Fiction: Massive Forced Feminization: The Rookie

This time, we make sure that it goes slowly, after the initial push

"So," finished Lia, "you understand how this works?"



I nodded.  I am wearing a panty and bra set, off-white, satiny, and lacy.  Lia is a knockout in the same outfit.  She has explained that I will learn to become a girl, just like her.  It is my new ambition to become as feminine as she is - or more, if possible.  We all know that I will be a horrible excuse for a woman for the first little while, but that I will eventually succeed.  We also know that I am not doing this voluntarily, but with a gun to my head.  Lia swears that I will come around in no time at all.

"Clearly, you love my body," she says.  "But in all the wrong ways.  Look at yourself!  You're wearing the same thing as me!  And you put it on yourself.  You're already used to it, aren't you?  Every millisecond you spend in that outfit pushes you further and further over the edge.  Soon it will be a natural thing for you to put on a bra every day.  And you'll like it, too!"

I want to smack the little bitch around, but, again, the guards have their weapons pointed at me.  I'm supposed to be rooming with her, so I'll have my opportunity for revenge.

She comes up close to me, and brushes her tit against my cheek.  She's touching me all over.  "The first lesson," she whispers salaciously into my ear, "is called 'Exploring the Female Body.'  You need to know, in great detail, what it is you need to strive for."  She certainly has all the proper course materials at her disposal.
She takes a step back, and stands before me posing, in her - our - underwear.  "Look at me.  Tell me, what's the first thing you notice?  And don't forget for a second that you're going to look like this, too, you little sissy."

Her hourglass figure is astounding.  She has her right hand on her hip.  Her smooth, fair skin hasn't got a single visible hair.  The curvature from her thigh, up around her hip, into the valley of her waist, and back up suddenly to her wonderfully soft, round breast, drives me wild.  I want to suckle on her gorgeous titties, and slide my hand down to her slender little belly, where her unbridled femininity seems to converge.  I want to hold her ass in my hands as I bounce her off my cock.  I want to lick her all over.  I can't decide what I notice first, as the whole becomes so much more than the sum of her parts.

"Your tits!"  Probably the expected answer.  Such a difficult choice...

"OK," she says.  "Let's look at my tits."

She takes my hands, and cups them around her breasts, over her bra.  She throws back her head luxuriantly, and asks me to smell her cleavage.

I am caressing her now.  I squeeze her nipples through the lace and satin of her brassiere.  I slide my hands to her back and gently pull her towards me, in order to fully obey her command.  A drop of perfume entices me to rub my face between her lovely, soft, round breasts, and breathe deeply.  I reach for the clasp on her back, to get a better look.

Suddenly she pushes me away, her hands on my chest.  I let go, fully aware of the ever-vigilant guards.  "Now stay still, sissy boy," she says, as she squeezes my nipple through my own bra.  I can feel it hardening between her fingers.  "Let me show you a few things."

"Breasts are an obvious feminine feature.  You know about my nipples - hardly a surprise.  You like their firmness, their roundness, their softness.  But there's more to my chest than that.  You proved it yourself."
She raises her left arm over her head, and runs the fingers of her right hand along the bottom of her bra, to her armpit.  "Take a look at this," she says.  "Your hands lingered here.  And now your eyes are, too.  I have delicate lats.  You love the way my bra looks here.  You love the way my breast seems to extend out from this area.  Now look at your armpit, and the way your bra looks."

I do as she says.  I cannot deny the truth of her words.  Nor can I fail to notice how the bra makes me look more feminine, in spite of my musculature.  "See?  Your bra looks pretty on you, too, but you need a lot of work to look like I do."

I put down my arm and stare at her with contempt.

"That's not all," she continues, stretching her shoulder straps with her thumbs.  "Don't you love how these delicate little straps accentuate my equally delicate shoulders?  See how slender my shoulders are?  Now look at yours."

At length, we explore her upper body in great detail: how her cleavage leads up a very flat, solid, but soft chest, to her deliciously slender neck.  How her back fits in with the rest of her body, and how her shoulder blades stick out.  I can't argue with her.  She is very feminine.  

"The point," she concludes, "is that my bra accentuates all of these less obvious features, and that while men focus on the nipples, they rest of the package stands out in its own right."

