A Bizarre Dream

T__ embodies the spirit of my Muse. She's got confident and sexual. I see tattoos on her forearms, little symbols. She makes no effort to conceal them. She's even proud of them. They represent her conquests, she tells me, of the men she's dominated and fucked. She relishes that this is upsetting to me. She shows me that she has more on her inner thighs. These symbols are inspired by Julia's in The Magicians.

As she shows me this, I see that she has two sets of penis and balls, on each side of her pussy. They're a bit small, and flaccid. She laughs when she sees my shocked expression. She explains that some men she has dominated so much that she kept their penises. I'm facing by the one on the left side of her pelvis, and she has me suck it. I don't resist at all. I have wanted to suck cock, and I welcome the opportunity to experiment with it. However, I'm disappointed that is so small in my mouth, like a child's. I don't tell her this.

This erotic dream has haunted me all day. I have some improvements and embellishments that heighten the effect tremendously.

First, the dicks are not small. They're grafted into her, and fully potent. The one I'm interested in is actually mine. She humiliates me by having me suck my own dick, which belongs entirely to her now. I'm wearing a maid outfit, and I realize that she really does own it: it's no longer on my body, and I no longer feel any of its sensation. She also fucks me with it.

After humiliating me like this a few times she makes me suck and fuck her other dicks too. Think of the possibilities: sucking one cock and jerking off another, both attached to her otherwise ultra feminine body. She can absorb these penises back into her body at will, and make them appear whenever she likes, too. It's my job now to serve her, and watch her enslave other men, and steal their dicks. I am doomed to never feel what it's like to own one ever again. And she never gives me the satisfaction of touching her female parts anymore, either.

Fiction: Why Do You Look At Pictures Of Sexy Girls?

This journal has been very difficult to keep over the last several months.  I can't even begin to write extensively about this without getting so caught up in the fantasy that I end up not writing anything.  Here's another futile attempt to tell the same old story.

My girlfriend caught me looking at pictures of Imogen Bailey.  She was devastated.  Imogen Bailey is probably the most incredibly gorgeous woman on the planet.  Jenny, whose self-confidence was low to begin with, in spite of her own considerable beauty, took this as a betrayal.

"I try so hard to be beautiful for you, and yet you still look at other girls!"

"You are beautiful!"

"So why are you looking at her?"

"She's beautiful too."

"Is she more beautiful than me?"

Great.  A dangerously loaded question.  My hesitation alone gives Jenny's argument momentum.

"See?  You think she's more beautiful than me!"

"That's not true," I lie.

"So, I ask you again, why are you looking at still pictures of her when you can look at me, a real, living, breathing woman, standing right here?"

"You're being irrational."

"Answer my question!"

"I'm sorry, but she's a beautiful woman.  You can't expect me to stop looking at other women just because we're living together."

Big mistake.

"Then maybe we shouldn't be living together."

I have dug myself even deeper into the hole.  This will not be easy.

"Jenny, you know that I love you, and that I wouldn't ever dream of being with another girl.  You know that you don't need to compete with other women."

"So are you attracted to Imogen Bailey?"

"I'd be lying if I said otherwise.  But that doesn't mean I don't find you outrageously beautiful too."

"I sure hope so.  I've been trying so hard to look like her, just to please you."

"Honey, I love you exactly as you are.  You don't need to try to look like anyone else."

"Well, if you look at Imogen Bailey so much, then I need to draw your attention away from her and back to me."

"You don't need to.  I am all yours."

"So why do you need to look at her?"

Again, my hesitation kills me.  I just don't know how to answer this diplomatically and truthfully at the same time.

"Tell me!"

"I look at her because she looks like you, not the other way around."  Another lie.

"I'm sick of this.  Obviously, I've got it all wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"You're so evasive about this.  I've tried so hard to be Imogen Bailey for you, and it hasn't mattered.  Maybe you look at her for other reasons."

"Like what?"

"Oh, let me guess: you're interested in her political views."

"What?"

"No?  Of course not, she has none.  You are after all just looking at her pictures."

"Yes, we've established that."

"Fine then.  So you look at her because she's pretty and sexy.  Nothing else."

"What else do you want me to say?  If you know so well what she looks like, and if you're trying to look at her, then maybe I should be jealous, too."

"I don't look at her because she gets me off."

"Neither do I."  Oops.  Barefaced lie.

"Really?" she asks, skeptically.

"Really," I assure her.

"Then maybe you look at her for the same reasons I look at her."

"What's that?"

"You want to be just like her too."

"What?"

"Yes!  That's it!  You want to be blonde and curvaceous and have big tits and look dynamite in a bikini!"

"Now you're being silly."

