While writing that last post, I mentioned knowing that if I had no boundaries, I would wank myself to death. I thought I had written about this before, but searched for it throughout my writings, to no avail. I wanted to link to the article I thought I had written, as a case in point. But there is no such article. Therefore, here's a little story about my insatiability when it comes to feminizing myself.
One evening, with my wife out of town for a bachelorette party or some such, I had decided to make full use of her absence to engage in as much girlish debauchery as I could handle. There was so much that I wanted to wear, and in only one night, that I hardly knew where to start. I have limited ability to recuperate at my age, so every wank must count.
Usually, when she's not far away, I have limited time to enjoy my femininity. I browse around the web for things that interest me for a while, which normally feeds some specific fantasy. I then fulfill it by wearing whichever girlie item fits the fantasy best. Sometimes, I'm already obsessed with some specific garment, and develop an elaborate fantasy around it. In any case, it's over after one wank, so I prefer my fantasy to match what I'm wearing, to maximize my pleasure. At times, this isn't enough to satisfy me, for various reasons. I actually keep a diary of every "incident", including what I wore, how much I enjoyed it on a scale of 1 to 10, and a brief description of the circumstances. Merely documenting this after the fact often launches me into another fantasy, so I find myself wanking again in another garment. This second orgasm is usually much harder to achieve. Interestingly, when making love to my wife, I can never muster the lust to come twice.
On this particular evening, I knew that I had all night. I was ravenous for femininity. I had a plan. Since I had no fear of interference, and total privacy for many, many hours, I decided that I would spend the evening wearing nothing but women's clothes, and sleep in my wife's little slip dress that she left behind under her pillow. I had fantasized many times about doing this, but inevitably my playtime would end after succumbing to the temptation of orgasm. This time, I was determined to at least see how long I could go, and try to avoid masturbating.
I whet my appetite browsing the web for the usual: pictures, stories, captions, videos, and so on. I probably wore swimwear while doing so (my records are sketchy, so I'm not sure). I tried to hold out, but probably lasted only an hour or so. In spite of my ambitions, I achieved my first climax quite quickly after all that preparation. In fact, it was too quick to be fully satisfactory. Thinking of my original plan, rather than giving up right then and there, I changed into a bikini. The thought of actually executing on my plan was so arousing that I couldn't resist coming again, soon after putting it on.
By now, I was already tired. My penis was sore from having climaxed twice. With resignation, I cleaned up the mess, and thought my valiant attempt had no hope of continuing. But there again was that thought: now that I've gotten it out of my system, I can surely wear women's clothes without having to masturbate. This would be somewhat less fun, but satisfying nonetheless, on an entirely different level. I slipped into my corset, stockings and high black boots, figuring that if I was going to do this, I might as well challenge myself.
I settled onto the sofa in my lingerie to watch a movie. I spoke to my wife on the phone. The whole time, I counted my blessings that I could wear such an outfit. I lounged happily in my feminine attire, fondling the lace of my panties and the smooth nylon of my stockings, snapping my garters, and adjusting my bodice. Before long, and much to my delight, I gave in to temptation yet again.
At this point, I would normally start feeling a little ill from all the strain, and more than a little over-satiated. And so it was then. But I had a seed in my head. I felt like I could go no further, but by now I was wondering if I even could cum if I tried. I struggled a bit to think of what I'd want to wear, but the very idea of being such a sissy that I could still climax after everything I had already done, spurred me on. I chose my favorite swimsuit, and carried on, knowing that I still had to somehow sleep wearing panties and a nightie.
It was less difficult than I had thought. It was somewhat painful, as with an overworked muscle, and it hurt to even have an erection, but the overload of femininity was too much to keep me from succeeding. I came again!
It was late by now, and I was exhausted. I felt like there was no amount of masturbation that would cure me of this fetish. All I had to do was allow myself to fantasize, and I could keep cumming over and over again. The idea that this dirty little fetish was impossible to satisfy made me want to come yet again! Somewhat unnerved, I slipped into the nightie and panties as planned, brushed my teeth, and went to bed, excited about sleeping en femme. I was drifting off to sleep, and just wanted to enjoy some sweet girlish dreams. I tried not to think about what I was doing.
It was no use. I woke up in the middle of the night with a massive erection, throbbing with the dull pain of muscular fatigue. I would not be able to sleep until I wanked it out, so I once again satisfied my urges.
By now there was no longer any doubt. I had discovered that there is no practical limit to my arousal when indulging my feminine fantasies. I could literally wank myself to death if I allowed myself to. It was also both arousing and disconcerting to confirm that my ample appetite for straight heterosexual intercourse was far smaller than that for feminization. This was not surprising. That the latter was limitless, was.
By morning, I was so worn out and so sore that I couldn't imagine how I would explain to my wife why I wasn't eager to fuck her when she returned. I schlepped around all day in a fog from my exertions of the night before. I had only now, after all these years, discovered the magnitude of my problem.
Showing posts with label corset. Show all posts
Showing posts with label corset. Show all posts
Fiction: Fast and Furious
I was walking down the street, minding my own business, when suddenly, at a street corner, a white van screeches to the curb in front of me, opens its doors, and I get pushed in. No sooner do I land on the floor of the van does the door slam behind me and we speed away, screeching tires again, as a velvet bag goes over my head.
I hear women's voices all around me. "You never should have cheated on Marcia, you scumball. We're going to destroy you!" says one, threateningly.
Now, I have no idea who Marcia is. I've never met anyone by that name, much less cheated on her. In fact, I haven't had a girlfriend in months, and I'm the one who got cheated on and dumped. I try to explain that it's all a terrible mistake, but they were having none of it.
"John, don't be such a snivelling coward. Do you really think we'd let you off that easily?"
"But I'm not John! I swear! You've got to believe me! Look at my ID, it's in my back pocket!"
"Do you take us for fools? We know it's you, John, and you've been very, very naughty, and you will be punished. Are you going to take it like a man, or bitch and moan like a girl?"
After much pleading for my life, and them kicking me in the nuts, slapping, and punching my head, the van stops and they hustle me out of it and into some building. I have no clue where I am.
They tear the hood off my head and drag me kicking and screaming into a sort of bathroom, where they cut away all my clothes, lather me with some noxious-smelling substance, and spray me down. To my horror, all of my body hair washes away in the spray.
They restrain me again and wrap my limp penis in some sort of sleeve, which they then tuck between my butt cheeks, and tie. I feel something soft and silky being slid up my now smooth legs, which turns out to be some sort of underwear. Then I somehow have a bra put on me, matching the underwear, and I know I'm in trouble.
Unable to move, I feel a sharp pain around my navel, as two women lean over me. I feel something dangling from the spot where they put a hole in me.