She slinks in towards me again.  "Now, the fun part," she snickers.

We kiss, deeply and passionately, as she grinds her pelvis into my lap.  She holds onto my panties, and giggles.  

"This is where all the action is," she explains.  "These panties are gorgeously sexy, aren't they, sissy boy?  This time, you tell me what you love about them."

"I love your belly.  I love how everything converges there.  I love the curve in your waist, and how your hips are so round.  It's the hourglass shape."  As I speak, she slides her hands along the exact places I talk about.  "And your ass!  Your fantastic, little round butt!"

"Don't you love the way my underwear - and yours - just caresses all of these parts?  See how it makes my belly look a little round?  Don't you just love the lace trim, how it looks against my skin?  Let's not even talk about my crotch. . ."  She rubs my cock with her hand as she speaks.

"Satin feels good, doesn't it, Rob?  You can't deny it: see how hard you are?"

I am trying hard not to come.  

"Just look how your body is already becoming like mine!  You want my body, but not in any way you ever wanted it before!  Feel how feminine you're becoming, just by wearing panties and a bra?  You can't help yourself anymore, can you?"

I realize that I am helping her rub my crotch, I am feeling my panties against my flesh, I am fondling my panty waist.  And I explode all over my belly, her hand, my hand.  

She laughs as I turn away from her and curl up in a fetal ball.

"See how good it is to be a girl, even if it's just by wearing girls' underwear?  You'll beg me for more!"

As expected, we bunk in the same room.  I am very afraid to go anywhere near Lia, who sleeps peacefully across the room in her own bed.  At least I can be naked now.  But she's wearing a sheer nightgown. 

It's not that I'm afraid of hurting her.  I don't think I can now.  I'm not afraid of the consequences of hurting her.  I'm afraid of her femininity.  I'm afraid of what she could show me in that little nightie of hers.  I'm afraid of the thoughts crossing my mind, the strange, unaccountable, unspeakable desires.  It can't be true!

The next morning, she lays out two outfits for me, which I am to choose from.  There is a pair of control-top pantyhose, and another lingerie outfit, consisting of matching black satin and lace panties, a bustier, and stockings.  I imagine how stunning Lia would look in the black lingerie, what with her white skin and black hair, and instinctively choose the pantyhose.  I can't handle the thought of seeing her like that.

To my dismay, she wears it anyway.

"So," she says.  "You're interested in learning about pantyhose!"

This goes on for several days, each choice becoming more and more difficult.  She lays out two outfits; I choose one, and she wears the other.  I tried desperately to avoid having to wear anything too sexy, but at the same time, I didn't want Lia to look too sexy, either.  At any rate, there was little choice.  I soon learned about leotards, sports bras, and one-piece bathing suits, while Lia wore gorgeous sets of underwear.  I always chose more conservative underwear rather than discover what it feels like to wear bustiers, nighties, and bikinis.  Mostly, I tried to wear anything I had worn before so as not to become corrupted any further.  All the same, each day ended with me frolicking with guilty pleasure in my chosen garment, devouring Lia with my eyes, and explaining to her how each outfit accentuates our feminine features.  

I can no longer allow her to manipulate me like this.  She knows that I will invariably choose the less sexy outfit.  She counts on it so that she can torment me all day long in something fantastically beautiful that I couldn't dare wear myself.  I can't let her do this anymore.  This morning, I turn the tables on her.  I am wearing the red lingerie outfit, including a sheer baby doll and string bikini panties, garter belt, and stockings, while she wears the familiar one-piece bathing suit.  But she doesn't seem shocked in the least by my selection.  In fact, she smiles mischievously.  God help me, but that one-piece swimsuit shows off her figure like nothing else!  What have I done?

This is by far the most outrageously feminine outfit I have ever worn.  I could write a book about how it shows off my ass, my shoulders, my tits, my thighs, my belly, my waist, my hips, my calves, my feet - that is, it would show them off if I were female.  Oh, but how feminine it feels!  I can hardly keep my hands off myself.  Lia looks great in her bathing suit, but my clothes are far more sexy.  I look forward to discussing this with her later.  I want to discuss it now.  All day long I participate with great enthusiasm in my lessons.  

