Diary: Stages

The stages:

1. awareness: subject becomes aware that some men wear women's clothing for a sexual kick
   
   • - understands that it's not just for fags
2. awakening: subject understands the erotic appeal
   
   • understands the inherent femininity of women's underwear, skirts, bathing suits, etc.
   • feels a slight flush of curiosity about bondage scenarios with forced feminization, and what it would do to a man
3. experimentation: subject is curious enough to try for himself
   
   • tries on some fetish (stockings, underwear, bathing suit, whatever) either by "force" (visit to a dominatrix) or out of boredom, and fulfills himself sexually with it
     
4. humiliation: subject begins to worry that his experiments are destroying his manhood
   
   • as experimentation repeats, and becomes a habit, our subject denies himself as much as possible
   • rationalizes by saying he likes the feel of tight silk against his crotch, that it has nothing to do with panties being feminine
5. escalation: subject tries on skankier and skankier clothes, as his humiliation drives his desire (this may require more explanation)
   
   • prolonged privation leads to exponentially increased desire: the longer he goes without wearing panties (or whatever), the more extreme his fantasies become.
     This is absolutely key: his fantasies from the beginning are about becoming feminine, but he's hardly even aware of it.  It drives his first fantasies, but doesn't fully enter his consciousness, because he's rationalizing it.  As he denies himself, the fantasies, unfulfilled, have more time to develop, and creep more into his conscious mind.  When he eventually gives in to his irrational desires, mere panties aren't good enough: in his fantasies, he's becoming completely female, and so he wants his reality to come closer to his overwhelming fantasy.  He gets himself a bra, and is shocked at how it magnifies his climax.  It also magnifies his shame, and leads him to deny himself again.  This in turn leads to even more outrageous fantasies, which he eventually fulfills by wearing something even more feminine.  Before he knows it, he's wearing lingerie, stockings, heels, makeup, etc. and hating himself more and more for it.
   • "I'm not gay"
   • subject is in denial about his secret cocksucking fantasies
   • subject invariably feels deep shame when he comes, and when not under the grip of his fantasies, wants to abandon them (which makes them so much more potent)
     
6. capitulation: subject accepts and understands that he now wants to be a girl (still privately)
   
   • accepts that he dresses up because he wants to be feminine
   • unabashedly fantasizes about sucking cock
7. exhibition: subject comes out of closet
   
   • everything was hidden up to now.
   • wears at least something feminine at all times
   • strives to go out in drag, hoping to pass
   • parties at gay bars, trolling for cock
   • gets fucked by men
8. transformation: subject strives to physically become a woman through surgery, hormones, etc.
   
• ultimate fulfillment: growing boobs, having vaginoplasty, feeling a cock pump giz into neovagina

Fantasy: Teen Transformation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He refuses to put on the matching bra.  

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles coyly and blushes.  “Why not?”

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

“I’m still a boy.”

“Not anymore.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fiction: Caught on the Front of the Battle of the Sexes

So many fantasies tonight…

It all started with a picture in my head of Milla Jovovich half naked crouched down with a frilly black garter on her thigh.  I have never seen such an image in my entire life, but I can imagine it.  That’s what I want to look like right now.  I’m imagining that I’m wearing that frilly black garter, and it’s the last straw: I can no longer pretend that I can go back to wearing men’s clothes ever again.  My thigh is bald and totally effeminate now.  I feel relieved about slipping into a little black dress, and going out as a woman in public for all to see, and being indistinguishable from any other hot young tart.  Plus I look like Milla Jovovich.  My transformation is complete.

Another thought: girl says, “What made you think no-one would know?”  She has caught me and confronted me, caught me wearing black panties, a bra, and – you guessed it – a frilly black garter on one of my thighs.  Or maybe she caught me rifling through her things, and is showing me what it’s like to wear them.  And I’m going along because it makes me feel like Milla Jovovich.


Finally, it’s the fantasy of the worldwide battle of the sexes.  I am the commander of the last bastion of masculinity on the front.  Female civilization is destroying manhood.  I have been instructed about the horrendous dangers of coming into contact with any feminine undergarment, unless it is being worn by a sexy female.  It is perfectly ok to fuck girls, as long as you don’t get tricked into wearing their clothes.  I have seen ultra-virile men turned into flaming transsexuals in a matter of weeks after they got cajoled into putting on a bra or some panties by a hunnie they just laid.  

I get seduced by a girl who looks just like Milla Jovovich.  I fuck her brains out one night – I fuck lots of girls here on the front.  I don’t know if they’re all trying to seduce the fighting men to turn them into girls, or if they’re just horny and want dicks inside them.  Anyway, I wake up alone in my barracks with a frilly black garter on my left thigh.  I groan in disbelief, knowing that I am corrupted, and that I will soon become a flaming transsexual.  I vow to fight it harder than any man ever fought.

