on the cake: she now habitually wears some of my t-shirts to bed, because her pregnant belly is so huge that her own pajamas no longer fit around it. Funny how that works, isn't it?

"I miss my clothes," she whines as we cuddle in bed.

"What's the matter? You don't like mine?"

"You don't have dresses, skirts, and pretty shoes!"

Considering how shell-shocked I was (and still am) about that day's incident, I couldn't even look her in the eye as I freaked out inside. "Do you wish I did?" I asked, not hopefully, but accusingly.

Sadly, and predictably, she answered, "No."

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.

Fiction: How I Turned Into a Girl

1. Started off as normal hetero bachelor.  No girlfriend.  Suspicious ex.
2. Start going to the gym because ex humiliated me about my body.
3. Notice a few little physical things (less body hair, softer build, sensitive nipples)
4. Fag fantasies
5. Begin to suspect that I’m slowly turning into a girl.  At this point I can still reverse the process, if I can figure out what’s causing it.
6. I put the pieces of the puzzle together bit by bit
7. I think about what I’m becoming.  In some ways I’m afraid, but in others I’m excited.  I buy a sports bra, ostensibly because I want to hold down my budding titties, but also because I know how cool it looks on girls and I want to look cool too.
8. I buy another bra, but this one’s frilly and lacy.   I can’t wear the same one every day, can I?  To avoid suspicion, I buy matching panties and pretend they’re for a girlfriend.
9. Meanwhile, I pretty well figure out what’s happening.  I do nothing to stop it.  I pretend that I want to stop it.
10. I embrace my new femininity.

I know it’s unbelievable, because nobody believes me.  I don’t even believe it.  The trouble is that it’s a fait accompli.  There’s no denying that it happened.  This is how I remember it.

I was a normal heterosexual male bachelor.  I wasn’t even very promiscuous.  I tended to have long-term relationships with women who eventually got sick of me and dumped me.  I would settle into long gaps between relationships when I would refuse to have anything to do with women.  I preferred to be alone.  I only started to notice changes several months after breaking up with A__.  We had been dating for about two and a half years. 

I was always very slim.  I never exercised much, so my physique wasn’t muscular.  Don’t get me wrong: I was still pretty masculine.  I still have broad shoulders, and big hands and feet.  I’m just saying that I was no muscleman.  In fact, that was one reason why A__ left me.  It stung me so much when she told me that, that I started working out half-heartedly to try to beef up, even though it was already over.  I didn’t want that to get in the way of a relationship ever again. 

Anyway, I preened myself in the mirror at this time, deluding myself into thinking that I would get big and muscular.  It seemed that my exercise had no effect.  In fact, I looked even softer than I had before I started.  It was very subtle.  The only area that seemed to be getting bigger was my pectorals, but they looked soft and roundish, not hard and square like they’re supposed to.  I was disappointed by this discovery, but resolved to work even harder to become buff.

At the gym, I kept my eye on the men for tips on what kinds of exercise I should be doing, how many sets, how many repetitions, and so on.  Mostly, I checked out the women, watching lecherously as their lithe bodies sweated and strained erotically beneath their form-fitting leotards.  At least, that’s the way it was at first.  I thought I was becoming envious of my male gym buddies.  Or maybe I thought I was becoming awed by them.  I became troublingly obsessed with their bodies.  Actually, it only became troubling when I started dreaming about them. 

Homoerotic dreams are quite commonplace.  However, I had never experienced them with as much frequency as I had lately.  I tried to convince myself that it was only temporary, that I was confused because of my recent break-up.  I tried to concentrate all of my erotic energy towards thoughts of women.  My memories of fucking A__ kept me straight, so to speak, even though they were sometimes painful.

Things gradually worsened.  I noticed that I needed to shave less often.  Even my body hair seemed more sparse.  And still, my body would not become muscular.  My pecs continued to grow slightly, almost imperceptibly.  But they were still soft and round.  They did not harden when I flexed.  I know because I squeezed each while I flexed to inspect them.  I could have sworn then that my nipples looked larger.  They were certainly more sensitive.