"All right.  If that's not the reason, then you're looking at her because she gets you off, and if that's the truth, then I'm leaving you."

"You're serious!"

"Yes, I'm serious."  

She is serious.  Clearly, I must do her bidding or lose her.

"Please don't!"

"Why not?  Does she get you off?"

"Well..."

"Fine!  I'm out of here!"  She turns to go.  I can tell that she means it too.  I grab her arm and pull her back.
"Please, don't go!"

"OK.  Here are your options: if you look at pictures of Imogen Bailey to get yourself off, then I'm not your girlfriend anymore.  If you do it for the same reasons I do - because you want to look just like her, then I'll stay."

The trouble is that Jenny really does look like Imogen Bailey.  And she's a very smart, kind, and generous woman who shares my taste in music, movies, food, and books.  We are a wonderful match.  I love her deeply, with all my heart, and I can't allow her to leave me.  Curse that Imogen Bailey!  I cave.

"Jenny, don't go.  She doesn't get me off.  I swear it."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes."

"So you want to be just like her, as much as I do?"

"Yes."  I'll say anything to keep Jenny.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Say it!"

"I want to be just like Imogen Bailey, and that's why I look at pictures of her."

"How do I know you're not just telling me what I want to hear?"

Good ol' Jenny, always as sharp as a tack.

"You'll have to take my word for it."

"Well I don't believe you."

"What do you want from me?"

"Prove it!"

"How?"

"Prove to me that you want to be just like Imogen Bailey!"

"How can I do that?  I can't be like her."

"Don't you want to?"

"Yes.  I told you."

"Then you'll have to make an effort to look like her if you want me to believe you."

"What do you mean?"  I'm on my knees, begging her.  She's beaming down at me devilishly.

"Do you really mean it when you say that I look like her?"

"Yes, you really do look like her."

"So my efforts to look like her have worked?"

"I would say so, yes."

"So just follow my advice, and you'll do just fine."

With that, she brought me back to the computer, and quickly found my stash of Imogen Bailey photos.  She skipped past a few nude shots, and settled on one of her in a bikini.

"You want to look like that?" she asks.

"Yes," I reply, still playing the game.

"You know that I have a bikini just like that, because of this very photo?"

"You know, I did notice that."

"Good.  There's how you start."

"What do you mean?"

"Get yourself a bikini."

"What, like that one?"

"Sure.  If you like another one better, go for that one."

"This one is fine."

"I thought so too.  You can borrow mine if you like."  She disappears into the bedroom.  I can hear her rummaging around a bit.

"Wait a minute.  Why am I doing this?"  She asks.  "You're supposed to prove to me that you want to look like her.  Why don't you come here and pick it out yourself!"

Before I know it, I'm picking through her panty drawer for Imogen Bailey's bikini.  I feel awkward looking through her intimates, as if I'm doing something dirty.  I feel as though I'm discovering things in her dresser that no man should know about.

Having found the bikini, I take it out of Jenny's panty drawer, and present it to her, bra in one hand, panty in the other.

"What are you giving it to me for?  You're the one who wants to look like Imogen Bailey."

"What do you want me to do with it?  Wear it?"

"Of course.  How else are you going to look like her?  I doubt she'd ever wear your kind of briefs.

Reluctantly, I disrobe, under her triumphant gaze.  I tremble as I pull on the panties.  The soft spandex caresses my member so gently that it instantly and involuntarily becomes erect.  Jenny giggles at me.  "The bra, too," she says.

I struggle to clasp it behind my back.  After a few minutes of struggle, through which Jenny giggled incessantly, I finally got it on properly.  There I stood, in front of my beautiful girlfriend, wearing her bikini, my hard cock straining against the tight panty.

"There!" she says.  "You don't look anything like Imogen Bailey, but you look at lot more like her than you did an hour ago.  How does it feel?"

I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.  The panty is high-cut, and exposes the side of my thigh all the way up to my hip.  The material is very soft to the touch.  I love the way it looks on Imogen and on Jenny.  I can't stop thinking of how sexy both of them look in it. The sensation of a tight band around my chest reminds me constantly that I'm wearing a bra.  The bra straps feel dainty against my broad shoulders.  

"I kinda like it," I reply, shyly, blushing, and trying very hard to convince myself that I am lying.

"Wow!  It shows, too.  Why don't you prance around a bit, like Imogen would."