They violently flip me over, and I can hear a soft buzzing sound approaching. For the next few hours, I feel them cutting into the skin of my lower back, and giggling about a "tramp stamp."
Next they wrap a corset around me, and while a group of them work on squeezing the air out of me as they tighten the waist, others take advantage of my almost fainting by slipping stockings onto each of my bald legs, and hooking them onto the garters of the corset, which, it turns out, has a sort of frilly skirt to it. Then they attach shoes with tight straps around my ankles.
They strap me down to a sort of chair, and start working on my face. There's a knife being pressed to my throat, so I don't dare to move. I hear buzzing again, and feel sharp pain as they colour my lips, cheeks and eyes. At the same time, they pinch my earlobes a few times with some kind of tool. Finally, they buzz off every hair on my head, and glue a blonde wig to my scalp.
At this point, they jab my arm with a needle, and as I gasp, they grasp my jaw, keeping it open, and press the knife even harder against my throat. They grab my tongue, and pinch it hard with another tool. It's agony. I can't withdraw it reflexively, because the tool has too firm a hold on it. As they remove the tool, they threaten me some more, as they attach something metallic to my tongue. Finally, they let go, and I can feel a pea-sized metallic lump on the top of my tongue.
Finally, they let me go. I stumble out of the chair to their laughter, nearly breaking my ankle as I lose my balance on my high stilletoes. They point me to a mirrored wall, but it takes me a few moments to recognize myself. I am now utterly feminized. If not for the broad shoulders and over-large hands, I'd look just like a sexy woman. My crotch is especially shockingly convincing, because my cock is tucked out of the way.
"Why have you done this to me?" I ask plaintively.
"John, Marcia was very, very upset when she found out about you and that tramp Vanessa."
"I'm NOT JOHN!" I scream, terrified and furious.
"No, you certainly are not, John," says the ringleader, snickering, "Not anymore."
All the other girls laugh heartily as I cower in the corner.
"From now on," the ringleader continues menacingly, "you yourself will be known as Vanessa, now that you look so much like her."
I am speechless.
"And just so you know, there's no turning back now. We've tattooed makeup onto your face, pierced your ears a few times, and your belly button, and your tongue, and given you a butterfly tattoo just above your ass. Your body hair won't be growing back for weeks, and nobody knows where you are. We've already injected you with your dose of hormones for the day. From now on, you serve Marcia hand and foot. Understand?"
Horrified, I nod my head. I stare at myself in the mirror. I'm astounded that all it took was a few hours to turn me into a girl.
"Now, Vanessa, let's go to your mistress, so you can pledge your eternal servitude."
I meekly follow her out of the salon, girls tittering behind my back. I can't walk very quickly with these stillettoes on, and they hurt my feet. I'm terrified to fall behind her, because I'm afraid of what she'll do to me. I am terribly conscious of my new appearance, as the pain on my face, my ears, my navel, my waist, my lower back, and my feet contrasts sharply against the softness and delicacy of my stockings, panties, corset, and bra. My penis swells painfully, restrained in its sleeve, as I take in my new femininity.
As we approach an ornate door, I am instructed to approach Marcia with my head bowed, walk slowly and meekly to her throne, and bow before her, begging for forgiveness, and offering myself to her service forever as a small token of remorse for my cheating on her. The first parts are not at all difficult, since I am horribly ashamed of what's happened to me. The next is not so easy, since I have no idea who Marcia is, and I am apparently being punished for someone else's crimes.
Before I can even speak, she screams at me. I haven't even looked at her yet. I still don't know what her face looks like, since my head has been bowed all this time.
"John... or should I say, Vanessa, you fucking scumbag! I hope you realize just how badly you fucked up! You're worthless! WORTHLESS! And now see where your few minutes of infedelity have landed you! I thought you would have known better!"
"Yes, your majesty," I reply meekly, too afraid to try to contradict her.
"Now, to show me just how sorry you are, Vanessa, you'll prove to me just how serious you are about renouncing your womanizing ways."
A muscular man, much bigger than me, and wearing no more than a thong, comes up to me, and picks me up off the ground, leaving me on my knees before him. He takes out his cock, a massive, throbbing, muscular thing which puts mine to shame, and sticks it in my face. He slaps my cheek with it. I have no choice, so I grasp it, hands trembling, and bring it to my mouth. I close my eyes as I put my lips around it, and feel it twitch.
I try not to notice the taste too much. I notice that he seems to twitch and groan when my studded tongue touches his head a certain way. I am so feminized! I am sucking cock! My own cock swells uncomfortably again between my butt cheeks. This is so unbelievably dirty! I find my hand jacking the base as I realize that I have tattoos and piercings the likes of which only the sluttiest skanks ever get. I am wearing clothes designed to make women look sexy. I'm more feminine than many women!
I gasp when I feel a pair of hands grab my waist and pull me up to my feet. I am careful not to let go of the penis in my hand, and quickly put it back into my mouth. Only now I feel another cock rubbing against my silky ass. Strong, powerful hands have me by my now shrunken waist. One hand lets go, and tugs at my panties. A dick head probes along my butt, and finds the opening. I gasp as it tears its way into me, but the penis in my mouth takes advantage of this loss of control to pump deeper, into my throat.
I have cock all over me, and I cringe with pain with each thrust into my ass. I can hardly concentrate on the one in my mouth. Soon enough, I feel the one in my ass pumping hot lava into me, relax, and withdraw. The strong hands release my little waist, and I resume tickling the dick head in my mouth with my tongue stud.
Finally, his body twitches and jerks, and I taste some salty paste in my mouth. I gag as he pumps his cock further in my mouth than I can control, and reflexively withdraw, and semen squirts all over my face. I wipe it off on the back of my hand in disgust.
"Swallow it!" commands Marcia from her throne. "Swallow it, or I won't be convinced that you really are sorry."
Glancing down at my new outfit, I realize that it's not worth fighting, so I lick the jizz off my hand and swallow it, like the obedient slut that I am, and look at her for some sign of approval.
Instead, I see shock. I shake free of my reverie and understand why.
"You're not John. Who is this? Tyra, who is this man?"
"Why, Marcia, that's Vanessa now!"
"No, that's not what I mean. This is not the man I wanted you to punish!"
"What!?!"
"Who are you? Why didn't you resist?"
"But I did resist!" I protest. "I pleaded with them to check my ID. I told them I'm not John. But they did all this anyway!"
"Are you gay or something? Why did you suck Moe's cock then?"
"I didn't think I had a choice!"
"Oh my God! What have we done!"
With that, hysteria breaks loose in the room. Girls are crying and screaming, some are laughing. I am standing there in the middle of this chaos, still in my sexy lingerie and shoes, still tasting Moe's cum.