I remember the worst case.  Johnson came to my barracks in the middle of the night, bawling his eyes out.  He said that he was sorry, and that he wasn’t a traitor, that he just wanted to fuck her.  But he had somehow found himself in a moment of playful passion, in spite of his training, wearing the girl’s bra for a laugh.  I told him to be strong, and to fight every instinct of girlhood he had.  For the next four or five days, his spirits were pretty high.  Just in case, we got him some whores and had him do the nastiest most degrading sex acts on them, as according to our training, it should get him back in the spirit of manhood.  But he started to fade somehow.  He began to look more and more nervous with each passing day.  By the end of twelve days, he was quaking like a leaf.  On day fourteen, he was seen running out of his quarters with a whore.  She was buck naked.  He was wearing her sleazy tarty lingerie and miniskirt and tight tube top and had his face all made up.  They had him parading on the front lines prancing around like a total sissy the next morning.  They made sure that we wouldn’t be able to get a decent shot at him to take him out.

Johnson was the worst case by far.  He voluntarily put on that girl’s bra, and lasted a quarter of the time that most men with his affliction do.  One guy held out for a year before he got caught masturbating in a one-piece women’s swimsuit.  He was taken out of his tent and shot as he was.  All reports confirm that he couldn’t possibly have gotten that swimsuit but the very same day, when he rode a cheap redheaded bitch like a bronco, and chased her off the camp naked.  It was her swimsuit.  He had been in remission for so long that we all figured he had long since recovered, and was simply taking advantage of the health benefits by fucking hookers every day.  It turns out his diary was filled with anxiety and fear, as he fought tooth and nail with his fantasies of being the girls he fucked every day.

There are some survivors, but they’re not fit for the front.  There is not one single case of any cure having worked for anyone who ever wore women’s clothes.  I vowed to be the first.

As the commander of the last battalion of men on the front, I had to maintain my manhood at all costs.  If I gave in, and if any of the men found out about my potential defeat, then all would be lost.  I would have to keep it secret, even as I fight against whatever pernicious mind control had affected so many of my men. 

I gripped the garter and just as I moved to tear it off, I hesitated.  I would have to find a way to dispose of it completely.  Burn it.  Bury it.  Swallow it.  I could not keep it with my gear, because of the mandatory inspections that were meant to weed out any transvestitism among the troops.  If I buried it, the upturned earth would be a dead giveaway.  If I burnt it, the smoke and flames would surely attract suspicion.  I could never swallow it without making myself horribly ill.  So how would I dispose of it?  I fingered the elastic on my thigh as I considered this.

Suddenly realizing what my hand was doing, I angrily slid it off my leg and flung it down onto the bed in front of me.  I stared at it for a long time.  I pondered how the lace and satin alone made it incredibly feminine, and how the bunched up satin made it look so frilly and delicate and girlish.  How could something so unfathomably feminine gotten onto my muscular, macho, virile leg and not wither against my undeniable masculinity?  I pictured it on my thigh again.  I didn’t feel the least bit feminine.  I was sure that I would survive it.

Then, my thoughts became clouded with a most insidious idea.  My problem was that I had to dispose of the garter somehow, as its existence compromised my manhood in the eyes of my troops.  If I was unaffected by it, I could hide it on myself, as no-one would ever check my own clothes; if I had been affected by it, I might as well wear it since I would be turning into a flaming faggot sissy eventually anyway.  Either way, I had found a solution to my problem: I would wear the garter under my uniform.  I liked the idea of putting it on again.  I enjoyed the thrill of challenging my manhood.  

Of course, that was bullshit, and I knew it.  I found myself fantastically excited about the prospect of wearing the garter again.  Worse, I was increasingly aroused about the prospect of my capitulation.  I giggled at the thought that I could wear a frilly sexy girlish garter all day and no-one would be the wiser.  I imagined how sexy it must feel for my leg to be bald, and wearing silk and lace panties and a brassiere to match under a little black cocktail dress.  I thought about Johnson’s fourteen-day record, and how I, the most virile of men, would shatter it by 13 days, 23 hours, and 55 minutes.

I jolted myself back to my senses.  I had to resist!  I could not allow myself to cave in!  I reached for the garter and was about to throw it into the fire when the alarm sounded warning of an attack.  I got dressed as quickly as I could and rushed out of my quarters to engage the enemy.

We were hopelessly outnumbered, and we were caught totally by surprise.  We fought hard for maybe 2 hours before we were overrun and captured.

I saw that all my men were led into semi-private areas where they were being seduced into wearing women’s underwear.  They were all trained to resist to the death.  I was led to a completely private dressing room filled with lingerie and sexy dresses and swimwear.  Milla was there waiting for me.