I can't help but get into the act.  I'm swinging my hips, sashaying around the bedroom and running my hands against my breasts, my butt, my hips, my thighs, as femininely as I can.  It's getting me incredibly hot.  Jenny drops her jaw in amazement.  She's looking randy, too, and she starts to prance around with me, feeling me up now and again.  I am lost to the moment.  I am Imogen Bailey, I am Jenny.  And I feel sexy in a way that I never have before.  A little voice in my head warns me that I am not a woman, and that I'm jeopardizing my manhood by doing this.  The overwhelming sensations in my body scream in assent YES, I'M TURNING INTO A GIRL AND I LOVE IT!  I imagine the panty re-shaping my crotch into that of a woman.  I imagine my waist sucking in.  I imagine the bra filling with my own full breasts.  I welcome my imaginary metamorphosis not with open arms, but with greedy, grasping arms.

I have ejaculated all over myself, and all over the bed sheets.  I have come crashing back to earth.  Jenny has stripped to her underwear, and lies beside me in bed, flushed.  She has her hand in her panties.  I am flushed with shame, aghast at my actions.  She says nothing until she finishes coming.  

"Geez, Rob.  You must really love me.  You're still wearing my bikini," she breathes.

Disgusted, I clean up and get myself out of her bikini.

"You know," she says, "I think you'll make a great Imogen." 

"Are you happy now?"

"Yes!"

"Good."

"I hope you don't think this is over."

"Why not?"

"I still don't believe you really want to be Imogen."

I say nothing, stewing in my shame.

"I'm satisfied for now," she says, "but you've still got a lot of work to do."


Thankfully, my plentiful stock of Imogen Bailey photos remained on my hard drive, forgotten in the frenzy described above.  Jenny would normally have had me delete them all, but this time, she forgot.  Or perhaps she felt she humiliated me enough, and didn't need to punish me further.  Better still, I had no shortage of other gorgeous women on my hard drive.  I went back to them the very next day, just to spite Jenny.

I am furious.  How dare she mock my masculinity?  She showed no respect to my manhood.  She turned me - ever so briefly - into a prancing faggot.  It was bad enough that she made me wear items of her clothing; even worse that it was one of her sexiest, skimpiest outfits; worst of all, and I shudder to think of it, she made me enjoy it.  I nearly faint with shame when I face the intolerable truth of it.  How can she ever take my manhood seriously again?  Hell, how can I?

These photos take on an entirely new meaning for me.  I cannot allow her to ruin this for me.  I linger on the picture that triggered all this madness.  I wore that same bikini!  I still have trouble believing it, let alone comprehending the consequences.  I used to jerk off to this photo.  Now it reminds me of my humiliation.  Maybe that's why Jenny didn't remember to delete it.  My heart sinks with humiliation.  

I need to relieve some tension.  I need vengeance.  I am stroking my cock, admiring Imogen's firm, round breasts, her glorious waves of golden hair, her sleek, slender thighs, and the way they converge in that soft, delicate pocket of thin, scanty spandex such as I wore only last night.  Oh how I love the way she poses, so sensuous, so eager!  How her tight little bikini focuses her femininity (I know how that feels).  I can just imagine sliding my hand along her round little ass, snapping her panty waist (as Jenny did mine).  

You enjoyed it, didn't you!  You loved every second of it!  You dressed up like a girl, and you liked it!

My conscience's accusations, as much as I attempt to deny them, drive the intense pleasure in my massively erect dick.  I know that I can't continue to stroke, because I am still, paradoxically, undermining my manhood.  I want to be just like Imogen Bailey!  I want to be soft and curvaceous and blonde and slinky and scantily clad gorgeously femi- 

No!  I must control myself.  This is absurd.  I want to fuck her.  I want to throw her roughly onto my bed, hold down her arms, and force myself into her, as she gasps for breath.  I want to grab hold of her ass as I pump my love juice into her.  

Amazingly, I lose my groove.  I am no longer pumping.  I am failing.

Unacceptable!  I cannot allow Jenny's mind games to prevent me from masturbating with sexy pictures of other women.  I must come, if only to establish control again.  I know just the thing to turn myself on again, I think slyly to myself.  I can imagine myself as Imogen Bailey, wearing that sexy lit- 

I am losing control again!  But I'm also going to come!  If I come, I win because I defy Jenny; but I also lose because I surrender my manhood . . . and what could be better?  I think to myself lasciviously, Doesn't it feel wonderful being feminine?  Oh God!  Does it ever!  Wouldn't it be wonderful if Jenny caught me right now and made me wear her bikini again!  Or maybe her lingerie!  

As I clean up, I rationalize my capitulation by convincing myself that this was an act of defiance.  I am ashamed, but I won't admit it.  I know that last night's incident has indeed adversely affected my masculinity.  But this won't happen again.  Ever.


"So, Imogen, are you ready for another show?"

I can feel the blood rush to my face.  My legs are weak.  My hands tremble.  "That's not funny, Jen."

"It's not meant to be, Imogen."  She spits the name, like venom.  "Put it on."