Soon, people at the gym began asking me why I shave my legs.  I had to try to persuade them that I never did, that I didn’t know what they were talking about.  And it was true.  My legs weren’t hairless, but they were pretty damned close.  And I hadn’t done anything to them!  Worse, I became self-conscious of my pecs.  I thought they looked ridiculous, and I didn’t want any of the men to laugh at me.  I blushed whenever I saw them.  Frighteningly, my dreams about them became more frequent still, and started catching myself fantasizing about them.  I imagined them sucking my sensitive nipples.

The more I looked at myself in the mirror, the more evident it became: I was growing tits!  And they were becoming more and more noticeable.  How could any girl ever find me attractive now?  I was devastated.  There was no way to escape the truth.  I was not hallucinating.  I was not dreaming.  I couldn’t understand what was happening to me.

Clearly, something strange was afoot.  First things first, though, I had to do something about my chest.  My budding breasts were beginning to bounce when I jogged.  I had to do something to keep them down, but without making it too obvious.  First, I tried taping them down, but it was getting wasteful.  Wearing a tight shirt made them stick out so much that they were actually accentuated.  They even turned me on, they looked so feminine (Yes, I still had some heterosexual urges at that point).  I had to wear loose shirts to the gym, and had to make sure that no one saw me bare-chested.  Even that brought me some pretty strange looks from both men and women.

I had to face the reality of my situation: I needed a bra.  I still clung stubbornly to my manhood.  I bought the plainest, least sexy sports bra I could find.  It wasn’t exactly manly, but at least it wasn’t frilly and lacy or flowery.  It was just plain black.  I was so embarrassed when I bought it.  The sales clerk asked me if I wanted the matching shorts.  I felt my face flush.  She knew I was buying it for myself.  I made a point of not changing at the gym anymore, even though I was so sweaty.  I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone seeing me wearing a bra.  And with my tits, it didn’t look like anything else.  I posed girlishly a few times, because my chest looked so sexy.  I must admit that even then I didn’t entirely dislike them. 

So why was I turning into a girl?  Physically and psychologically, I was getting more and more feminine.  I fantasized about men more than women.  I lost my body hair, had tits, and seemed to be getting softer all over.  I had to find a way to reverse the process while I still could.  How could I face my friends?  How could I ever pick up another girl?

I scoured my entire apartment for clues.  I found nothing out of the ordinary.  Then it occurred to me that my tap water tasted a little funny lately.  I checked the outside plumbing and found some kind of extra pipe on my water meter.  Was somebody pumping something into my water?  I vowed to keep watch over my water meter, to see if anyone ever tampered with it.

Meanwhile, I had to stop going to the gym.  My femininity was starting to show far too much.  I could barely even hide it under my work clothes.  I found myself leering at men.  I began to preen to the mirror as a woman.  I tucked my dick between my legs and pretended to be female.  I stopped shaving my face (or even needing to) and started shaving my legs and my armpits.  Finally, I caved in to the temptation and bought myself a prettier bra.  Then I realized that it would look much prettier with matching panties.  Pretty soon, my underwear drawer overflowed with lingerie.  I looked gorgeous in my new underwear.  It seemed to fit so much better, and highlight all my feminine parts.  At first this was a guilty pleasure, but it soon became routine.  Women’s underwear is so cool.  I began to look forward to coming home from work, so that I could fondle my sexy undies.

When I finally confronted the water meter man, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to give up being a girl.  I asked him meekly if he could look into it, and hoped that he wouldn’t so that I could continue my metamorphosis.

Fiction: How I Turned Into A Girl

Innocent beginnings

It all started very innocently.  I was 5 years old.  We had a kindergarten class pantomime, in which all the children were to dress up as flowers.  Everyone had to get white tights as part of the costume.  All the boys got to wear girls' tights.  I don't know how anybody else felt about it, but I liked it.  In my primitive sexual mind, at that young age, I liked the way it felt on my penis.  That's when I learned that it's bad for boys to wear girls' clothes.  But the seed was planted.