"We're so sorry," says Tyra into my ear, "We've made a terrible mistake. Please come with me."
Tyra seems like an entirely different person now as she leads me by the hand out of the room again. She leads me back to the salon, and hands me back my torn clothes.
"Here," she says, "put your stuff back on, and get out of here! And don't you dare tell anyone what happened!"
"You've got to be kidding me! I look like a fucking bimbo! How can I not tell anyone after what you've done to me! You yourself told me that there's no turning back!"
"Look, aside from the piercings and the permanent makeup, nobody ever has to see anything else."
"You made me do gay things! And you gave me hormones! What the fuck is that going to do to me?!?"
"You sucked that cock all on your own, boy. You've got only yourself to blame. Now get out!"
Showing a fierceness that she didn't show before, she shooed me out the door, still wearing my lingerie. I put my own clothes back on over top of it, took off the earrings, and staggered home in the darkness, only dimly aware of where I was and which direction I needed to go.
I hear women's voices all around me. "You never should have cheated on Marcia, you scumball. We're going to destroy you!" says one, threateningly.
Now, I have no idea who Marcia is. I've never met anyone by that name, much less cheated on her. In fact, I haven't had a girlfriend in months, and I'm the one who got cheated on and dumped. I try to explain that it's all a terrible mistake, but they were having none of it.
"John, don't be such a snivelling coward. Do you really think we'd let you off that easily?"
"But I'm not John! I swear! You've got to believe me! Look at my ID, it's in my back pocket!"
"Do you take us for fools? We know it's you, John, and you've been very, very naughty, and you will be punished. Are you going to take it like a man, or bitch and moan like a girl?"
After much pleading for my life, and them kicking me in the nuts, slapping, and punching my head, the van stops and they hustle me out of it and into some building. I have no clue where I am.
They tear the hood off my head and drag me kicking and screaming into a sort of bathroom, where they cut away all my clothes, lather me with some noxious-smelling substance, and spray me down. To my horror, all of my body hair washes away in the spray.
They restrain me again and wrap my limp penis in some sort of sleeve, which they then tuck between my butt cheeks, and tie. I feel something soft and silky being slid up my now smooth legs, which turns out to be some sort of underwear. Then I somehow have a bra put on me, matching the underwear, and I know I'm in trouble.
Unable to move, I feel a sharp pain around my navel, as two women lean over me. I feel something dangling from the spot where they put a hole in me.
They violently flip me over, and I can hear a soft buzzing sound approaching. For the next few hours, I feel them cutting into the skin of my lower back, and giggling about a "tramp stamp."
Next they wrap a corset around me, and while a group of them work on squeezing the air out of me as they tighten the waist, others take advantage of my almost fainting by slipping stockings onto each of my bald legs, and hooking them onto the garters of the corset, which, it turns out, has a sort of frilly skirt to it. Then they attach shoes with tight straps around my ankles.
They strap me down to a sort of chair, and start working on my face. There's a knife being pressed to my throat, so I don't dare to move. I hear buzzing again, and feel sharp pain as they colour my lips, cheeks and eyes. At the same time, they pinch my earlobes a few times with some kind of tool. Finally, they buzz off every hair on my head, and glue a blonde wig to my scalp.
At this point, they jab my arm with a needle, and as I gasp, they grasp my jaw, keeping it open, and press the knife even harder against my throat. They grab my tongue, and pinch it hard with another tool. It's agony. I can't withdraw it reflexively, because the tool has too firm a hold on it. As they remove the tool, they threaten me some more, as they attach something metallic to my tongue. Finally, they let go, and I can feel a pea-sized metallic lump on the top of my tongue.
Finally, they let me go. I stumble out of the chair to their laughter, nearly breaking my ankle as I lose my balance on my high stilletoes. They point me to a mirrored wall, but it takes me a few moments to recognize myself. I am now utterly feminized. If not for the broad shoulders and over-large hands, I'd look just like a sexy woman. My crotch is especially shockingly convincing, because my cock is tucked out of the way.
"Why have you done this to me?" I ask plaintively.
"John, Marcia was very, very upset when she found out about you and that tramp Vanessa."
"I'm NOT JOHN!" I scream, terrified and furious.
"No, you certainly are not, John," says the ringleader, snickering, "Not anymore."
All the other girls laugh heartily as I cower in the corner.
"From now on," the ringleader continues menacingly, "you yourself will be known as Vanessa, now that you look so much like her."
I am speechless.
"And just so you know, there's no turning back now. We've tattooed makeup onto your face, pierced your ears a few times, and your belly button, and your tongue, and given you a butterfly tattoo just above your ass. Your body hair won't be growing back for weeks, and nobody knows where you are. We've already injected you with your dose of hormones for the day. From now on, you serve Marcia hand and foot. Understand?"
Horrified, I nod my head. I stare at myself in the mirror. I'm astounded that all it took was a few hours to turn me into a girl.
"Now, Vanessa, let's go to your mistress, so you can pledge your eternal servitude."
I meekly follow her out of the salon, girls tittering behind my back. I can't walk very quickly with these stillettoes on, and they hurt my feet. I'm terrified to fall behind her, because I'm afraid of what she'll do to me. I am terribly conscious of my new appearance, as the pain on my face, my ears, my navel, my waist, my lower back, and my feet contrasts sharply against the softness and delicacy of my stockings, panties, corset, and bra. My penis swells painfully, restrained in its sleeve, as I take in my new femininity.
As we approach an ornate door, I am instructed to approach Marcia with my head bowed, walk slowly and meekly to her throne, and bow before her, begging for forgiveness, and offering myself to her service forever as a small token of remorse for my cheating on her. The first parts are not at all difficult, since I am horribly ashamed of what's happened to me. The next is not so easy, since I have no idea who Marcia is, and I am apparently being punished for someone else's crimes.
Before I can even speak, she screams at me. I haven't even looked at her yet. I still don't know what her face looks like, since my head has been bowed all this time.
"John... or should I say, Vanessa, you fucking scumbag! I hope you realize just how badly you fucked up! You're worthless! WORTHLESS! And now see where your few minutes of infedelity have landed you! I thought you would have known better!"
"Yes, your majesty," I reply meekly, too afraid to try to contradict her.
"Now, to show me just how sorry you are, Vanessa, you'll prove to me just how serious you are about renouncing your womanizing ways."
A muscular man, much bigger than me, and wearing no more than a thong, comes up to me, and picks me up off the ground, leaving me on my knees before him. He takes out his cock, a massive, throbbing, muscular thing which puts mine to shame, and sticks it in my face. He slaps my cheek with it. I have no choice, so I grasp it, hands trembling, and bring it to my mouth. I close my eyes as I put my lips around it, and feel it twitch.