I reach into Jenny's panty drawer.  I know exactly where to find it now.  Oh God!  Look at all that pretty underwear!  Wouldn't that be- I must concentrate on controlling myself.  I cannot show pleasure again.  Oooh!  Silk!  I have the bra in one hand, the panty in the other.  Again.  "I don't understand why you insist -"


"You're the one who wants to be Imogen Bailey, aren't you?  Or did you lie to me?"

I've lain the bikini out on the bed.  I don't want to wear it.  I can't wait to put it on!  I'm hoping that if I concentrate enough, I can avoid succumbing to my overwhelming urge to feel feminine!  My delaying tactic is only making things worse: my erection grows ever larger as I anticipate the horror ecstasy to come.  I have to admit, it is an incredibly sexy bikini.  I have to put it on now - just to hide my boner, of course.  Of course.

I am trying incredibly hard to pretend that this annoys me.  Yet I caress my bikini-clad hips.  I want to show Jenny that this has gone far enough as I hook on my bra like an expert.  I want her to know that I don't really want to be Imogen Bailey, that I'm just doing this to please her and to keep her.  I'm playing coy just like a shy girl.  I pout to show my displeasure.  

"Oh, don't be sad, Imogen," she says, standing up now to caress my effeminated body.  "You look very pretty in your bikini."  She rubs my pulsating member through the spandex as she says this, and I practically collapse at her feet in a heap of sensuous femininity.  I'm a girl!  I'm a girl!  I'm wearing a bikini!  I'm a girl!

Like the first time, I prance and preen like a supermodel for my lovely Jenny.  Only this time, I'm consciously loving it.  What better way to convince her that I'm sincere?  She'll surely believe this act.  If only it were an act!

When it's all over, and I've cleaned up my mess, I know that I have lost again.  Jenny smiles smugly beside me in bed, having masturbated herself to orgasm with me.  Even as I strip off my bikini in disgust.  As I toss it across the room, I realize that I have seen Jenny do the same thing herself.  Even in my belated denial of femininity, I am flushed with girlishness.


In our time together, I have handled some of Jenny's laundry.  I have separated out her underwear from mine.  I have handled her silks.  I have bought her lingerie for special occasions.  I have seen her in her most intimate undergarments.  I always found her clothes to be inherently sexy.  I always felt a surge of intimacy at the realization that I have been allowed to see and touch  her almost sacred underthings.  Now I find myself yearning to explore that intimacy in far more detail than ever before.  

I am pawing through Jenny's underwear drawer.  Piled in with her bikini are myriads of matching and unmatched panties and brassieres, two garter belts, a one-piece swimsuit, sexy nightgowns and satin teddies.  Silk panties melt out of my hands like water.  I hold them up, one at a time, and admire the flowery lace patterns, and the beautiful trims.  All of these things are so ridiculously feminine.  Many of them even outshine the bikini I've actually worn.  

Jenny has not insisted for almost a week now.  I have had time to think about my actions.  All sorts of insignificant things trigger memories of my two incidents with this bikini.  Embarrassingly, these memories arouse me.  Clearly, my wearing it has tainted my manhood.  I find myself longing to wear it again.  Worse, I find myself fantasizing about even sexier garments.  Imagine how much more corrupted I would be if Jenny had forced me to wear her lingerie instead.  I shudder with anticipation.

I figure that I might as well prepare myself for the possibility by examining all the options.  Perhaps if I know beforehand what I might have to wear, I can lessen its impact.  Perhaps if I know beforehand what's available, I can pick something really sexy, like a garter belt and stockings, or a ni- 

Curse her!

I place everything gingerly back in its place, livid with shame, and go masturbate.


Tonight Jenny comes home with a present for me.  There is no special occasion.  She beams with a sinister joy.

"I bought you something at the mall!"

"What is it?"

"Open the bag and see!"  She practically bounces off the walls with excitement.  I open the bag.

All I see inside is what appears to be a bikini.

"I thought that since you want to be like Imogen Bailey, there's no sense in you borrowing my bikini all the time, so you might as well have your own!"

It's another bikini, all right.  It's a similar one from another of my pictures.  A floral pink.  Just my size, too, maybe a little smaller.

"I'm so glad you like it!" she gushes.  

I am, of course, ashen and trembling; I can hardly see anything except the sexy, skimpy, ultra-feminine bikini in my hands.  Oh my God!  I never imagined I'd get to wear this!

"We're gonna have so much fun tonight!" she says, rushing upstairs to get changed.  I follow her zombie-like, and tuck my new bikini into a corner of my own underwear drawer.