Tentative experiments

Years later, I got up the nerve to borrow some pantyhose.  I had never forgotten my experience with the white tights.  I liked the idea of being dominated by a woman.  Before the pantyhose, I would fantasize that a woman was making me kiss her boots.  Somehow, I was heavily attracted to women.  But it was all very bad.  I knew somehow that it would be wonderfully naughty to be turned into a girl.  So I played with pantyhose.  At first I wore it over my underwear, for fear of it really making me a girl.  Pretty soon I was all naked inside it, unprotected from its sheer femininity.

Shocking fantasies of being utterly feminized

The fantasies became elaborate scenarios of metamorphosis.  And it had a lot to do with my own free will.  I would imagine resisting for as long as possible, but in the end succumbing to the extreme pleasure.  I imagined what it must be like to wear bathing suits, or even lingerie.  Just the thought of it made me incredibly horny.  I made excuses, believing that if I dared to go that far, there would be no turning back.

Experiments become more daring

I couldn't resist.  I moved on to whatever I had available.  I dared to put on a one-piece bathing suit.  It was heaven!  I knew I was in trouble, but while I wore it, I didn't care.  I wanted to go all the way, by wearing even panties and brassieres.  But I could only do it gradually, given that I had virtually nothing to work with at my immediate disposal.

The collection

I started to steal things from friends' sisters, from Mom.  I needed it.  Pretty soon I had a little collection that I thoroughly adored.  And I wanted more.  I fantasized about stealing underwear from clotheslines.  I had even acquired a bikini!

Busted

I had gotten too bold.  Mom found out.  She was shocked and didn't know what to make of it.  She quickly gathered her things that I had stolen, and I begged her not to let anyone know.  I swore to never do it again.

Purge

I was so ashamed of myself, that I even got rid of the things she didn't find.  I cursed myself for what I had done.

The inevitable relapse binge

I denied myself for so long that the urge to wear something female became uncontrollable.  I stole a bathing suit again, and fell off the wagon.  I binged more than ever with girls' clothes, and loved every second of it.

Denial and abandon

Then I would become ashamed and throw everything away again, vowing to never do it again.  But each time, I could only go so long.  Realizing that I was giving in only made me hornier, because it made me understand that every time I wear an article of girls' clothing, I become more and more addicted to it; which leads to the inevitable conclusion that at some point, I will become a girl from doing it so much.  This only fed the pleasure I got from it more, because the whole point was to make myself feel like a girl.  Then, as soon as I was done, my shame would lead me to renounce my habit yet again, and the cycle would start over.

Caught again

The next time I was caught, I was in the middle of masturbating with a bikini.  I was mortified.  Before, I had only had my stash of girlie clothes discovered.  By now I was in my mid teens, and I was seen by my parents wearing a bikini.  I was so embarrassed that I couldn't speak.  I covered myself up in my shame, and my parents tried to console me, rationalizing it to themselves more than anything.  I swore, once again, to quit forever, but I knew that I had a problem.

Acceptance

My problem wasn't that I was wearing girls' bathing suits and underwear; it was that I wouldn't admit to myself that I loved doing so.  This I discovered when having a little chat with my father.  I didn't tell him so, but he could certainly tell that I was not going to quit.  I would, however, keep it secret.

The gift

On my seventeenth birthday, I was shocked to discover lingerie under my pillow.  I had never been able to steal anything so sexy.  I knew that it didn't belong to my Mom.  Somebody knew of my habit, and was now actively condoning it.  I wore it under my boy clothes all day the next day to celebrate.  Only later did I find the note that was meant to be attached to it.  It read, “I just want to know, for sure, whether you have quit your dirty habit or not.  I know it must be very hard for you.  If you leave this under your pillow tomorrow, I'll know that you want to quit.  If not, then please take these.  I'd rather have you own your own than borrowing all the time.” 

The realization of the enormity

Things started appearing in my dresser at random intervals.  There were many pleasant surprises for me.  Within a year, I had a small collection of just about everything a girl could want.  I was wearing it almost every night.  Only when a girl became interested in me did I realize the enormity of what I was doing.  I couldn't possibly let her know about my collection, which sat openly in the top drawer of my dresser.  I could never tell her that I not only have worn fishnet stockings, a garter belt, a brassiere, many bikinis, and all sorts of satin and lace panties and nightgowns; but I also own some!  I thought of how my initial fears of becoming feminized were becoming totally true.  And I masturbated at the thought.