I try not to notice the taste too much. I notice that he seems to twitch and groan when my studded tongue touches his head a certain way. I am so feminized! I am sucking cock! My own cock swells uncomfortably again between my butt cheeks. This is so unbelievably dirty! I find my hand jacking the base as I realize that I have tattoos and piercings the likes of which only the sluttiest skanks ever get. I am wearing clothes designed to make women look sexy. I'm more feminine than many women!
I gasp when I feel a pair of hands grab my waist and pull me up to my feet. I am careful not to let go of the penis in my hand, and quickly put it back into my mouth. Only now I feel another cock rubbing against my silky ass. Strong, powerful hands have me by my now shrunken waist. One hand lets go, and tugs at my panties. A dick head probes along my butt, and finds the opening. I gasp as it tears its way into me, but the penis in my mouth takes advantage of this loss of control to pump deeper, into my throat.
I have cock all over me, and I cringe with pain with each thrust into my ass. I can hardly concentrate on the one in my mouth. Soon enough, I feel the one in my ass pumping hot lava into me, relax, and withdraw. The strong hands release my little waist, and I resume tickling the dick head in my mouth with my tongue stud.
Finally, his body twitches and jerks, and I taste some salty paste in my mouth. I gag as he pumps his cock further in my mouth than I can control, and reflexively withdraw, and semen squirts all over my face. I wipe it off on the back of my hand in disgust.
"Swallow it!" commands Marcia from her throne. "Swallow it, or I won't be convinced that you really are sorry."
Glancing down at my new outfit, I realize that it's not worth fighting, so I lick the jizz off my hand and swallow it, like the obedient slut that I am, and look at her for some sign of approval.
Instead, I see shock. I shake free of my reverie and understand why.
"You're not John. Who is this? Tyra, who is this man?"
"Why, Marcia, that's Vanessa now!"
"No, that's not what I mean. This is not the man I wanted you to punish!"
"What!?!"
"Who are you? Why didn't you resist?"
"But I did resist!" I protest. "I pleaded with them to check my ID. I told them I'm not John. But they did all this anyway!"
"Are you gay or something? Why did you suck Moe's cock then?"
"I didn't think I had a choice!"
"Oh my God! What have we done!"
With that, hysteria breaks loose in the room. Girls are crying and screaming, some are laughing. I am standing there in the middle of this chaos, still in my sexy lingerie and shoes, still tasting Moe's cum.
"We're so sorry," says Tyra into my ear, "We've made a terrible mistake. Please come with me."
Tyra seems like an entirely different person now as she leads me by the hand out of the room again. She leads me back to the salon, and hands me back my torn clothes.
"Here," she says, "put your stuff back on, and get out of here! And don't you dare tell anyone what happened!"
"You've got to be kidding me! I look like a fucking bimbo! How can I not tell anyone after what you've done to me! You yourself told me that there's no turning back!"
"Look, aside from the piercings and the permanent makeup, nobody ever has to see anything else."
"You made me do gay things! And you gave me hormones! What the fuck is that going to do to me?!?"
"You sucked that cock all on your own, boy. You've got only yourself to blame. Now get out!"
Showing a fierceness that she didn't show before, she shooed me out the door, still wearing my lingerie. I put my own clothes back on over top of it, took off the earrings, and staggered home in the darkness, only dimly aware of where I was and which direction I needed to go.
Fantasy: Tricked
To be tricked...
There's something to be said about the idea of being tricked into wearing something feminine, and immediately becoming ultra-obsessed with becoming a super-sexy ultra-feminine girl.
I want to beg for a scrap of feminine attire. I want it so bad. I want it to transform me. I want to utterly forsake my manhood, and become all soft and curvy.
I slip into the bathing suit, feminine as it is. She giggles. By the time I've strapped myself into it, I know that something's gone horribly wrong. It feels like nothing I've ever worn before. It's soft, and tight all over my crotch and hips and especially my waist. It's incredibly high-cut, compared to anything I've ever worn. It's snug around my chest, and the straps on my shoulders keep me snugly inside it. It clings to my body. Much to my surprise, it actually feels feminine. I am picturing her in this very swimsuit, and getting very excited. I am extraordinarily aroused. It suddenly occurs to me that what I'm doing is incredibly gay. As if on cue, she comes to me, and presses her gorgeous panty-clad body against me. She slaps my ass.
Some inhumanly powerful urge comes over me. I want to rub my penis all over her. But at the same time, I don't want it there at all. I want her to fondle my nipples. I giggle like she did earlier. I'm rubbing my crotch over the bathing suit, and squirming around like she does when I finger her. I want to wear her lingerie. I want to wear her fuck-me boots. I am ecstatic with feminine pleasure.
She asks me if I want to be a girl, and to my shock and horror, I answer affirmatively. And I mean it. My shock is mainly from the surprising realization that I love the idea. In a split second, I fantasize about wearing bikinis, panties, bras, stockings, nightgowns, mini-skirts, and all sorts of glorious shoes, all of which aren't nearly feminine enough. She lets me try on some stockings, even though they clearly don't match my swimwear. She offers me a corset and a thong, and I take them reluctantly, unwilling to remove this glorious bathing suit. But I give in, suspecting that this new outfit will be even sexier.
By the end of the night, I've impulsively thrown all of my masculine attire in a garbage bag, and ostentatiously walked it out to the curb, in full view of my neighbours. I have promised her that from this moment forward, I will wear nothing but the skankiest clothes imaginable, and strive to become as feminine as possible. She has me ritually forsake my penis, and all manhood, forever. I moan the words emphatically. I fall asleep in a silk nightgown, and dream of sucking cock.
When I wake up, I regret what I've done. I feel ridiculous in my feminine outfit. I have nothing to change into. I lament how incredibly gay I've been, and suddenly become aware again of how much I loved it. Soon I find myself trying on boots again.
Fiction: Captured in the Battle of the Sexes
This time, an image of a perfect specimen of femininity in a little off-white sequined dress, standing with hands on a rail. The dress is not extremely tight, but enough to lovingly caress the hips, gently holding tight, curvaceous buttocks. It drapes the thighs down to the tops of the knees; long, smooth, bronze legs, firm and sinuous, yet sensuously curvy, support that perfectly round little tush. How did you learn so quickly to carry yourself that way?
Another image, relating back to the last story about the literal battle of the sexes: the men are crucified, still wearing their camouflage fatigues. They are surrounded by their female captors. They stoically resist, as they have been trained. They will not succumb to femininity. They are men of stone, steadfast and determined. They are masculine to the unshakeable core, the mightiest, most virile men. They all face a huge stage, backed by a massive screen. Each of them watches the podium with trepidatious composure. Their resolve rests upon the sanctity and purity of each man’s individual machismo, backed by confidence in each other’s strength, and ultimately held together by their illustrious godlike leader: a man so strong-willed, and so unquestionably virile that no woman can but fall to her knees and beg for his affections. This man commands their hearts, their minds, their lives. He is their foundation. Together, they are the last of the army of men. They know that they are incorruptible, because of his leadership. He is the last hope; they are his elite guard. The situation is grim, but they all suspect that their leader will somehow pull them out, perhaps by seducing and overpowering his would-be captors and bending them to his will. One hundred men depend on it.