Dinner is interminable.  I can hardly eat a bite.  Jenny babbles on as if everything is normal.  We wash the dishes.  We put away the dishes.  We watch a bit of television.  I have my very own bikini waiting for me in my underwear drawer.  How am I supposed to react?  I realize that I haven't spoken a word since I opened the shopping bag.

At length, she cuddles up to me lasciviously and whispers into my ear, "Let's try on your new bikini."

"Okay," I answer, automatically.  She leads me up to the bedroom.

She sits on the bed, waiting.  I lose no time in stripping down, and reaching into my drawer for my new bikini.  I don't think I should be doing this.  It truly is a gorgeous piece of work.  I can just imagine how erotically it will hug my hips.  I can't let her see me enjoying this!  It's not right!  I'm losing my manhood!

I step into the panties and slide them up to my crotch, savouring the touch of spandex against my cock.  I slowly strap on the bra, revelling in the realization that I am putting on a woman's bikini that happens to belong solely to me.  I have wantonly abandoned any pretense of hesitation or displeasure.  I close my eyes and slide my hand across my chest and cock, imagining myself metamorphosed into Imogen Bailey herself.  I'm effeminating myself in front of my girlfriend, and I just don't care!  Inspired, I sidle up to Jenny, who sits on the bed watching.

"Thank you so much," I whisper in her ear seductively, "I always wanted my own bikini."

My God!  I can't believe I just said that!

"You really like it?"

"Yeah," I reply, coyly.  "I love it!"

"That's so cool!"

She drags me onto the bed, where I strip her to her underwear, and we make out, comparing bras and panties and body parts.  It is the most sensuous lovemaking I have ever experienced, yet neither of us is fully naked.


Even after last night, I suspect that Jenny believes I'm still just playing the role.  I only wish I were.  When I woke up this morning, still wearing my bikini, it took every every ounce of my willpower to take it off and put it away.  I could think of nothing else all day.

It's one thing to wear it to please Jenny.  I can always fall back on the excuse that I'm doing it only for her, even though I know that's not true.  It's quite another thing to have an overpowering urge to wear it now, alone, to get off.  Am I insane?

It's so easy.  I have my very own bikini.  It amazes me when I look into my underwear drawer, and see this pink floral bra and panty among my butchy boxers and gitch.  I want more!  I want my underwear drawer to look much more like Jenny's, when I get in this kind of mood.  I want to be able to wear a matching black lace panty and bra.  I want to have elaborate silk and satin unmentionables.  

I just can't help myself.  I pick up where I left off this morning, and slip into my very own bikini.  By God, look at me!  I'm wearing an unmistakably feminine outfit, and it's turning me on!  I did it of my own volition!  And I'm fantasizing about doing it again and again, with all sorts of women's fashions!  I am a complete pantywaist!  I know that wearing this - especially unsupervised - is making me even more of a pantywaist!  This is turning me into an outright woman!  And I love it!

If only Jenny knew how much I really enjoy this.  I can't let her find out I'm doing this on my own.  I know she's only playing the game.  She doesn't really want me to turn myself into Imogen Bailey Oh my God!  Even though I'm fantasizing that my bikini is shaping my ass into a round, tight little girlie ass, and smoothing and sculpting my waist, and swelling my chest into a perfect pair of perky, round titties.

She must not know!


This is the third night since Jenny returned from her mother's.  We had sex the last two nights.  Frankly, it was a bit dull.  There was no mention of the new addition to my wardrobe.  I am desperate to get into something feminine - and watching Jenny lounge around the bedroom in her frilly little nighty does nothing to assuage my desire.

When she comes to bed, I leave a light on and cuddle up to her, fondling the waist of her panties and the spaghetti straps of her nightie.  "You look so incredibly sexy in that nightie," I whisper, imagining it on me instead of her.

"Thanks," she replies coyly.

"I love the way it caresses your tush."

"I kind of figured you'd like it."

"Do I ever!"

The last two nights have not included this kind of sexy pillow talk.  We tore our clothes off and fucked our brains out.  In fact, I never used to remember to compliment her on her lingerie.  I was more interested in what was underneath it.  The last time I said things like that, she repeated similar compliments to me.
We are making out.  I am not even attempting to remove her nighty.  I am imagining wearing it as I rub my naked chest against it.  What would it feel like to wear satin?  

"Do you mind if I slip into something more comfortable?" I ask.

Jenny grins.  "Please do, Imogen."  Busted.

I sheepishly get my bikini and put it on for her, in a reverse strip-tease.  I am openly staring at her nightie.  There's no hiding my desire.  I am wearing a bikini in front of my girlfriend, and fantasizing about wearing her sexy nightgown.  What is happening to me?

She pulls me into bed, and we fondle each other in sheer bliss for what seems like eternity.  