She stripped off my uniform.  “Did you honestly think that we wouldn’t know?” she asked, pointing at the garter on my left leg.  I blushed.  

“As you know, all our captives are shown the ways of women’s clothes.  I’m going to leave you here by yourself for an hour.  How you emerge will decide the fate of all masculinity the world over.”
She slunk out of the room, leaving me there alone.

I couldn’t resist my overpowering urge to try on some lingerie.  I desperately needed to get some panties on.  But then I got distracted by the bikinis.  Knowing that I had only an hour, I flung off my panties and got myself into a gorgeous little string bikini, and pranced around for a few minutes in absolute bliss.  Then I tried on some one-piece swimsuits just for the experience.  

Suddenly I realized what I would be subjecting my men to.  Either they were suffering the same glorious discovery as I was, or they were staunchly resisting with every ounce of manhood they had.  If I emerged from here in an hour wearing any article of women’s clothing, I would thereby destroy everything I held dear.  If I came out naked and proudly masculine, the men back home could take some of my courage and fight on.  But I had an entire hour!  I could do both!  I could make myself as girlish as I could for 59 minutes, and strip down again just in time…

Of course, if all my men are being effeminated anyway, I might as well enjoy myself.  Besides, why would I want the fight to continue?  I couldn’t consider this a defeat in any way, as I was so overwhelmingly overjoyed to be turned into a girl.

When Milla knocked on the door, I found myself in a slinky black nylon dress, fishnet stockings, pumps, and a lacy little thong.  I smiled lewdly at her as she took my hand to lead me out the door.  I pulled her out of the way, and sashayed out the door like a supermodel, more confident in myself than ever before.  The rustle of the dress against my hips was exquisite.  I was completely effeminate.  Every last one of my men still wore his uniform.  They had all fully resisted.

I was the only one who gave in, and I gave in more than any man in the history of this conflict.  I had betrayed my gender.  They all looked at me with horror.

I laughed with great gusto at them.  “I am a girl now!  Fuck all you men!”

Demoralized, they all became playboy bunnies.

The girls had plans for me, though.  I had been such a smashing success (I even started taking hormones that very day) that they figured I would be a perfect agent back in my homeland.  They sent me back undercover as a man to bring them down from the inside.  The only way I could agree to it was if I got to keep an article of women’s clothing on at all times.  I couldn’t bear the thought of being away from my flowery dainty girlie things.

I wore a slinky little black garter under my clothes as I seduced the male government into total absolute submission.

Fiction: Massive Forced Feminization, Part 3

[Some candidate learns about women’s clothes, and becomes unbearably curious]

I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.  I’m not supposed to touch any of her things without her permission.  But damn it, I didn’t get to explore her bathing suit enough.  It’s so fascinating, and I need to know more about it.  I just want to look at it, admire it, marvel at how beautiful it is, and how beautiful it makes her.  Imagine the grades I’ll get if I check it out!  Nobody has to know.

He snuck to her dresser, hunched over as if to avoid being seen, even though he was alone in a room without windows.  His heart raced as he carefully and quietly opened each drawer, and pawed through the incredible variety of lingerie and swimwear.  So many possibilities!  A particularly sexy pair of black panties caught his eye.  He had never had a chance to explore lingerie before.  His hands shook as he took them out of the drawer and admired them.  He quickly folded them up again as close to their original format as he considered the consequences of his actions.  He was not ready for panties yet.  He would also have to skip past her phenomenal bikinis.  He finally found what he was looking for in the third drawer, among plenty of other utterly feminine unmentionables.

He drew the white and red swimsuit out of the drawer and held it in front of himself.  He could see where the fabric was built to emphasize waist, hips, crotch, and breasts.  The material was so soft to the touch that he longed to feel it on Susan’s body again, as he had in class.  He touched his face with it and luxuriated in the texture.  How wonderful she looks in it, he thought.  How wonderfully it caresses her perfect female body.  He felt keenly privileged to be in such close proximity to something so powerfully feminine.  Then with a sudden pang of guilt, he blushed and stuffed it back into Susan’s dresser.

[The next day, he took it out again and couldn’t help but masturbate while looking at it, the whole time imagining the power of femininity.]

[Soon thereafter, he began to look ahead to the topics of other lessons.  He masturbated – guiltily – to bikinis, then lingerie.  But it still wasn’t enough.  There was something much more sinister, and not altogether consciously acknowledged.]

His grades increased as his extra-curricular activities increased.  He made sure to not give away his cheating habits in class, at the risk of being punished, or worse, ostracized by the other men, who didn’t share his interest in the subject matter.  He could never admit to being as fascinated with women’s clothes as he was.  Still, they all suspected because of his grades, and his uninhibited enthusiasm.