(Here the fantasy splits into two scenarios)
One: The video screen behind the stage shows a man on a cross near the front of the forest of men. A bevy of gorgeous half-naked women begin to slink around him seductively, mussing up his hair and feeling his powerful chest. They fiddle with the buttons of his uniform, slowly undoing them. They begin to unbutton his shirt. He squirms with discomfort. Some of the men envy his luck, but wonder why he cringes. Soon the women tug at his undershirt. What is that beneath his white tank top? A wide tuft of black chest hair? Not surprising on such a man. But no, it shimmers. A thin black band rises from his pectoral to his shoulder. His chest appears covered with something, but he’s shifting his body away from the camera. Good God, it can’t be! The women have now pulled back the camouflage shirt, and torn away one half of Johnson’s tank top, revealing a lace-trimmed brassiere. The men gasp in horror. One of their number was a traitor all along. How could they have trusted him? He has stopped resisting, and his femininely adorned chest becomes fully exposed. He bows his head in shame. The women who stripped him laugh at him cruelly as they undo his pants and pull down his boxers. His panties match the bra. He endures the hateful glares of his companions.
Now the camera cuts to Terwilligger, at the opposite end of the crowd. He pleads for them to stop. Him too, wonder the others, as another gaggle of lithe young hotties slowly strips him to an unmistakably feminine panty and bra set. He weeps with embarrassment as the other men begin to mutter in disbelief.
Next went Smith, who wore a string bikini. Then Parish in just panties. Wang in his one piece swimsuit came after that. Then Dalton. Then Lee. Then Patel, Schmidt, Torres, Garcia, Hakkannen, Visniewski, Dekembe, Miller, Groulx, and Santini. One by one, the men were exposed in women’s skivvies. By the time they had lost 20 men, those remaining began to question each other’s virility. If so many could be traitors, how could anyone tell if the man he shared a tent with was another traitorous fairy? Bolton harshly accused Silverman, who shook visibly with apprehension. They came for Bolton first, revealing him in his frilly white silks to Silverman, who turned out to only have been hiding a garter.
After exactly half of them had been exposed, the women asked for volunteers. Any man who spoke up now would be spared the humiliation of being stripped before his peers. MacPherson, Moore, Cadieux, and Vandenburgh all screamed like the sissies they were, and were untied and sent to the stage. Seeing that they weren’t being molested, seven more piped up. All told, 23 men were too cowardly to get stripped down. When it became evident that no others would give up, these men were made to strip anyway, one by one, to burlesque music. Most were happy to have found asylum, and strutted like supermodels in their various lingerie outfits. It was easy for them, since they knew that the traitors outnumbered the loyalists. Once they had each proclaimed their abject femininity, they lined up on the stage holding hands.
There now remained 28 men. Fifteen more were exposed. Every one of the first 87 men exposed had something girlish to hide. At last, Maartens turned out to be clean. So did Franks, Julien, Chung, and the leader, Meyer. All the others were sissies.
All told, 95 of the hundred last men were already corrupted. Only five had remained true to their gender.
Now the women asked the 5 remaining naked men if they wanted to convert now to avoid the shame of being effeminated aggressively, publicly, and ruthlessly. Chung begged for mercy, and he was given a French maid’s uniform, which he put on greedily and expertly. Franks caved in, too, and was given a tight little bikini, which he struggled getting into, but appeared to enjoy when he got it on. Then they let go all the crucified sissies, since it was no longer possible to shame them since they were all transsexual anyway.
That left Maartens and Julien flanking their beloved leader Meyer. Maartens and Julien relied on their captain to lead them out of their predicament. They needed Meyer’s strength to pull them through. Meyer defiantly refused to co-operate, and his henchmen followed his lead.
The women decked out Maartens like a whore. He wore lingerie fancier and more feminine than any of the other men had ever even imagined themselves in in their wildest dreams. He whimpered in distress, but Meyer encouraged him to remain manly, to be strong, to not let the feminine accoutrements destroy him. Maartens held fast, although he struggled visibly to restrain himself from expressing his long-repressed feminine side. Julien did not fare much better.
Meyer, however, was released from his cross, and made to dress himself. He had to wear the whole deal. He looked like a whore. When they marched him to the stage, he quickly learned to wiggle his butt in those 3-inch heels. The lace and silk were too much for him. He crumpled at the feet of the queen and came all over himself. Maartens and Julien wept with relief, and came too.
Scenario Two: Much the same as One, except only 25 or so men prove to be traitors. The other 75 are stripped naked one by one, proudly showing up the women by being well-endowed and manly to the very skin. The last man is the leader. He is more defiant than any of the others. It appears that the women, in spite of having won the final battle, will not be able to add insult to injury. The women are truly in awe of Meyer as they apprehensively go about their task. They know that they have lost, but they crave to see the manliest of men in all his naked glory. They long to ride him. The other men feel their strength returning. They could break their bonds and overpower their captors, and make a desperate escape...
But wait: There is something under Meyer’s fatigues. It’s a black silk corset with pink bows! And a matching silk thong, garter belt, and stockings! His skin is shaven smooth like a girl’s! He’s laughing! He’s shaking his girlish hips at his men in a seductive way. He’s the most effeminate of them all!
The men’s spirits sink, free-fall, splatter. The women fall away from Meyer with mirth, and he breaks his bonds. He then goes to each man in turn and sucks his cock, snowballing into the next man’s mouth. Then each man is given a panty and bra set, and brutally effeminated.
Scenario Three: 99 men on crosses. Then someone vaguely familiar appears on the stage. She’s absolutely gorgeous in her sequined white dress. What a gorgeous ass. Is she a movie star? Some kind of celebrity? She steps up to the microphone and speaks. In Meyer’s voice: “You’re all going to be girlies now.”
Of course, with scenario three, there are two further options: Meyer is either totally converted in a matter of seconds, much to his embarrassment, or he is already longing to become a girl, and has been leading his men to doom all along.