"So, you really like wearing bikinis, do you?"

"Uh-huh."

"Are you doing it just to please me?"

"Uh-unh."

"Why, then?"

"Because," I reply shyly, luxuriating in my femininity, "it makes me feel so sexy."

"Mmmmmm, and you are sexy!"

I can no longer even pretend to deny it to her anymore.  I feel somehow relieved.  Free at last!


(I dare to throw away the bikini in a moment of shame)

(When the ritual occurs, and the bikini is gone, she is furious.  I am eager to please, so I volunteer to wear some of her underwear, and to buy her (me) a replacement)

(I practically lose my mind in a swimwear store)

(I parade an inexact replica for her, without prompting)

(I experiment with all her clothes when she's not there)

(I experiment with all her clothes when she is there)

(I surprise her by wearing her panties all day)

(We shop together for my new under-wardrobe)

(We sleep in matching nightgowns)

(I shave away my body hair)

(I perfect a convincing feminine look with Jenny)

(I begin to take estrogen)

(I suck her new boyfriend's cock)

(I publicly take on a female identity)

(My new boyfriend fucks me)

(I become a real girl)

Fantasy: Girlfriends

[This was found in a separate file, entitled simply "Document."]


Some people love to lounge around the house in their underwear.  To them, it's the ultimate in comfort.  Personally, I like to lounge around in someone else's underwear.  

It began innocently enough.  I ran out of clean underwear of my own one day, and as a joke I tried on some of my girlfriend's panties.  We both laughed about it.  Me, of all people, with frilly silky panties on.  It was just so funny: the dainty little panty elastics, the extremely high cut, the little bow in the middle, the silk, the lace embroidery. . . it all looked so funny on my masculine body.  My big dig stuck out at the top like some offensive obelisk.  "You know, there's a matching bra for that," said A__, and she picked it out of her dresser daintily by one skinny strap, and dangled it in front of me.  She had to help me put it on, and that made us laugh even more.  It's one thing to wear ladies panties.  You can get away with it because they almost look like some pretty fruity men's bikini briefs.  But it's quite a different story when you're wearing a bra with them, much less a matching bra.  Then there's no mistaking the fact that you're wearing the most sexy, most intimate, most unmistakably effeminate part of a woman's wardrobe.  It was hillarious.  
Pretty soon, we were spent.  I moved to take A__'s underwear off me, but she stopped me.  "You can't do that!  You have to wear that all day!"

"Why?"

"Well, you don't have any of your own undies, do you?"

"So?  Who says I was going to put on some of my own undies?"

She stared at me, shocked, and we both burst into laughter again.

We both got such a laugh out of it.  She humoured me, as I had just humoured her, and she started digging through her dresser for the sexiest lingerie and swimsuits for me to wear, just for the laughs.  I couldn't back down now.  Besides, it was actually pretty fun.  We were doing something silly, just for laughs, and neither of us felt uncomfortable or ashamed.  I don't even think either of us thought twice about it.  It was a spur of the moment event.  Not too many people would do this kind of thing.  I think most men would be afraid of looking like pansies, and most women would be eternally turned off by the pansy men wearing their clothes.  But not us.  We enjoyed it for what it was.

A__ started piling all sorts of sexy stuff in my arms, all enthusiastic about how funny it would be to see me in a bikini, or a garter belt, or a nightgown.  Pretty soon, I started pointing out some of the lingerie I had bought her.  I don't know, in retrospect, how we kept this going.  Neither of us was entirely serious, yet neither of us would stop taking the joke further.  If either of us expected it to go so far at that moment, we didn't let it show.

After a while, I had all sorts of myterious girlie stuff in my arms.  I didn't even really know how to get into some of it.  Nevertheless, I remembered A__ wearing each and every one of the outfits, and how I drooled all over her when she did.  Each piece she handed me made me imagine her in it, how it would accentuate her most feminine features.  

I was beginning to get nervous, I think.  I had always been curious about her underwear.  Why do I find her so sexy in her underwear--even more so than naked?  There is something so inherently female about women's underwear.  I was even more curious now, considering that I would soon be wearing all of these dainty garments.  I wanted to know how it must feel to wear these things, just as all women do every day.  Imagine being sexy enough to have such beautiful clothes on all the time.  

"You know, I don't think I'm ready to do this," I said.

"What do you mean?  You don't want to wear this stuff anymore?"

Again, I couldn't back down.  "No, I mean, what's the point in dressing like a girl if I don't really look like one?"

"Yeah, let's get some of that hair off of you.  It would just look awful under stockings."