He understood more than anyone, he knew, the power of women’s clothes.  They enhance to terrible levels the beauty, and therefore power, of women, which the entire class had necessarily accepted as paramount.  To understand women’s clothes is to understand their power; and with understanding of that power comes the possibility of wielding it.

He had begun to rub his penis against her lingerie when he examined it, and thoroughly trembled in its phenomenal potency.  He began to imagine it on himself, and blushed with a happy guilt.  He knew that its power was such that he could not ever jeopardize his manhood by willingly wearing it.  But he also desperately yearned to feel the power throughout his body.  He tingled with excitement when he imagined himself daring to put it on.  He could not dare.  The stakes were too high.

One day, after months of developing his taste for his tutor’s clothes, and becoming aware of everything in her closet, he took the plunge.  He mitigated his risk by experimenting first with something innocuous, barely sexy, but still unquestionably feminine, and he kept on his own underwear.  When he slid the pantyhose up his legs, he could feel its girlishness overpower his body and his mind.  Even this mildly enticing garment made him completely aware of its incongruity with his own body.  I am wearing women’s clothes, he thought, as he luxuriated in the tight stretchiness of the fabric on his legs and over top of his underwear.  Thank God I’m wearing my own underwear, or else I’d completely lose my manhood!  He couldn’t believe how good it felt to be wielding even this most harmless of female weapons.  It radically enhanced his own femininity, and he reveled in it.


He shed Susan’s pantyhose rapidly as soon as he felt himself ejaculating, and turned livid with shame.  It was one thing to fondle her underwear when she wasn’t around, but quite another to actually wear it.  Having learned the properties of pantyhose, he also knew that they would not retake their clean shape after having been worn and stretched out.  He would have to hide them, and pray that somehow Susan wouldn’t notice their absence.  Boy, he vowed, I’m never doing that again!

After the fifth or sixth time that he succumbed to the temptation of his secret pantyhose, and overcome with desire to further explore the rapturous rush of femininity he had been enjoying, he threw caution to the wind and wore them without underwear.  For the first time, women’s clothing that he had dressed himself in touched his genitals directly.  He danced and pranced in his geometrically augmented girlishness, breathlessly thanking God that he was at least still wearing his masculine t-shirt to at least anchor part of himself in manhood.  Below the waist, he was a girl as far as he was concerned, and milked the thrill of wearing girls’ clothes for all its worth.  I’m wearing girls’ clothes, he thought to himself, and I love it!  At that moment he longed to eradicate his manhood, and allow the sublime power of femininity transform him inexorably into a girl.  Every swing of his hips felt like a feminine movement that titillated him much more than sex ever had.  He could almost feel the pantyhose forcing his body into a more feminine shape.

When he was done, he rolled them off his hips with disgust.  What was he becoming?  He swore never to even touch Susan’s clothes again, except in class, when he had to.

[He continues to experiment, being drawn towards more serious stuff.  He follows the same pattern with the bathing suit, starting by keeping on his underwear, and gradually abandoning everything but his watch, which he firmly believes is the only thing keeping him male.]

Now that he had established that he could wear a swimsuit and nothing else, and without Susan finding out, he began to rationalize his growing habit.  This is the way to wield feminine power without being female!  The sense of power it gave him to wear that swimsuit was unequalled by anything he had ever imagined.  He couldn’t even just enjoy wearing the swimsuit alone: he began fantasizing about how much more extreme it would be to wear a bikini, or lingerie, a garter belt, stockings.  He knew when he wore it that it made him undeniably feminine, and he realized as he reveled in his girlishness that he wanted to be completely female.  However, every time he stopped, he felt shame and disgust, knowing that he was destroying his manhood.  He blushed frequently in class now as he studied different aspects of Susan’s womanhood, remembering suddenly that he had imagined himself in the bikini she was wearing.  Then his shame would work itself up to a fever pitch again.


When he finally tried it on – just the panty – he did not attempt to protect himself with his own underwear.  He tingled with excitement as he recognized the recklessness of his newest experiment.  But he did not dare wear the matching bra, even though he had fantasized about it so many times.  Now he knew that wearing the panty was just an expression of his desire to touch something feminine with his cock.  He was not becoming dangerously effeminate, as he had feared.  It was all just about comfort.  When he succumbed to wearing the bra as well only the third time, he knew he could never wear a bikini without both pieces, and let the girlishness overwhelm him as he had always wanted.

Throughout all of this, he steadfastly kept on at least one article of male clothing, even if it were as insignificant as a wristwatch.  In fact, his wristwatch had become the only thing he bothered to keep on as he began unabashedly borrowing Susan’s underwear.  