The nightly recap of lessons was even more intense than I had hoped for.  Usually, Lia is the primary model for femininity.  Tonight, it is me.  I come twice before we even start talking about my stockings.  I slide my hands all over myself as if I were fondling a real girl.  

The next morning, I vow to never make that mistake again.  No matter how sexy Lia looks in it, no matter how much she torments me in it, I can't handle wearing the sexier garment myself.  I must choose the more mundane, or risk succumbing completely to this madness.  Yet when she presents me with a leotard and a silk teddy, I must resist a powerful temptation to wear the teddy.  I don't even need to imagine Lia in it; I imagine myself in it, and I want it.  This strengthens my resolve to choose the leotard.  

Now I look at Lia and admire the way her body looks in that teddy.  I want to know how it feels!  I need to know!  That night, I close my eyes and imagine that we've swapped clothes.

My vow lasts only two days.  By the third, I nervously reach for the nightgown rather than the bathing suit.  And I don't regret it at all.  I wonder what else she has in her closet that I haven't tried yet.  Maybe a bikini?  That would be awfully fun!

But it never becomes an option.  I wear the sexy garment all the time now, to the point where my choices are almost even in their femininity.  There is never a bikini.  I have secretly poked around in Lia's closet.  She has several that I'd be overjoyed to wear.  I wait a week, a month, still no bikini.  By now I have learned to shave my body hair, and my feminine manners are improving drastically.  This dramatically improves the sensation of wearing lingerie.  I feel that I am ready.

"Lia," I plead, "when can I try on a bikini?"

"What?  You want to wear a bikini?"

Realizing how this sounds, I falter.  "Well. . ."

"Ha ha!  You're asking me to wear a bikini now!  How the mighty have fallen!"

I sulk.

"You never believed me when I told you you'd be begging for my clothes someday!  Now here we are!"

"OK!  So I want to wear a bikini!  It's not such a big deal!  That doesn't mean anything!"

"It means that you want to be a girl now.  You're coming along quite nicely!  I'm so proud of you!"

"So will you let me?"

"That, my dear Bobbie, will be up to you tomorrow."

I clap my hands with glee, trusting Lia to keep her word.  I know that she has something up her sleeve, but my anticipation gets the better of me.

The next morning, as promised, she sets out my choice of clothes.  On one side is a bikini.  On the other, men's boxers, trousers, and a t-shirt.

"What's this all about," I ask uneasily.

"Today," she explains, "you have a choice: you can leave the feminization programme for good, a free man - yes, man - with appropriate clothing; or you can choose the bikini, and commit fully and voluntarily to completing the programme - meaning that you can't ever turn back again."

My manhood lies on the bed, next to my womanhood.  I remember wanting to kill Lia for doing this to me.  I could grab the boxers and turn my back on femininity forever, to explore it on masculine terms once again.  A spectator.  Back to normal.  I could also put on that skimpy little pink bikini, and strut around like a woman, as I have wanted to for over a month.

"If I choose the pants, how will I forget what's happened here?"

"You probably can't."

"I'll still want to wear the bikini."

"Of course.  But this one is mine.  You'll have to get your own."

What kind of man wants to wear a woman's sexy bikini?  How could I consider myself a man if I longed eternally for women's clothing?  I could easily buy my own bikini, and experiment with it alone.  But I couldn't wear panties and bras on a regular basis anymore.  I'd probably have to give it up.

"What do you mean by committing fully to femininity?  Why couldn't I go back?"

"The hormones would make it quite difficult, for one thing."

"You mean female hormones?"

"Yep."

"And there's no way to reverse those."

"Nope.  They make you impotent.  And you'll grow real breasts.  Among other things."

I'm still wearing the nightgown I got into the habit of sleeping in some weeks ago.  My legs are silken smooth - dynamite in stockings.  My hair has grown long, and I've taken care to style it just like Ally McBeal's.  

I look at the boxers again.  Then the bikini.  The choice is easy.

The bikini is everything I hoped it would be.  I can't wait for my boobs to fill out these cups.

[Ugh.  How about a willing convert of some sort?]