Busted – for good

By the time I went away to college, I had been with a few girlfriends, and always kept my secret to myself.  But I also secretly borrowed their things whenever the urge struck me.  I was incorrigible.  Annie outsmarted me, though.  She suspected that something was awry.  We were living together, and she noticed that some of her undergarments would shift.  She set up a hidden camera, and caught me red-handed putting on her bathing suit.  She confronted me with the video, and I was contrite, ashamed, and extremely fearful.  She threatened to tell everyone.  I begged her not to.  She relented, but things would change dramatically between us from that point on.

Manipulation

She majored in psychology.  She manipulated me like a handful of putty.  She immediately became dominant, with the threat of exposing my habit to the world hanging over my head.  She was curious more than anything else.  She wanted to understand what got into me.  She wanted to explore the phenomenon.  She had me dress up for her.  At first, it was extremely awkward.  She was only the third person to ever see me wearing women's underwear.  She asked me to go about my routine, and tell her what I was thinking.  I couldn't do it for days, but eventually, I succeeded.  I was wearing a bikini, and she decided to play along, rather than spectate.  We frolicked together, both of us wearing sexy women's swimwear.  I purred to her how I wanted to be just like her, how I wanted to be as sexy as her when I wore her bikini.  I told her that I longed to be worthy of the clothes I play with. 

She tried different tricks, but it became part of the routine.  I would cavort around in lingerie for her every night, under threat of being exposed to the world.  She soon discovered how uncomfortable I became about the whole situation when I wasn't horny.  She had me tell her that I wanted to shave my legs while I was hot with desire, and she talked me into doing it, in spite of the fact that it would be terribly easy for anyone to notice.  I was so horny that I enjoyed doing it, in spite of the consequences.  After I came, she asked me if I would wear makeup, and she couldn't get me to agree to it without threats.

This led to a phenomenal escalation of my habits, which, as long as I was still aroused, I gladly agreed to.  Before I knew it, I had beautiful long hair, easily stylable into a feminine look; I had become an expert at applying makeup; I kept most of my body hair shaven at all times; and I could walk in high heels.  She only let me come just before I went to sleep.  I said all sorts of incriminating things.  I signed documents attesting to my desire to become a girl.  I professed my dissatisfaction with my lack of womanhood to her video camera.  I was giving her more and more material to incriminate me with, to the point where it became almost moot.  I swore to her, on tape and on signed documents, that I gladly give up my own penis in a heartbeat, and even suck someone else's and swallow all the semen.

Exposure

The weight of her threats lay in my desire to keep my femininity secret.  Unfortunately for me, not only had the changes to my appearance become noticeable during the day, but I became indifferent to my reputation as a man.  I was wearing women's underwear under my clothes, to keep me horny all day long.  I felt so good that I wanted people to know what I was wearing.  Many people suspected it.  Eventually, there was no doubt: Annie coerced me into dressing up as skankily as possible with her, and going for a walk in public.  I agreed readily, but became extremely nervous when we actually went outside.  Everyone recognized me.  In a way, I felt extremely sexy and proud; in other ways, I felt deeply embarrassed.  But I got used to it.  Within weeks I was clubbing in my girl clothes.  Luckily, I could still fight.  I was still manly enough for men to want to kill me.

Slavery

With the threat of exposure nothing more than a quaint memory, Annie found other ways to manipulate me.  She made me realize just how deep my desire to be female really went.  I had always kept it to a subtext that I wouldn't even admit to myself, but she hypothesized correctly that I wanted to fuck boys.  She would get me so hot and horny that I would be practically female; then she introduced me to some gay man she knew from college, and encouraged me to explore my urges.  She made me feel so thankful to her that her threats had changed: now she threatened to take away my girlishness.  I became her sissy slave.  I would stay home and be her maid, and she would bring home boys for her own pleasure, and show me off to them as her creation.  I was permitted to suck cock from time to time, and even to get a dick rammed up my ass.  I was a time of great and exciting discovery for me.  But she wouldn't allow me to enjoy it as much as I could have.