She pulled me into the shower, where she naired my body bald.  "If we're going to make you a girl today," she said, "we might as well go all the way."  Quite quickly, I could see my bald body.  It was as sleek and smooth as hers.  I could picture a garter on one of my thighs.  I could look pretty sexy, too, if I put my mind to it.  And I had so many options waiting for me. . .

As soon as I was dry, I slipped into A__'s bikini.  The sensation of the little skimpy tight and smooth material against my bald skin overwhelmed me.  Something came over me.  Neither A__ nor I found it funny anymore.  I stood there, tall and proud, snapping my bra straps in front of her.  I stared deep into her eyes, and she understood me completely.  This was no longer a game.  This was no longer for cheap laughs.  This had become serious.  It had become a matter of necessity for both of us to turn me into a girl.  I never felt such freedom as when I put that bikini on my hairless body--the same bikini that, when A__ wore it, made me salivate and lust for her as it clung to her delicious curves.  Here I was, putting on something too feminine for many women to feel comfortable wearing, putting it on right in front of the woman to whom it belongs.  I wore it because I was curious.  I wore it because I thought it was pretty, and I wanted it to make me pretty, too.  I felt no hesitation.  At that moment, I needed to know how it feels to be feminine.  I felt no shame.  Only pride.  I knew that I was far from pretty; there was still lots of work to do.  I was proud because I felt so comfortable.  I can imagine how I could have felt ridiculous, or ashamed; but I only felt the excitement of discovery.  

For so many years, I had admired women and their bodies and their sexy underwear.  I had often marvelled at the complexity of their outfits, and at how incredibly beautiful they look.  Panties lying on the floor, a bra dangling from a chair--these had all intrigued me.  I couldn't ever imagine wearing them myself.  They belonged to a world that I could never access without undermining my manhood.  Almost by accident, I dared to explore.  It was just a silly joke!  And now I stood here before A__, snapping my panty waist girlishly, dreaming of wearing all the most girlish things imaginable.

From then on, A__ worked feverishly to make me more girlish.  She did my hair and my nails and my makeup.  I tried on all of the outfits she set aside for me.  I settled on the lingerie outfit I bought her for Christmas: a matching black outfit consisting of a silky bra, panties, garter belt, and stockings.  I remember sweating with nervousness when I bought it.  It turned me on so much, because it was so feminine. And now I couldn't resist wearing it myself.  Then I picked out a tight little mini-dress.  We stuffed my bra a bit, to give me a bit more shape.  I felt so amazing.  I gushed with joy.  I felt so comfortable with A__.  I owed her so much for helping me discover my feminine side.  The word 'girlfriend' took on a whole different meaning.  We were ready to show the world.

We had to buy me some girly shoes.  A__ had nothing that could possibly fit me.  It was amazing that I even fit into her dress.  "You can't come with me, though," she declared.  "You need shoes, and you can't go out wearing anything but girlie shoes dressed like that.  What's your size?"

This was fine with me.  I was a bit apprehensive about going out.  I mean, someone might see me.  I only wanted A__ to see me like this.

She was only gone for half an hour.  She didn't come back with shoes, either.

"Bobbie, this is Ken.  I met him outside the coffee shop."

"Nice to meet you, Ken," I said in my most effeminate voice.  I felt so girlish.  I had worked myself up so much to this, that I blushed at the thoughts crossing my head.  I didn't want to abandon my girlishness.  I was glad that A__ had brought some stranger to see me first.  He seemed oblivious.  "Can I get you a drink?" I offered.

"Sure."

A__ followed me into the kitchen.  "So," she whispered in my ear, "moving in on my territory already, are you?"

"What do you mean?  I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"I'll bet.  You've been a girl for less than a day, and already you want a dick."

I must have blushed.  I felt a wave of horniness as I imagined the consequences of her statement.  The thought had, in fact, crossed my girlish frame of mind.  I was still quite afraid to admit it, even to myself.
"Look, I brought him here because I wanted you to experience every aspect of girlhood.  I thought I might show you a few tricks. . ."

Sure enough, when I brought him his drink, A__ snuggled up to him, and motioned for me to do the same.  She grabbed his crotch and purred, "so, you wanna have a threesome?"  I had never seen her so unabashed before.  She unzipped his fly and pulled out his cock.  She invited me to stroke it.
I had never even dreamed of touching another man's dick.  But this time, I wanted it.  I wanted to squeeze it like it were my own.  

Fiction: Coerced into Slavery

I fucked her sensuously, but she seemed bored.  She made me stop.  I was right into it, so it took some time.  


"Rob," she said, "We have to try something new.  I'm sick of just fucking like this."


"Then what do you suggest?"

"Well. . . I have always had this fantasy. . ." she purred.  I was newly aroused.

"What is it?"