The conversion:
Meyer is led into a dark room with a spotlight in the middle and a mirror. He is stripped naked and made to stand in the spotlight. Someone tosses him a pink satin panty and bra set. He reticently refuses to wear it. The panty is a thong with snaps. His arms are strapped to cables from the ceiling, and his ankles shackled to long chains on the ground. Slowly the ceiling cables start moving apart, lifting him from the ground, and spreading his arms. The chains also tighten from opposite ends of the room, leaving him suspended in air and spread eagled. He is stretched so tightly that he cannot move. A woman gingerly snaps the panties on, then the brassiere. Meyer is made to face the mirror and contemplate how he looks in women’s underwear for 12 hours.
He remains mentally strong, and resists. He tries uselessly to squirm out of his new underwear, but in the mirror he appears to be enjoying himself. He stops struggling, and realizes that he can’t remain passive either, so he squirms some more. He vacillates all night, determined to not betray his gender in spite of the circumstances. He refuses to accept that he is doomed. He convinces himself that no matter how feminine he looks as he tries hopelessly to squirm out of his panties and bra, it will not change him. He convinces himself that if he can withstand this, he can withstand anything.
When they finally release him, they laugh when he does not immediately tear off his feminine underwear. He instead massages his strained arms and legs. When they laugh, he moves to undo the snaps on his panties, when he realizes how feminine this is. His hand lingers on his hip. Finally after a moment’s hesitation, he slides them down his legs and kicks them across the room. He fumbles with the brassiere for five minutes before he can unclasp it, slide it off his shoulders, and fling it away.
They then hand him a different panty and bra set. He puts it on himself since they’re going to force him anyway. They tie him up a bit more loosely this time. He is horrified by what he sees in the mirror. Every squirming movement of his hips only reinforces the feminizing effect of the panties. He cannot abide it. He must resist more! He squirms harder and harder. In the mirror he stares at a go-go dancer oozing sexuality. With every movement, his defiance grows stronger. Nothing can shake his manhood. If these panties are the epitome of femininity, they cannot break him. He squirms in defiant celebration.
When he awakens, his bonds have been released. He does not know how long he has been sleeping in women’s underwear, unbound. He feels humiliated and cheated, enough to slowly roll off his panties and snap off his bra.
Now they present him with a choice: a one-piece swimsuit, a string bikini, or black panty and bra set embroidered with red lace.
Even though the swimsuit is less revealing, it is still unmistakably feminine. It clings so tightly to his skin that he must squirm even harder to shake it loose. His restraints are loose enough now that he can touch the straps of his bathing suit and rub his thighs together.
The next time, he chooses the bikini. It’s a test of his determination. This time, the restraints are loose enough for him to squeeze his nipples as he withstands another onslaught of femininity.
The next time, restraints are not necessary. He dresses himself up in lingerie. There is no longer any pretense of maintaining manhood. Nothing is feminine enough. He is given access to an entire inventory of women’s clothes. He removes his body hair. Not feminine enough. He begins to take hormones. Can’t get feminine fast enough. He wears everything in the store to make himself more feminine.
Finally after only a week of feminization – all of it broadcast to his captured troops – he finds the little white sequined dress. He is the girl in my imagination. He goes out to his crucified men, and rubs his panties against their cocks. They think he’s a girl until he speaks. “You wouldn’t believe how good this feels,” he says between mouthfuls of cock. “I can’t believe I resisted this at all!”
Diary: Hollywood
I spent this evening in Hollywood, enthralled by the multitudes of gorgeous, sexy women. Now I’m wearing the outfit I bought a few weeks ago: my vinyl mini-dress, matching lace garter belt and thong, and fishnet stockings. I didn’t see anyone wearing anything like this, but I desperately need some femininity.
I did come across one of the most exquisitely beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She was slightly oriental, young, and wearing a form-fitting backless red formal dress. Her body was perfect, and she carried herself like a model. The slit in her skirt only came up just above her knee, but it revealed a stunning pair of legs. Exquisite. I should hang around there more often. There are many sleazy lingerie shops along Hollywood Boulevard that I might thoroughly enjoy.
I wish I could describe exactly what it is that femininity does to me. I can’t even describe what it is. The way women move, the way they carry themselves, has so much to it, and yet I can’t even put my finger on how it differs from men. And why do I love it so much? Maybe it’s a certain innate delicacy to their every gesture. Their limp-wristed, butt-wiggling walk. The way their feminine features, from their soft, smooth, hairless skin; their slender arms, shoulders, necks; their soft, rounded bottoms; the exquisitely slim curves of their waists; their round perfect breasts; all billowing out from them without their even knowing it.
And here I am, wearing a fucking dress.
The appeal is so ridiculously strong. I want to be even more feminine right now. I want to make myself utterly female. It’s not good enough that I’m wearing sexy lingerie and sex wear; no, I am fantasizing about wearing my corset bra. I need that extra layer of womanhood. I need something to accentuate my breasts, and taper down my soft, soft, slim, sexy waist. I want to abandon myself to it.
There, that’s much better.
I love brassieres. I love the way the part under the arms looks. I love the way the straps (I’ve removed them from my corset bra because this outfit looks much better without them) accentuate the delicacy of female shoulders. And of course, the titties.
Considering how much I worship women, is it really any wonder that I can’t resist the urge to pretend to be one? Given the chance to dress up like a girl, I can’t imagine how a normal man wouldn’t be overwhelmed with temptation. I love how lingerie makes me feel so sexy. I imagine myself as a girl. I imagine myself recklessly, remorselessly, unhesitatingly abandoning my manhood.
The fantasy is this: I love a girl. I want to be her. I tell her as much when I make love to her. Finally, I beg to wear her clothes. I know she disapproves, but I beg her, and promise to do anything at all for her if only she lets me wear her panties. And so she does, but I must serve her every whim. She allows me the privilege of wearing her panties. I become her slave bitch. She insists that I forsake any pretense of manhood if I want to wear her clothes. I have to get my own wardrobe, and dispose of all my male clothes. I am no longer allowed to wear anything the least bit masculine. Only lingerie, dresses and skirts, and high-heeled shoes. I must completely abandon my manhood. But I already want this, even though I’m afraid to go out in public that way. Eventually my desires prove far stronger than my humility. So she insists that I bring her men to replace me. And I do. And I get men of my own, too. I become a complete transsexual. And I love every second of it.
I did come across one of the most exquisitely beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She was slightly oriental, young, and wearing a form-fitting backless red formal dress. Her body was perfect, and she carried herself like a model. The slit in her skirt only came up just above her knee, but it revealed a stunning pair of legs. Exquisite. I should hang around there more often. There are many sleazy lingerie shops along Hollywood Boulevard that I might thoroughly enjoy.
I wish I could describe exactly what it is that femininity does to me. I can’t even describe what it is. The way women move, the way they carry themselves, has so much to it, and yet I can’t even put my finger on how it differs from men. And why do I love it so much? Maybe it’s a certain innate delicacy to their every gesture. Their limp-wristed, butt-wiggling walk. The way their feminine features, from their soft, smooth, hairless skin; their slender arms, shoulders, necks; their soft, rounded bottoms; the exquisitely slim curves of their waists; their round perfect breasts; all billowing out from them without their even knowing it.