Fiction: A First Time

The idea came to me so subtly that I didn't even notice it at first.  I don't even think that I can adequately retrace the path my mind took to get to it.  But I will try.

There are times when I get horny for no good reason.  I just have a general feeling of arousal, brought on by nothing.  It's not a feeling of desire, but an acknowledgment of a potential for it.  Are there not times when you're aroused, but not particularly horny?  This is the opposite: horny, but not yet aroused.  This particular moment, I happened to be looking at a page 3 girl wearing a one-piece swimsuit.  She wasn't even all that pretty, but she looked very nice in that tight little outfit.  It just so happened that my girl at the time had one very similar, if not identical, to it.  And I knew where she kept it.

Seeing the page 3 girl made me think of my girl in her swimsuit, and how I had seen her out of that same swimsuit and made love to her.  I thought of all her delicious curves, and how they stood out so much in that swimsuit.  Unfortunately, I was alone in the apartment, and she wouldn't be back for quite a while, so I couldn't yank her into bed and fuck her on the spot.  I would have liked her to model it for me, too, just because I had it on my mind and felt a little playful.

It would have been strange to ask her, in the middle of the day, to put on a swimsuit so that I could ogle her and bang her.  If she were here, that is.  I don't think she would have quite understood.  I had asked her to wear lingerie before, and a bikini or something for a day at the beach, but not like this.  Every man loves to see his woman wearing something sexy, and I'm no exception.  Somehow, it got into my mind that I had to see at least the swimsuit, even if she weren't in it.  Perhaps the thought went even deeper, and I didn't consciously admit it to myself at that time.  I felt a little kinky about it, and got that much hornier.

I resisted for a few hours, but, like I said, I had that potential, and I couldn't let it go to waste.  I had all day with nothing to do.  Why not indulge in a little fantasy?  I couldn't resist.  So I went straight to her dresser to peek at her swimsuit.

It was easy to find among all her dainty feminine things.  It was so bright and colourful.  It excited me to touch her panties, and especially that swimsuit.  I fondled it a bit and closed the drawer, feeling a bit foolish.  I relished the soft silkiness of the material as I imagined her in it, soft and curvaceous.  What was I doing?  I mustered up some discipline and left it.

I grew restless for the twenty minutes I managed to keep away from her dresser.  I couldn't stop fantasizing about it, about her, about the page 3 girl, about what I would do about it all.  I needed to touch the swimsuit again.  I needed to examine it closely, admire it and picture it on my girl.  Or so I thought to myself.  By then I had started to realize that I didn't even care about my girl at this moment, just her swimsuit.  There is something inherently feminine about women's underwear and swimwear.  Something about the way it accentuates female shapes makes it ultra-feminine.  It's delicate and pretty by itself.  And there's also something forbidden about it.  No man should be so intimate with women's clothing.  It's something so personal, so sexual, so intimate that no-one but the most extraordinary man should be worthy to know it.  And here I came, uninitiated, defiling this altar of womanhood.  I suppose it's overdramatic to put it that way, but that's how I felt.  I was being naughty.  And I was taking a risk of being overpowered by something feminine.

The problem is that I wanted to be overpowered.  That's what sex is all about.  I had already succumbed, even before I stood with the bathing suit dangling in my hand, holding it in front of myself, smelling it, exploring its composition and shape.  It had to be feminine: it was so unlike anything I or any other man had ever worn.  The crotch looked so sensual.  I could imagine what my girl put against it when she wore it.  It was like I was exploring a woman.  I caressed it with my fingers, rubbed my face in it.  I was fixated by it, aroused by it.  It was so tight and stretchy.  I pictured my girl getting into it, and out of it, and gallivanting around in it.  So tight, so girlish!  Then the idea struck me full on, and scared the shit out of me.  I think I must have blushed.

Again, I stuffed it back where I found it and vowed not to think of it again.  I had gotten too naughty, and I was getting far too excited about it.  I had to control myself.  I took a cold shower to take my mind off of it.
Somehow, water doesn't really make one forget about bathing suits.  I was getting dressed when the thought came to me full force again.  I certainly blushed again.  I tried to avoid going back to her dresser, but it was so close to mine.  Water and bathing suits go together quite well, I hear. 