[He eventually admits to his male friends that his secret to success in class is his wearing his tutor’s clothes.  The gasp in horror, as he explains to them that it’s the best way to keep ahead, because they had all heard rumors by now that the whole plan was to turn them all into girls.  He argued that his extra-curricular activities would prepare him for any such feminization, and that he would come out more manly than all of them – all while secretly knowing and loving the fact that he knew he would be the first to become a girl.  They dare him to prove his daring, and he agrees gives them a glimpse of the string bikini under his prison jumpsuit, which he wore in honour of the day’s bikini class.]

His experiments increase in elaborateness to the point where he tries on garter belts and teddies and corsets with only the slight concern for his manhood that he keeps on his wrist.  He prances around the bedroom wearing Susan’s fishnet stockings, a garter belt and matching thong underneath a tight little black vinyl dress when suddenly she walks into the room, without a word, and looks at him casually as if she knew all along.

“You know there are cameras in here, don’t you?  I’ve known about your secret since the first day you put on my pantyhose over your gitch.”  X is speechless.  He feels ridiculous and ashamed in her clothes, and wishes he could cover himself up.

“It’s not what you think,” he offers feebly.

“X, you’re wearing a dress and lingerie!  You’re turning yourself into a girl!  What do you think is going on here?”

“It’s not making me feminine or anything.  See, I’m still wearing my watch!”

But he knows that he’s done for.  He realizes how weak his position is.  He can feel his penis becoming flaccid in Susan’s lacy panties.  His cause is hopeless.

“Give me the watch.  It’s time for you to give in completely, and admit that you want to be a girl.”  She beckons for the watch.

“What happens to me when I take it off,” he asks.

“Nothing.  You’ll just finally be dressed completely 100% like a girl.  You’ll be admitting that nothing can help you now.  You will be completely abandoning any claim to manhood forever.  Now give it to me.”

X looks stupidly at his wrist.  A surge of emotion rushes up to his head, and he can feel his face swelling with blush.  His crotch tingles as he lets Susan’s words sink in.  He had always been terribly tempted to abandon himself that completely to womanhood, but steadfastly maintained his rule.  Now it was about to be broken, and he felt nothing but excited exhilaration about it.  He could not allow his manhood to disintegrate so totally.  It would be treason against all men.

“Just think of how pretty you’ll look in your own wardrobe when you get to wear dresses all day long in public.  Give me the watch!”

X’s hands trembled as he unbuckled the watch and let it slide off his wrist and into his hand.  He sashayed playfully to Susan, and dropped the watch in her hand.

Diary: A Better Twist to Stories

I want to figure out the most extreme transformation story possible, in both the physical and the psychological sense.  I liked the story about how the guy and his buddy made a bet with their wives that they couldn't become girls, and then were hypnotized and surgically transformed into gorgeous she-men.  The one problem with it is the lack of decision.  These men did not decide on their own to become women, they were manipulated into accepting it and enjoying it.  I want to explore what happens to somebody who succumbs without coercion.  Someone who succumbs completely and enthusiastically.

Someone who accidentally discovers, say, his girl's panties, and finds himself pining for them, and for other articles of her clothing.  And this slowly transforms him until he becomes completely female.

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: Beaten Into Shape

A slight change of pace: I'm thinking of all those kung-fu fighting video games in which all the female characters are incalculably gorgeous and wear slinky, revealing clothes.  Now, let's say that I ran into one...



I was never much of a fighter, so Sonya had no trouble with me at all.  She is now my mentor, and she has already taught me much.

Sonya is femininity itself.  Every man who has ever seen her has quivered at beholding such feminine perfection.  She is delicate, and she is very sexy.  She dresses revealingly in battle to distract her opponents.  The fact that she can pound the tar out of anyone on the planet takes nothing away from her shocking girlishness.  I might even say that it accentuates it, because she moves so gracefully, so alluringly when she fights.

I was foolish to attack her.  I spied her from a distance, not knowing who she is, and followed her.  I couldn't resist her beauty.  I wanted to experience it in all its grandeur.  It was dark, and we were nowhere near anyone.  I thought that I could have my way with her, and be done with it, whether she would give in willingly or not.  

She doesn't look strong.  She's not very big.  She is, in fact, quite petite.  No sooner had I tackled her behind a hedge and she threw me off of her and began toying with me.  She was wearing a long, tight skirt and three-inch heels, which I saw repeatedly at very close range.  No one can fight in clothes like that.  She even pretended to be vulnerable.

"Oh my God!  What do you want from me?" she gasped.

"I want your body, chickie.  And I'm gonna have it!"