And here I am, wearing a fucking dress.
The appeal is so ridiculously strong. I want to be even more feminine right now. I want to make myself utterly female. It’s not good enough that I’m wearing sexy lingerie and sex wear; no, I am fantasizing about wearing my corset bra. I need that extra layer of womanhood. I need something to accentuate my breasts, and taper down my soft, soft, slim, sexy waist. I want to abandon myself to it.
There, that’s much better.
I love brassieres. I love the way the part under the arms looks. I love the way the straps (I’ve removed them from my corset bra because this outfit looks much better without them) accentuate the delicacy of female shoulders. And of course, the titties.
Considering how much I worship women, is it really any wonder that I can’t resist the urge to pretend to be one? Given the chance to dress up like a girl, I can’t imagine how a normal man wouldn’t be overwhelmed with temptation. I love how lingerie makes me feel so sexy. I imagine myself as a girl. I imagine myself recklessly, remorselessly, unhesitatingly abandoning my manhood.
The fantasy is this: I love a girl. I want to be her. I tell her as much when I make love to her. Finally, I beg to wear her clothes. I know she disapproves, but I beg her, and promise to do anything at all for her if only she lets me wear her panties. And so she does, but I must serve her every whim. She allows me the privilege of wearing her panties. I become her slave bitch. She insists that I forsake any pretense of manhood if I want to wear her clothes. I have to get my own wardrobe, and dispose of all my male clothes. I am no longer allowed to wear anything the least bit masculine. Only lingerie, dresses and skirts, and high-heeled shoes. I must completely abandon my manhood. But I already want this, even though I’m afraid to go out in public that way. Eventually my desires prove far stronger than my humility. So she insists that I bring her men to replace me. And I do. And I get men of my own, too. I become a complete transsexual. And I love every second of it.
Fiction: Devotion
Heidi was my goddess. I worshipped the ground she walked on. I collected and catalogued every one of the 594,391 photos of her I could find. I humbly deferred to her every whim. She was sometimes difficult to please, but I did everything in my meager power to satisfy her in every way possible.
I stumbled upon her when she had a photo shoot in the desert hills in Southern California. I knew instantly who she was, from all the swimsuit issues and lingerie catalogues and calendars and so on. Somehow, I caught her eye, and she had me getting her water. Her photographic entourage waited on her hand and foot, and I got caught up in it, too.
We became very close. She was so vulnerable. She wouldn’t let me touch her much at first. She was afraid I would just fuck her and leave her, bragging about it to my friends for the rest of my life. I assured her that wasn’t so. Still, she resisted. Who was I to argue? If I had to be patient for this one, the woman of every man’s dreams, I would wait forever.
Nonetheless I struggled to get her to become intimate. She always questioned my dedication, even after a few months. I had only kissed her a few times, and gotten to rub lotion all over her body for some photo shoots. I had seen her naked many, many times, as she was perfectly comfortable changing in front of me. I even got to gather her discarded bikinis whenever she needed to change into a different one for the next series of shots.
She got to trust me quite a bit. We started spending some intimate time together. She made me do all sorts of things to prove to her that I truly did love her. But she never fully bought into them. They usually involved me making a fool of myself publicly. Every time, I acquiesced without hesitation. If I could convince her without a doubt that I worship her, she would surely relent. When I thought of my ultimate goal of winning her heart, it was easy to agree to do anything.
At first, I simply waited on her. I got her absolutely anything she wanted. But that was easy. She then made me kneel and bow my head when I brought things to her, and I did. Happily. I so desperately wanted to be worthy of her! She had me singing love ballads to her at the top of my lungs on the spur of a moment. She only had to look at me a certain way, and I would stand on my head for her amusement. The more she got me to humiliate myself, the more readily I would do it, just to prove my deep, passionate lasting affection for her.
She must have thought I would have been horribly humiliated about wearing her bikini at one of her beach shoots, with hundreds of bystanders gawking at her. It was one of the biggest crowds I had ever seen. Usually, they keep these shoots private, because it makes everyone involved more comfortable, and more open. This time the photographer wanted to capture the crowded beach as a counterpoint to his shockingly beautiful subject. Even in a sea of people, she would stand out. And so, feeling shy about the mob around her, she asked me, very publicly, if I would try on her swimsuits first, not only so she could see what they looked like on others, but to deflect some of the spotlight from her so she could concentrate on looking beautiful.
I had some difficulty putting them on at first, but she had some of her aides help me. By the end of the shoot, I had no trouble putting on a brassiere. It felt funny at first, wearing her sexy bikinis. I always thought of women’s underwear as being innately sexy. She said I blushed when she told me how cute I looked. I liked the snugness of the panties on my crotch, and the delicate way they caressed my butt and my hips. I knew I looked ridiculous, and that the entire crowd was laughing at me, but I didn’t care. I was pleasing Heidi Klum! I was the focus of her attention, after the photographer. I was publicly humiliated, just for her, and I didn’t care. I even made several of the local papers, and some worldwide news wires. The world would henceforth forever question my virility, but I honestly did not care. It was a worthwhile sacrifice for my Heidi.
Still, she questioned my commitment. She was convinced that I would want to get back into my clothes the instant the shoot was over, so I could reclaim some of my dignity. I proved her wrong. I dared to beg her to allow me to continue wearing her bikini if it pleased her, and pledged my continued subservience, not in spite of, but because of her grace in allowing me to wear her sexiest clothes. She frowned and thought about it for a while, then commanded me to wear my regular clothes.
Unfortunately, my readiness to humiliate myself at her every whim enticed a suspicion in her that I was only trying to get her to relent. She began openly flirting with other men to test my resolve in the face of jealousy. I steadfastly stayed by her side. She rewarded me by continuing to allow me into her most intimate circles. She had me bring her men, whom she would fuck right before my eyes; but when she kicked them out of her bed, she snuggled up to me and slept. She told only me what was on her mind. But she still didn't believe that I loved her enough. She made it quite clear that if I objected to her sleeping with other men who she barely knew, it was proof that I only wanted her for sex.
It was one thing when she made me wear her bikinis in public. It was quite another when I wore her lingerie in private with her. To wear it in public is a public gesture, and can be seen as jest. In private, alone with her, it has an entirely different connotation. In her inner sanctum, I wear her panties and bras and corsets and stockings not as an easily dismissible joke, but as a sincere, intimate preference. She could tell that I honestly adored wearing her clothes. It felt like such a privilege to me to even touch garments that she wore, much less her skin-tight undies, least of all wear them! To wear them was almost bliss. I felt so much closer to her when I wore them. I even felt sexy, in a dirty, feminine way that I kept secret from her. Eventually, I thought it wise to throw away my own underwear and wore only her hand-me-downs, to show my devotion.