Privation

Soon she realized that her hold on me was entirely based on preventing me from having orgasms.  She kept me tied in a penis constraining device so that I would behave better.  I was extremely horny at all times, and I became an insatiable cock whore.  She kept me in her power by promising more cock.  But I was not allowed to come!  I physically could not ejaculate.  I so desperately wanted to. 

Emancipation

I broke my bonds from her at last and came wildly for days.  She was appalled, and threatened to deny me from getting any more cock.  But I discovered that I was fully able to get some by myself.  I was now passable enough to get it, or else brave enough to go to a gay bar and bag myself some easy action.  I laughed when she threatened to expose me.  My transformation was now complete!  I hadn't worn any article of men's clothes in many months, even in public; and I bought my own lingerie and club wear.  I was a little tramp!  I moved out in a huff and got my own place.

A taste for cock

I ditched all my men's clothes that I was no longer wearing.  I became a fixture at gay bars.  My parents found out, and disapproved.  I laughed in their faces, too. 

My fate was sealed from the very first moment

So now I'm scheduled for my pre-operation hormones.  I'm growing my own breasts, and giving up my worthless penis for a glorious pussy.

Fiction: Las Vegas

"I like to crossdress every now and then.  I especially love swimsuits.  I'm certainly not gay or anything.  I just like the way it feels on my body."

"I crossdress because I like the feel of nylon, satin etc."

"Bras don't do much for me. I am a leg man."

"It's not that I want to emulate women; I am me, a guy who happens to like wearing certain female garments."

Now, just think about that for a moment.

What goes through your mind when you wear panties?  Does it make you feel manly?  How gay is that?  Think about it: you've worn women's underwear, and you liked it.

The fact is, it makes you want to be a girl.  Trust me, you're this close to sucking cock.

I was like you once, but things got a little out of hand one time, and I ended up experiencing things that I never even knew I longed for.  I bet you're one of those closet queenies who sneaks around his wife's back, wearing her underwear when she's not around.  You might even be lucky enough to have a woman who understands your needs (partly, at least) and lets you indulge now and then with her.  But deep down, and you don't even know it, it never goes far enough.  When you're prancing around in a garter belt and stockings, even though you think you're just being a guy who likes to wear girlie things, you're really striving to become a woman.

But don't worry, you'll get it someday.  I for one didn't realize it until I tasted penis for the first time.

I was on a business trip in Vegas.  I was horny.  I couldn't stop thinking about wearing something girlish.  Up until then, I was just like you: I'd wear my wife's stuff sometimes, when she wasn't around.  I focused on the panties, cuz that's where the fun parts are.  I had tried on her bras once in a while, but it just wasn't as big a deal.  Anyway, I was bored and lonely and horny, so I looked through the yellow pages.  Sure enough, there are plenty of escort services, which are perfectly legal, which cater to any need imaginable.  I noticed a few that offered feminizations, and I bit.  I'd never crossdressed in front of anyone else before, and this excited me.  I was in Vegas, and I got caught up in the spirit of the place.

She came over with a little suitcase.  She was incredibly sexy and hot.  This kind of woman usually intimidates the hell out of me.  We went over the rules: what she does, my safety word for when I want to stop it from going any further.  She was clearly a pro, given the way she opened my eyes about my secret habit.

That first night, she asked me how long I was staying, and what I was in the mood for.  She was feeling me out, asking me questions, acting coy, acting bossy, acting playful.  She eventually settled on an abusive playfulness.

I was extremely shy.  She wasn't getting much out of me.  I was trying to cop a feel, but I was afraid of her.  So she got fed up, and called me a faggot.  I told her, I'm not gay, I just like wearing girlie stuff now and then.  What the fuck?

And she told me what I told you: think about what you're doing.  You want to dress like a girl, and not just a girl, but a skank.  You want to be a hottie like me.  She undid her blouse and showed me her sexy lingerie.  She moved very seductively towards me and asked me if it wasn't true that I wanted to wear her underwear.

Of course, I said yes.

"You like the way it feels on you?  It makes you feel sexy?"

"Yes", I answered.

"Well," she said, putting her hand on my knee, "that's because you want to be just like me."

"Yes!" I exclaimed, surprised at myself.  She was getting me hot.