I had managed enough control to put on pants and a shirt, but I not to avoid the swimsuit.  I took it right out of the dresser again, and fondled it some more.  I wanted to see it stretch with the shape of a lithe female body.  I filled the cups with my fists, but they had the wrong shape.  I needed to fill in the butt, the crotch, the waist, the belly, and the shoulders under the straps.  I rubbed it against my chest as I lifted up my shirt.  So soft!  I needed more.  I rubbed it against my crotch, but through my pants.  Not enough!

I flopped onto the bed, stepping out of my pants.  I tore off my shirt.  I sat in only my underwear, the bathing suit beside me.  I rubbed it against my crotch, but still that wasn't enough.  I knew what I had to do, but couldn't dare.  I jerked myself just thinking about it.  I couldn't believe what I was thinking, much less that it aroused me so much.  It was so naughty, not for defiling the feminine altar, but for defiling my own manhood, and willingly.  The thought of betraying my gender this way aroused me enormously.  But I still couldn't go all the way with it.

I finally decided to take the plunge.  My hands trembled as I seized the bathing suit in front of me, and grabbing it by the waist, sure to have the front facing away from me.  I'd seen my girl do it before.  I didn't dare take off my underwear, for fear of what would happen if I went too far too fast.  Something inside me wanted to, not for the rush of risking the consequences, but specifically to suffer them.  

I stepped into the leg holes, and pulled the bathing suit up slowly and sensuously to my crotch.  I yanked it up as high as it would go, but didn't put my arms through the shoulder straps.  It was so tight against my body that I almost creamed right then and there.  And I was still wearing my underwear underneath, to protect me from the femininity.  It was bad enough that I was doing this already, but what if I liked it?  I would surely do it more and more, until I wear it all the time!  And God help me if there wasn't a part of me that screamed YES!  YES!  WEAR IT ALL THE TIME!  I fondled myself like this for a while, overjoyed to finally have a body to fondle under that swimsuit.  I reveled in its tightness, its smoothness, its girlishness.  I wanted to be female at that moment, and I admitted it freely, but guiltily to myself.  I was wearing my girl's swimsuit for the thrill of feeling feminine.

It had to go further.  I had tasted this half-worn swimsuit over my underwear, just fondling the shoulder straps, teasing myself about actually sliding all the way into it.  I was teasing myself about becoming feminine.  I wanted to be a girl now.  I had to experience wearing a woman's swimsuit like only a woman can.  I slid on the straps, just to test my commitment, and kept it on like that for a few minutes.  Even that was exhilarating.  I knew it would be difficult for me to slide the swimsuit off, but I had to to remove my underwear.  I had kept it as a last shred of manhood, the last layer protecting me against becoming completely engulfed in femininity.  Now I flung it off and welcomed girlishness wholeheartedly, recklessly, ecstatically.  I strapped myself in, and swung my hips effeminately.  

I couldn't believe how wonderfully it made me feel!  I had never worn anything that caressed my crotch and my hips quite the way this bathing suit did.  It was so high-cut, so tight, so smooth, so sexy.  I celebrated my new-found womanhood with vigour.  I couldn't help but begin to imagine what it would feel like to try a bikini, a garter belt, panties, a bra, pantihose, skirts, dresses, makeup. . .  Thoughts of lingerie filled my head, and to think that I had such items so close at hand, in my girl's dresser!  This rush was far better than any sex I had ever had.  

I creamed the swimsuit so badly that I panicked.  I didn't know what to do.  If my girl found out, it would be over, and I would be so humiliated.  I felt deep shame.  I had gone way too far.  But it felt so incredibly good!  I vowed, nonetheless, to never do it again.  I washed the swimsuit by hand, and placed it carefully back where it belonged.  The sight of silk and satin in her dresser now had a whole new meaning for me.

Diary: I Want To Be Effeminated

I don't know what it is about it, but I need to wear women's underwear.  The desire is overpowering.  I want to be effeminated.  Girls look so good in those outfits, and I just want the privilege of looking that way, too.  I want the tits, I want the soft, hairless skin, I want the delicate curves, I want the round little empty crotch.  I want to be enveloped in lace and silk and flowers and little skinny straps and dainty elastics.