Still, Heidi, my precious Goddess, was not satisfied with me. She wanted nothing less than complete uninhibited surrender. I was more than happy to comply. The hormones I had started to take to better shape my body into her lingerie were beginning to kick in around this time. My brassieres began to become fuller, and I became quite adept at arousing her boyfriends with my skill at fellatio. It had become quite clear that I could only do one thing to prove to her that I am not doing this just for sex. They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; I naturally began abandoning my inhibitions and devoting myself to her worship. I proudly began to eradicate any vestige of myself, and dedicated myself to becoming her. I changed all my makeup and began to style my hair like hers.
The plastic surgery molded my face into hers. I walked and talked and moved just like her. If not for the little nub of my pathetic little dick, which she wouldn’t allow me to remove, we are practically twins now. She has sent me to stand in for her in some of her shoots, and nobody knew the difference.
Only after they replaced my genitals did she trust me enough to fuck me.
I stumbled upon her when she had a photo shoot in the desert hills in Southern California. I knew instantly who she was, from all the swimsuit issues and lingerie catalogues and calendars and so on. Somehow, I caught her eye, and she had me getting her water. Her photographic entourage waited on her hand and foot, and I got caught up in it, too.
We became very close. She was so vulnerable. She wouldn’t let me touch her much at first. She was afraid I would just fuck her and leave her, bragging about it to my friends for the rest of my life. I assured her that wasn’t so. Still, she resisted. Who was I to argue? If I had to be patient for this one, the woman of every man’s dreams, I would wait forever.
Nonetheless I struggled to get her to become intimate. She always questioned my dedication, even after a few months. I had only kissed her a few times, and gotten to rub lotion all over her body for some photo shoots. I had seen her naked many, many times, as she was perfectly comfortable changing in front of me. I even got to gather her discarded bikinis whenever she needed to change into a different one for the next series of shots.
She got to trust me quite a bit. We started spending some intimate time together. She made me do all sorts of things to prove to her that I truly did love her. But she never fully bought into them. They usually involved me making a fool of myself publicly. Every time, I acquiesced without hesitation. If I could convince her without a doubt that I worship her, she would surely relent. When I thought of my ultimate goal of winning her heart, it was easy to agree to do anything.
At first, I simply waited on her. I got her absolutely anything she wanted. But that was easy. She then made me kneel and bow my head when I brought things to her, and I did. Happily. I so desperately wanted to be worthy of her! She had me singing love ballads to her at the top of my lungs on the spur of a moment. She only had to look at me a certain way, and I would stand on my head for her amusement. The more she got me to humiliate myself, the more readily I would do it, just to prove my deep, passionate lasting affection for her.
She must have thought I would have been horribly humiliated about wearing her bikini at one of her beach shoots, with hundreds of bystanders gawking at her. It was one of the biggest crowds I had ever seen. Usually, they keep these shoots private, because it makes everyone involved more comfortable, and more open. This time the photographer wanted to capture the crowded beach as a counterpoint to his shockingly beautiful subject. Even in a sea of people, she would stand out. And so, feeling shy about the mob around her, she asked me, very publicly, if I would try on her swimsuits first, not only so she could see what they looked like on others, but to deflect some of the spotlight from her so she could concentrate on looking beautiful.
I had some difficulty putting them on at first, but she had some of her aides help me. By the end of the shoot, I had no trouble putting on a brassiere. It felt funny at first, wearing her sexy bikinis. I always thought of women’s underwear as being innately sexy. She said I blushed when she told me how cute I looked. I liked the snugness of the panties on my crotch, and the delicate way they caressed my butt and my hips. I knew I looked ridiculous, and that the entire crowd was laughing at me, but I didn’t care. I was pleasing Heidi Klum! I was the focus of her attention, after the photographer. I was publicly humiliated, just for her, and I didn’t care. I even made several of the local papers, and some worldwide news wires. The world would henceforth forever question my virility, but I honestly did not care. It was a worthwhile sacrifice for my Heidi.
Still, she questioned my commitment. She was convinced that I would want to get back into my clothes the instant the shoot was over, so I could reclaim some of my dignity. I proved her wrong. I dared to beg her to allow me to continue wearing her bikini if it pleased her, and pledged my continued subservience, not in spite of, but because of her grace in allowing me to wear her sexiest clothes. She frowned and thought about it for a while, then commanded me to wear my regular clothes.
Unfortunately, my readiness to humiliate myself at her every whim enticed a suspicion in her that I was only trying to get her to relent. She began openly flirting with other men to test my resolve in the face of jealousy. I steadfastly stayed by her side. She rewarded me by continuing to allow me into her most intimate circles. She had me bring her men, whom she would fuck right before my eyes; but when she kicked them out of her bed, she snuggled up to me and slept. She told only me what was on her mind. But she still didn't believe that I loved her enough. She made it quite clear that if I objected to her sleeping with other men who she barely knew, it was proof that I only wanted her for sex.
It was one thing when she made me wear her bikinis in public. It was quite another when I wore her lingerie in private with her. To wear it in public is a public gesture, and can be seen as jest. In private, alone with her, it has an entirely different connotation. In her inner sanctum, I wear her panties and bras and corsets and stockings not as an easily dismissible joke, but as a sincere, intimate preference. She could tell that I honestly adored wearing her clothes. It felt like such a privilege to me to even touch garments that she wore, much less her skin-tight undies, least of all wear them! To wear them was almost bliss. I felt so much closer to her when I wore them. I even felt sexy, in a dirty, feminine way that I kept secret from her. Eventually, I thought it wise to throw away my own underwear and wore only her hand-me-downs, to show my devotion.
Still, Heidi, my precious Goddess, was not satisfied with me. She wanted nothing less than complete uninhibited surrender. I was more than happy to comply. The hormones I had started to take to better shape my body into her lingerie were beginning to kick in around this time. My brassieres began to become fuller, and I became quite adept at arousing her boyfriends with my skill at fellatio. It had become quite clear that I could only do one thing to prove to her that I am not doing this just for sex. They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; I naturally began abandoning my inhibitions and devoting myself to her worship. I proudly began to eradicate any vestige of myself, and dedicated myself to becoming her. I changed all my makeup and began to style my hair like hers.
The plastic surgery molded my face into hers. I walked and talked and moved just like her. If not for the little nub of my pathetic little dick, which she wouldn’t allow me to remove, we are practically twins now. She has sent me to stand in for her in some of her shoots, and nobody knew the difference.
Only after they replaced my genitals did she trust me enough to fuck me.
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.
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.
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