"Well. . . I don't think you'd like it.  No man would do it. . ."

"You'd be surprised at what a man will do.  What is it?  Don't be afraid.  Don't be ashamed."

"No," she resolved, "I just can't tell you outright.  You have to guess."

"Very well," I answered, always enjoying her delicious coyness, and her sexy mind games.  "Is it anal sex?"

"No, no!"

"Tit fucking?"

"Nope."

"Shit?  Piss?"

She shook her head, biting her lip.

"Another man?  Another woman?  Domination?"

She vigorously shook her head.  I was at a loss.  "C'mon, tell me," I implored, "I don't know."

She writhed around seductively in acute embarrassment, and beckoned me to bring my head closer, so that she could whisper in my ear.

"Rob," she whispered breathlessly, licking my ear and caressing it with her lips, "If I ask you to do something, will you promise to do it?"

I looked at her supiciously.  "Depends what."

She caressed me and rubbed herself onto me.  "Won't you do it?  For me?"

With such an incentive, I was hornier than I ever thought possible.  "Sure," I said huskily, as I caressed her and kissed her neck.

"Um. . . could you pick up my panties off the floor?  And my bra?"

I obeyed, thinking that she would put them back on and striptease me again.  She was about to order me to do something, but she hesitated, preferring to whisper it salaciously in my ear:  "Now, put them on."

I was surprised.  How could such a thing turn her on?  Not thinking twice of it, I put them on.  She passionately rubbed herself all over me, and had the most intense orgasm.  I came, too, by her randiness and rubbing.

The next night, as we started going hot and heavy again, she urged me to wear her clothes again.  Again, I complied, not thinking twice of it.  This became more and more frequent as the days went on.  Eventually, she would merely snap the elastic of her panties, and I would immediately remove them from her and put them on myself directly.  Sex is sex, I thought, so I continued.  I also began to doubt my manhood, because I noticed (and she as well) that I was now aroused as soon as she even hinted at my wearing her clothes.

I began to look forward to it as much as she did.  We had fantastic sex this way, and I rarely penetrated her.  I began to associate the clothes with good sex.  I felt masculine, despite my trappings.  Eventually, she seemed to lose interest in this game.  She again resorted to the same tactics that got me into her clothes to begin with, and urged me to act more feminine.  I did this comically at first, to humour her.  I liked this better than penetration.  I began to enjoy it even more.  I shamefully, however, began to admit to myself that it was indeed better to be in a feminine state of mind.  I had to feel as feminine as the sex goddess before me to feel fulfilled.

Eventually, she tired of this again.  She began to give me the choice of whether I wanted to do it my way or hers.  When I did it her way, I enjoyed myself so much more, so I more frequently did it.  I felt so good being feminine.  Soon, I began to request it, and she would grudgingly give me leave.

I wore her panties all the time now at home, and became sexually and psychologically enslaved to her.  I begged her to let me worship her by letting me rub my feminized body onto her perfect model of womanhood.  She allowed me, but became bored.  She let me become her personal servant.  I never left the house anymore.  I lived to serve my goddess of sex.  I was well rewarded.  How I loved the feel of silk or lace on my monstrously ugly prick when I imagined being a girl.  But she betrayed me.

She started bringing home other men.  She fucked them, and made me watch clandestinely.  I hated it.  But they were not allowed to worship her like I was.  So I laughed.  Once, she brought home a homosexual to watch me worship.  He found it quite compelling.  He asked her if I were homosexual, and she answered, "Of course he is!  Do you think he could be so feminine without being gay?"

"I don't believe it.  If he is, then let him blow me."

I hadn't realized the extent of her power.  I kneeled down before him and sucked his glorious prick dry until I exploded with ecstasy.  I had longed for a dick.  I didn't even know it.  I felt so much more feminine, and I began to enjoy the company of men.  They would fuck me all over, and I would love it.  I was a total female, except for my shape.

She then contrived to have me take Gyna's mixture each time I sucked dick, and fucked like a girl.  I would smear it on their dicks, suck them dry, and swallow it with their loads.  It tasted great.  Sure enough, within time, my dick shrivelled up and became a cunt; I grew tits and my waist shrank.  My body hair fell out.  I became a girl, physically as well as mentally.  I fucked some men for a long time thereafter, enjoying it thoroughly, although I became bored.

Then she came to me, hornier than ever, and told me her truest fantasy.  "Rob, I am a lesbian, and I love you.  I want to fuck you."  It took some time for me to become accustomed to pussy, but she slowly converted me again.  Ever since, we have been lesbian lovers.  I love pussy  even more than I did when I was a man, because now I can truly appreciate what it is to have one, and to feel a pretty girl licking it clean.