She shrieked as I lunged at her, but jabbed me in the chin.  Before I knew it, she was kicking me all over the place.  I couldn't get up before she would crack my head with her delicate little fist, or rupture my balls with her soft, porcelain feet.  She had a strange smirk on her face as she slapped me around at will.  Pretty soon, I had nothing left, and I had to beg her, a small, frail-looking, beautiful, gorgeous sex kitten, for mercy. 
She stood above me, hands on her hips.  "Not much of a man, are you?  Can't even stand up to a little girlie like me!"

Flat on the ground, all I could see was her foot.  She picked me up by the scruff of the neck so that I was on my hands and knees.  That's when I got a really good look at her shoes and skirt and her spectacular stocking-clad legs.  

"Kiss my feet," she commanded.  I looked up at her face.  She's beautiful even when she's angry.  But I knew that I had to comply, or else she would kill me.  So I kissed her feet.  

"There, that's more like it.  That's the way to treat a woman."

She abruptly walked away, and I fell back on my face, mortally embarrassed.  I couldn't believe that I had been throughly mauled by a girl, and hadn't even done the least bit of damage to her.  At least no one would ever know.

Or so I thought at that brief moment before she returned, and tossed her shopping bag down in front of me.
"Open it!" she barked.  There were women's clothes in it.  Nothing but women's clothes.  Sonya has fine taste.  I couldn't identify exactly what was in the bag yet, but I had followed her through the mall, so I could guess.

"Take off all your clothes.  Now."  

I looked up at her sheepishly, and she slapped me hard across the face.  "I said, NOW!  Do it!"  So, with my broken bones and blood all over me, I managed to pull out of my clothes.  Sonya didn't help me at all, except for the threats.

"Now, empty the bags onto the ground.  Take a good look at what's inside."

I did as she said, and found lingerie, a mini-dress, and a pair of heels.  Everything seemed to go together nicely.  I guess she had bought an outfit.  Lucky for me that it matched.

"Pick up the panties."  I found the lacy black panties for her.  "Now," she began, giggling, "put them on."
I hesitated, and looked up at her again.  She was serious.  She smacked me in the face again.  "PUT THEM ON!" she screamed.  I did as I was told, and she snickered.  "Aren't you the cute little pantywaist?  Put on the bra, too.  Then the garter belt and the stockings."  With some difficulty, and quite a bit of laughter from Sonya, I did as I was told.

"Do a little pirouette for me!"  I tried, and probably looked ridiculous because I was in such pain from the beating she gave me.  That made her squeal with delight.  I couldn't do anything about it.  "That was awful.  You've got a lot to learn, young lady.  Now put on your dress, and let's go."

She zipped me into this tight little sausage casing, which was so short on me that one could almost see the crotch of her panties.  The skin of my upper thighs was clearly visible.  Then she forced my feet into the heels, grabbed me by the hand, and dragged me back to the sidewalk.  Headed back towards town.  "If you even try to run away, I will utterly destroy you," she whispered to me menacingly.  I could barely keep up with her, but I knew that I couldn't hope to escape her wrath if I fell behind or tried to get away.  I had no idea what she wanted to do to me, or where we were going.  All I knew was that I had been beaten up by a girl, and that I now wore her clothes, in public.

We took a nice long walk downtown, on the busiest streets.  We took public transportation.  She put me on public display, dressed like a girl.  Thousands of people stared at me.  We stayed out for hours, in crowded, wide-open spaces where everyone could see me.  She beamed with satisfaction.  I couldn't escape, because I felt so weak, and because I feared for my life.  She even introduced me to some total strangers as her "girlfriend."

At length, we returned to her home.  Under different circumstances, I would have been overjoyed to enter, but this time I felt a bit uncomfortable about it.  She tossed me into an empty room as I was, and locked the door until morning.  I passed out, still wearing everything.

In the morning, she had me lick her feet again.  She wore only a nightie, and I thought I would die from her unimaginable beauty.  "Do you still want my body?" she asked coyly.

"Yes!" I gasped, unable to comprehend the sudden turn of events, but all to eager to accept it.  Meanwhile, I still had all this feminine clothing on me, down to my panties and bra.

"Good!  Let's get started!  We have a lot of work to do. . ."  She slapped me across the face, and brought me to my knees again.  I was totally shocked.

"Now, swear to me that you hereby renounce your manhood."

"What?!?"

She slapped me again.  "Swear it!"

"Never!"

Slap.

"No!"

Slap.

"Please. . ." I whimpered.

"Swear it!"

"OK!"

"Say it!"

I hesitated for a moment.  She raised her hand to slap me again.

"I renounce my manhood."

"You will now embrace womanhood with all your heart, or die trying."

"I will embrace womanhood, or die trying."

She immediately had me nair my body, and take some pills.  She got me dressed up in the same outfit as the night before, and began my training.

Femininity really sneaks up on you.