She instructed me to take my clothes off, all of them, and pick out some undies from her suitcase.  She had all kinds of goodies in there.  I was nervous and shy, but I figured I was paying for it, so I might as well go through with it.  I told her I was hankering for a bathing suit, but she didn't have any swimwear.

She played with me a bit after I put the panties on.  I was getting a huge kick out of her seeing me.  Then she called me a homo.  I protested, but she pointed out that I had just voluntarily put on some of her panties, and that it was giving me a serious boner.  This made me even hotter.  But why?

She told me that it was ok with her that I was being gay.  "Just look at the fun you can have when you're being girlish," she said.  And she was right!  I was having a ball in spite of her.  "You'll be sucking cock and take it in the ass before you go home," she said.  But I didn't care.

I was prancing around and rubbing my cock.  I wanted to masturbate.  But I couldn't ignore her.  She was incredibly hot.  She was taking off her clothes, too, and showed me the garter belt and stockings she was hiding under her skirt.  "Wouldn't you love to have some of these?"

And with that, I put on a garter belt and stockings.  This wasn't new for me.  It was one of my favourites.  This was as far as I wanted to go.  In fact, I'd planned to only wear panties with anyone, but she made a good argument for more.

"Look at you!"  She said.  "Are you feeling feminine enough now?"

I said yes.  I wanted to come.

"Nonsense!"  She admonished.  "How can you be a proper girl if you're not wearing a bra?"

As I told you, I didn't normally wear bras.  They don't really do much for me.  I shyly declined.  "Are you sure," she asked.  I told her I was.

"Well," she said, "that's a shame."  She slunk over to me, in her underwear.  "You feeling all girly and all, yet you're not even close to being like me.  Look at my bra.  Don't you like it?"

I told her I did, I liked it very much.

"Then why are you afraid of it?"

I told her I wasn't afraid, I just didn't like wearing bras.

"But look how sexy it is," she said, fondling her breasts.

"OK," I said, relenting.  I was feeling kinky about, like I never had before.  "I'll wear it."

"Don't do it for me," she said. 

"No, I want it."

"You want what?"

"I want a bra."

Why?

"Because."

"Is it because you want to feel sexy and feminine?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I like it."

"You like being feminine?"

"Yes."

"Is it because you're gay?"

I could feel my face flush with anger and embarrassment.  "Why do you say that?"  I asked.

"Are you serious?"

"About what?"

"You're seriously asking me why I'm calling you a fag, while you prance around in front of me begging me for a bra to wear?"

I was terribly ashamed.  I wanted to take off my panties and garter belt and stockings, and kick her out of my room.  But when I felt the panty waist on my fingers, I couldn't.  I was wearing women's lingerie!  She was right, it was incredibly gay of me.  My crotch gushed with pleasure.  I wanted more.

"So do you still want the bra?" she asked.

"Yes!"

"OK," she said, "but I won't give it to you unless you admit that you're a flaming faggot who desperately wants to be a girl."

"Fine," I said.  "I'm a flaming faggot."  I was blushing as I said this.  "I'm a flaming faggot, and I desperately want to be a girl."

"And?  Why do you want to wear a bra?"

"Because I want to be a girl.  And I'm a faggot."

She gave me a bra to match the rest of my outfit, and I was ecstatic.  I was rubbing myself frantically.

"You don't want to be gay, do you?"  She asked.

"No," I whimpered.

"But you want to be feminine, right?"

"Yes!"

"You know, the more girlie stuff you wear, the more feminine you get?"

"Oh God!  I hope so!"

"With you wearing that bra, you're much more feminine than you were before."

She flatters me!

"It's going to get worse and worse you know."

The idea appeals to me.  Enormously.

"And the more feminine you become, the more you'll want to sleep with boys."

I suddenly felt ultra-feminine.  Just what I wanted!  I was picturing her fucking and sucking.  I was staring at her crotch.  I wanted one just like it.  She swung it around a bit in front of me, and said,
"Look at my pussy.  You want one just like it, and you want to do things with it that only girls do."

"Yes!"

