Dodging Another Bullet

As I explained in my last post, I'm away on business, so I packed myself some fun pajamas. At first, I had packed drab pajamas, and had hidden my girlie items as well as I could in side pockets. But after spending half the day anticipating it, and fantasizing about being bold about it, I removed my normal boy pajamas, and re-packed my nightie and panties along with my regular underwear. Excited, I then added one of my teddies. 

I arrived last night, painted my toenails, and slept in my nightie, as planned. It was a pleasant night's sleep. I dreamed of being caught with nail polish, and struggling to remove it, and woke up horny a couple of times. I woke up and went about my day.

I spoke to my wife on the phone in the evening, and she asked if I had found her surprise for me in my bag. I immediately jumped to wish fulfillment fantasies of her being supportive of my fetish, and sneaking in some of her own panties or something, but I knew that this was highly unlikely to the point of absurdity. 

It turns out she put a Valentine's day card in my bag! She snuck it in when I wasn't looking. She tucked it under my pants. Somehow, she narrowly missed my secret girlie stash! I almost got caught again!

That would have been a painful episode indeed.

I'm now wearing nail polish on my fingers, and sleeping in my teddy. 

Busted

It's been very quiet around here for a long time now. But, I've continued to dress up mostly in swimwear. I got into a naughty habit for a while earlier this year, which I'll describe some other time. The usual routine of indulging in some femininity while my family is out of the house continued happily, until a couple of weeks ago.

My wife found my stash.

Or rather, I had absent-mindedly left it out, in plain sight, and went to work for the day. She texted me asking what it was, and I knew I was sunk. I felt physically ill. I considered coming up with some crazy explanation, but ultimately, I knew I had to tell her the truth, as painful as that would be.

So when I came home, I sat her down, and told her that the bathing suits, lingerie, and shoes in the bag she had found are mine. And that I wear them. Because I like it.

She was horrified. She felt like I had betrayed her. It's a huge lie, that I've concealed this from her for over ten years. In fact we just came home from a 10th anniversary trip when this happened. She suddenly felt uncomfortable in my presence. She didn't trust me with our son.

We spent the next several evenings talking about my secret. I told her almost everything. She's mostly concerned that I'm gay, and I assured her that I'm not. I'm actually quite confident that I'm not, in spite of all of this. She made me throw away my stash, while still feeling bad about it. She's very conflicted about it. She wants me to stop doing it altogether. I told her I would, and I'll really try, but I also told her that it's not really possible to stop. For now, I'm more than willing to at least pause so she can process it.

After we talked, each evening, we made love. We have always been very close and intimate and in love. Except for this, we've had a very open and honest relationship. In some ways, it's brought us closer together. She feels like she needs to fuck more to break this habit from me. She doesn't understand that it just doesn't work that way. The sex has tapered off a bit the last few days, but I've been constantly horny every since she found out. I'm thinking about wearing women's clothes non-stop.

She asked me not to wear her things. I promised her I won't. I really will try not to, as much as I'd love to. It's especially hard that I don't have my own things anymore. She sort of understands that I need to do it sometimes, but she really doesn't want me to.

When I told her that my habit was to wear things while she's out of the house, at first she felt reluctant to leave me alone, for fear that I'd do it again. I'm alone now, and I'm sure it's crossed her mind. It's like a test. I want to tell her that I desperately want to order some things for myself: a swimsuit, some panties, a bra, and even some shoes. I'm taking a business trip this week anyway, and I don't know how I'll handle being alone in a hotel room with nothing feminine to wear. It would have been a perfect opportunity, but now I'd have to buy something first.

She's not at all interested in ever participating in this with me. She wants a manly man, and this utterly turns her off. I still hold out hope that she'll come around. It's too soon now, though. The alternative is that I continue to do it in secret, and she may be OK with that. She'd rather not even know.

Meanwhile, I have felt somehow more free since she found out. It's a relief that I no longer have to bear this secret anymore. I fantasize now that eventually she'll accept this, and I can openly keep some feminine things in my dresser. I'm already toying with ordering some things. But I need to be patient.

She doesn't know about this blog yet. She doesn't know the full depths of my fantasy. I did explain to her that it's all about becoming a woman. She doesn't understand it at all. But she still loves me. She says so, and her actions prove it. This does put some doubt in her mind. I'm doing what I can to convince her that I love her still, that I'm the same person she married. But from her point of view, because she never knew this side of me, and it's not something she ever wanted or expected, she feels like she didn't truly know me. So I'm not at all who she thought I was.

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: 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.

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.