Within a few short days, I began to look forward to wearing some new feminine outfit that I had never experienced before.  I got right into it.  I wanted nothing more than to become female.  I wanted to look as sexy as my mistress, wearing the same sexy clothes.  I loved the feel of my hairless skin.  I prayed for my tits to grow out.  I longed for an hourglass figure.  I was like a girl going through puberty, taking pride in all of the changes that I expected to come.  I frolicked in silk and lace, reveling in my new-found femininity.  Sonya found this very amusing.  So did I.

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: Discovery and Slow Surrender

The thought had, of course, crossed my mind before. It's not a huge stretch of the imagination. It's a bit of a joke, really. Masculinity is too fragile: the femininity of women's underwear must inevitably corrupt it. Women laugh and chide their men about how cute they would look in a bra. Then the men joke right back, playing along, intending to show how confident they are of their manhood. Both of them, however, fear what would happen if he actually did wear women's underwear. Subconsciously, both know how fragile masculinity is.

It came as a challenge at first. She dared me to put on her panties, and I did. No problem there. It was stupid. I felt ridiculous, but not even embarrassed. They didn't seem to fit quite right. They looked grotesque against my muscular ass and the bulge in front. Not a pretty picture at all. "See?" I said. "Nothing to it."

The trick is in not letting it get into your head.

As I said, this was a pointless exercise in courage. I showed off my machismo, my male fearlessness, by- ironically- wearing women's underwear. Clearly, she looks better in her panties than I do. In fact, she looks better in my underwear than I do. But that's because she's a girl, and I like the way she looks. As far as I could tell then, I passed with flying colours. The seed, however, had been planted.

I had practically forgotten about the incident, until it crept back into my thoughts a few weeks later. My mind drifted into an erotic fantasy as I worked. This happens to everyone. Only it abruptly stopped when I remembered that I wore __'s panties. For some reason, this suddenly brought me intense worry. I had, I imagined, compromised my virility. Thank God I hadn't liked it! I thought to myself.

As the day wore on, I agonized over my blunder. I worried that __ would think me less of a man. I tried to convince myself that I was being foolish. But it didn't work. The thought that there would be consequences to wearing women's underwear consumed me.

Eventually, __ assuaged my fears by fucking me passionately. She even initiated it all. She made me feel desirable as a man again. I forgot about it again for a little while. But it came back to me. Soon I became fascinated with __'s panty drawer. I considered myself fortunate that I hadn't worn a bra, too. Or a garter belt. Or that sexy little nightgown. Any of those would have made me doubt even more my manhood.

I had to prove to myself that I wasn't afraid, that I was still as manly as before. The only way to do that, I rationalized, would be to wear women's underwear again. I might even wear a bra and panties this time, just to prove it all the more forcefully.

I knew all along that I was lying to myself. In truth, I was curious. I wanted to experience __'s undies again.
I waited until I knew I could be alone for a long while, and stole into her dresser for a panty and bra set I had given her one Valentine's day. My heart pounded. My cock stiffened. I touched myself all over, overcome with horniness. I became frightened and took off __'s lingerie and put it back exactly as I had found it in her dresser. Oh my God! I liked it! My heart raced with both excitement and fear. I had compromised my manhood -- but worse, I loved it! I was still excited, but I couldn't bear the thought of wearing those panties again. I couldn't allow myself to capitulate. I had looked over the edge of the cliff, and survived. I couldn't go any closer. But it was so exhilarating! Naked, I came all over myself, fantasizing about the horrible, wonderful consequences of my gender-bending: that I would succumb to wearing all sorts of sexy girlie garments and eventually become a real girl! I never came so hard in all my life. I never felt such shame as when I cleaned it up. This would be the last time. I had momentarily lost my manhood, but now everything was alright as long as I didn't let it happen again.

How could I not agonize over this little discovery? The more I worried about my manhood's erosion, the more I fantasized about its inevitable result. My hands shook with anticipation as I rifled guiltily through __'s dresser for something horrifyingly effeminate to wear. I stumbled upon her one-piece swimsuit, and rapidly became fixated on it. There was no mistaking it for something a man would wear. My knees buckled as I thought of how it would squeeze my waist inwards and give me a gorgeous, feminine, hourglass figure. Still, I couldn't allow myself to feel this, no matter how badly I wanted to. I put it on over my own underwear, clinging desperately to my last shred of manhood. I had to resist. But there I stood, fondling myself, with a woman's bathing suit on me, on top of my underwear. If I don't let it touch my dick, it won't corrupt my manhood, I hoped. It was strange: feeling the spandex all over me except for my mundane, protected penis. It brought me momentarily to my senses. I took off the swimsuit in a pang of guilty sobriety, and put it back where I found it. I sighed with relief. That was close! Imagine how overcome with effeminacy I would have become had I dared to let it touch the essence of my manhood!