Before she left, she had me in a patent leather minidress, fuck-me boots, and makeup.  I was totally effeminated, and she kept telling me so.  I came five times.  I had never gone so far.  She left me a silky nighty and a fresh pair of lacy panties, and told me I could sleep in them.

The next morning, I woke up in them feeling randy.  I loved the way the skirt of the nightie brushed so lightly and softly against my thighs.  I felt utterly feminine, again.  I thought about what she said: that the more I wore, the worse it would get.  I wanted it to get worse!  I now fantasized about wearing nothing but girl clothes forever!  I wore my panties under my suit all day.  It was fun, but it wasn't enough!  I wanted to have a bra to match it, and maybe have it just a little bit visible.  Just for kicks.

That night, she knocked on my door again, unexpectedly.  I suppose she wanted her clothes back.  She confirmed this, and I was crestfallen.  I asked her if she was busy, and she started to indicate that she should be with another client.  I paid her twice as much for her company, and she gladly accepted it.

She was proud of me for wearing panties all day under my clothes.  But, she said, she suspected I wanted to go further.  I sheepishly agreed.  So we went shopping.  "You wanted a bathing suit, right?" She asked.

We browsed around together for a while, and we settled on a light blue bikini with little red flower print.  She forced me to tell the cashier that it was for me.  I was so embarrassed, but thrilled.  I was telling other people about my secret!  Then she had me go to another store and buy a fantastic one-piece suit in bright orange with a zipper in the front.  Again, I had to proclaim that I would be wearing it.  So I did, in great anticipation.

We went back to my room, and she had me put on the one-piece.  It was even better than I had imagined.  I'd worn bathing suits before, but this was incredible.  Somehow, she made me feel even more feminine.  I suppose because I could look at her and imagine myself like her.  Then I put on the bikini and pranced around some more.

"Aren't you the little prancing gaylord!" she said.  

"Yes I am!"  I admitted.  "I love feeling feminine!  This is incredibly gay of me!  I've worn girl stuff all day long, and I want more!  I love how gay this is!  I wish I had a pussy!"

"And what would you do with it?" she asked.

"I would fuck boys with it, I whispered, blushing like a schoolgirl."

With that, she led me into the bathroom, where we applied depilatory cream all over my body.  Oh my god, I thought, this is going much too far!  How will I explain this?  But it was too late.  I wanted it.

I slept in the one piece, and wore the bikini all day under my clothes.  It was easily visible under my shirt, especially the tie around my back and the back of my neck.  It made me feel so sassy!  But I longed for some stockings on my bare legs.  At least I had a bra on!

So that evening, I paid her again, and we went shopping for club wear.  I had my very own outfit now, including gorgeous fuck-me boots, a very short miniskirt, and a sexy blousy top.  I also bought plenty of panties and bras for myself, since I decided I would never wear men's clothes again.  And of course, stockings and a garter belt.

We went back to my room to put them all on, and head out.  I wanted everyone in the world to see me as the girl that I am!  She took me to a gay nightclub.  At first, I resisted, but she convinced me that it would be safer from punks who don't understand trying to kick the shit out of me.

I enjoyed the attention I was getting.  A guy struck up a conversation with me, and we talked quite a bit.  I had never hung out with gay people before, and I realized then that they're quite nice.  Besides, there I was dressed like a slut.  He invited me to his room to hang out a bit, and I accepted, naively.

Once in his room, he put the moves on me.  At first, I was shocked, and a little bit disgusted.  But he kept fingering the tops of my stockings.  I felt so fantastically feminine. I could just picture my cunt forming in my clothes.  It made me horny to think that I was wearing such slutty girlie clothes, and flirting with a guy!  I did not resist when he kissed me. 

To make a long story short, she was right.  Before I knew it, I had his dick in my hand.  It didn't even occur to me what I was doing.  I wanted so badly to taste it.  I was picturing her as I put my mouth on it.  When he came in my mouth and all over my face, I thought to myself, how gay is that?  I had gone so far that it didn't even phase me to have his hard penis pump into my ass, like the girly faggot that I am.

I now fantasize about cock all the time.  My wife left me, and I wear nothing but girls' clothes.  I have become transsexual, and I can't wait for my operation.

That, my friend, is what is really going on in your head.