The very thought of giving up my manhood gripped me with intense, perverse delight. No sooner had I closed the dresser drawer than I doffed my underwear and wiggled into the same swimsuit, giddily confident about my new-found femininity. I gamboled around like a horny schoolgirl, rubbing myself all over, basking in the ecstasy of my new identity. I was so glad that I had done away with my feeble masculine protection. The realization that I was unprotected from such inescapable femininity filled me with great satisfaction. I came all over __'s bathing suit, relishing my girlhood.

Then, I was ashamed again. I had succumbed, and I wasn't excited about it anymore. I had failed to contain my urges. I secretly berated myself for months after that. __ never found out, because I washed the swimsuit before she came back.

It wasn't long until I caved in again. This was all part of my initiation. I had to renounce my manhood more and more often. Over a long period of time, I tried everything on. I knew that it was wrong, that it was abnormal, that it was dangerous, that it was eroding my manhood. I just didn't care. It was so much fun! Each time, I became possessed with the desire to feel feminine. I longed to feel something beautifully girlish on my body. I unleashed my pent-up womanhood by wrapping my body in lingerie. It was so. . . naughty. No heterosexual man, I reasoned, should ever be so familiar with women's underwear. I discovered things about women's underwear that most men would never be aware of. I no longer feared becoming effeminate: I hoped for it. I wanted to look as good in __'s underwear as she did. I wanted to be a girl.

It's partly a curiosity, partly a twisted, willful perversion. They get twisted together into something entirely bizarre. I keep coming back to my childhood, wondering where it all began. I fantasized about being turned into a girl since the moment I learned to masturbate. I remember some vague sense that a woman would take me away and I would become a girl under her influence. She would have me rub my hard little dick for her, and I would become one of them. The association isn't quite there, but wearing those tight little stockings for the class play in Kindergarten made it abundantly clear. So now I wear bikinis and panties and garter belts, and I wish for all sorts of other goodies to make me feel more feminine.

It's so obvious: I love to feel feminine! I want to be a girl! It's totally unacceptable, but I don't care! I want to cast off all my manhood and openly embrace womanhood! Wearing women's clothes only enhances the fantasy. It's not a fantasy in itself. It is a means to asserting my femininity. I need to make myself girlish whenever I can, and thinking about it just isn't good enough.

I don't think I've ever touched on this before. It's all about becoming feminine! It's always been there, always front and centre, but I never really took note of it as the goal. I've come close to making the connection, but now I have it!

Sometimes, I think that wearing women's clothes is the goal. Becoming girlish in the process is part of the thrill, no doubt; but I assumed that the lingerie was the objective. If I become feminine as a consequence of wearing girlish things, so be it! I thought that the thrill ended there. I would tolerate, and even welcome, becoming a girl only because it would allow me to dress like one.

It's so much more delicious than that.

I do it because it makes me a girl. The true objective is to become a girl. I mentioned above fantasizing about taking hormones and such. I don't think I ever thought of it as an end in itself. Not consciously, anyway. It was always for the underwear, the skirts, the sexy outfits.

I'm not sure that the distinction is coming across. Maybe I've known about it all along, and only took hold of it now. Maybe I've somehow forgotten about it, and rediscovered it. Difficult to say. Right now I feel convinced that I've discovered something critical.

Let's put it into a fantasy, shall we?


The standard story: One day, I'm minding my own business, when all of a sudden I'm captured by women. The battle of the sexes has turned violent. Women want to assimilate all men. Men can't live without women, so we're losing badly. I'm one of the best fighters on the male side. I desperately fear becoming a girl. I'm comfortable and happy being a man.

So now, they've captured me, and they introduce me to their underwear. I'm a goner. I don't want to succumb, but they're so sexy. They torture me by putting me naked in a room filled with nothing but lingerie. I dress up like a girl, under duress, but I get used to it. They reward me for it. I start coming all over myself when I wear their clothes. I tell them that I love their clothes, that they feel so good on my body. I know that it's bad, I know that I really shouldn't be wearing bikinis and lingerie and skirts and nightgowns. But I love it! At every turn, they make me feel like I shouldn't, but I do! I want to try on everything. I want to experience everything as a girl. That's when I realize that I want desperately to be a girl. The clothing is just a fun part of it. It's the womanhood that I really want.


That is the key! It's a sudden discovery that wearing women's clothes is the closest path to being female. I want to be able to reach down my pants, feel silk against my smooth, hairless body, follow a curve down towards my crotch, past a soft mound of coarse hair, and into an even softer fleshy thing with a hard clit up the middle.

It's all about being a girl. Wearing stuff is cool because it allows me to express my girlishness.

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.