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.

Diary: Stages

The stages:

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

Fiction: Pleasure Corps

The setup:

We are prisoners of war.  Hundreds of us.  Maybe thousands.  The enemy army has proven to be far better equipped than ours, and most of us have simply surrendered out of sheer cowardice.

We are imprisoned in a large army base in the middle of nowhere.  There are no nearby towns – at least, none with any population left.  The war has devastated the countryside.  This is an extremely isolated bastion of humanity.  And 99 percent of it is male.

There are five enemy troops here for every one of us prisoners.  And they’re horribly lonely.  There are virtually no women to rape, or rent.  It’s barren. 

The prison commander has an idea.  He decides to transform all of the prisoners into girls.  Not pretend girls, but real, curvaceous, pretty, delicate, slender, sexy girls.  So our conditions change dramatically.

The first thing he does is assemble all the prisoners in a public area.  He announces his plan: "You have all been chosen to service the sexual needs of our troops.  You will all be reassigned to the new pleasure division of our army."

All our standard assigned prison clothes have been confiscated, except for the clothes we’re wearing.  Each of us now has a small wardrobe of colourful panties, brassieres, skirts, dresses, stockings, swimwear, and other unequivocally feminine attire.  We are told that we will all enter an exhaustive training programme that will teach us how to be girls.  The clothes we are wearing are taken from us at our mandatory shower time.  Each of us is left with nothing but a feminine wardrobe.

Of course, none of us puts on a stitch of it.  We’d rather walk around naked than compromise our dignity and our masculinity.  But that doesn’t bother the prison commander.  He promises that each of us will eventually be forced to have surgery anyway, due to sheer demand, and that the training and clothing is a courtesy, to allow us to get used to our new gender.  He offers to grant incentives to anyone who actively participates in his transformation.  Primarily, those of us who become female will be freed from prison, and enlisted in pleasure corps.  We have the choice of either remaining male and remaining prisoners of war, or becoming female and becoming free.

The first info session forces each of us to consider how we’d prefer to enter our new gender role.  The simple truth is that we will all get surgery and hormones eventually, on specific dates, and join the pleasure corps as soon as the stitches heal.  We are to become female sex slaves, whether we’re ready or not.  What would we want to help us prepare for our fate?

Some would prefer to enjoy their manhood until the very end, and then take in the shock of becoming female head-on.  Others would prefer a careful training, so that they could make the transition easily.  Others still would prefer some kind of post-hypnotic suggestion to learn to like it.  However, the vast majority are skeptical about the plan, that it’s even possible that the prison commander can do such a thing.

Naturally, the prison commander makes an example of a handful of prisoners.  He chooses ten volunteers at random, and has them roused in the early morning and hauled off for surgery.  They emerge a few days later with their penises in jars, and vaginas between their legs.  To prove his point, these ten men are immediately assigned to pleasure corps.  They are strapped spread-eagled to a bed in the middle of the square, and each of the prisoners is allowed to inspect them to his heart’s content.  All ten even have orgasms as they get fingered and fucked.  After a certain time, they are removed from the regular prison population, and sequestered in their own area where they can learn to become more properly female for the army at large.

King: The battle was one-sided.  We were surrounded by a much bigger and better-equipped army.  We had no choice but to surrender.  As the ranking officer among the decimated battalion, I gave the command to raise the white flag.  The worst they could do is imprison us.  They would never dare to massacre five thousand defenseless soldiers.  Eventually, our side would surely win our freedom.  Or perhaps the war would end soon.  It certainly wasn’t going our way of late.  Anyway, prison camp was certainly better than death.  We’d live to fight another day.

It is now three years later.  The war continues on as a stalemate.  The countryside has been ravaged.  The only form of civilization within a thousand miles is this army base and prison camp.  I am the ranking officer among eight thousand two hundred and twelve prisoners of war, surrounded by an ever-changing army of some forty thousand soldiers.  Only a handful of the staff around us are female.  The sexual frustration is palpable, among both prisoners and soldiers.

Today, the new prison commander has rotated in.  She is fantastically beautiful.  Every man in the compound, let alone all the prisoners, wants desperately to have a piece of her.  She, however, has a different agenda.

"Due to the low morale of the troops under the command of General Smith, I have been charged, in addition to my duties as prison commander, with providing the soldiers at this base with anything they might like to increase their morale.  Primarily, these soldiers need sex, so I have created the Pleasure Corps, a division consisting entirely of women, whose sole objective is to provide sexual services to the men.  Pleasure Corps will include an elite platoon, which will service the officers and conduct special missions.

"As you can see, the supply of women is woefully short.  Therefore, as a way to rehabilitate the long-serving prisoners of war, I offer a programme that will both staff Pleasure Corps and reduce our support costs for the prison population without having to conduct massacres and other atrocities.

"Operation Butterfly is a choice given to the prisoners: pledge to abandon your masculinity, and undergo a transformation to enable you to join Pleasure Corps, and thereby become a free-serving member of our army, or remain imprisoned in the squalor of my jail.

"The method of joining is simple: I will personally choose some of you to become free based on your level of femininity.  Those who make themselves girlish enough to pass my tests will be pardoned and enlisted in Pleasure Corps, thereby gaining their freedom.  Those who remain masculine will continue to languish in my prison. 

"Of course, it is all relative: I must meet a quota to fill the ranks of the Pleasure Corps, so the ten most faggy of you will be chosen each week, even if you all refuse to participate.  Remember, however, that the best of you will join the elite squad, and live like queens.  And surely fucking all day is better than being a prisoner.

"I pledge additional incentives to those of you who wish to participate.  You are all encouraged to join.  Those who make themselves feminine will be rewarded.  Those who do not will gain nothing.  Those who interfere will be punished.

"You will discover upon returning to your cells that your clothes have been replaced with more appropriate attire.  The clothes currently on your backs will be confiscated as soon as you report for mandatory showers.

"The selections begin in one week from today."

Naturally, the first week saw a few of the prison bitches snapped up.  Most of the men tried to put on the least feminine outfits they were given, but it still made them look feminine.  We’re all gaunt and thin from the poor conditions, and look like anorexic runway models in these dresses.  Some of them were clearly enthusiastic about the idea, and started prancing around immediately.  Others refused entirely to participate, and walked around naked, in spite of the chill.  I am one of the latter. 

I cannot participate, or else I would be branded a traitor by my country.  Also, I must consider the morale of my men.  They look to me as a leader, and I cannot allow them to humiliate themselves for some faint dream of freedom.  I urge my men to go naked in protest.  I promise them that the whole program is a terrible game of humiliation, and that they couldn’t turn any of us into girls, even if we wanted them to.

The first week, the prime sissies were plucked away from us, and returned to us a few days later with their penises in jars.  They wore lingerie.  Some wept.  As a public display of the commander’s honesty, they were each strapped spread-eagled to upright beds, with their new genitals in display, and fucked by eager enlisted men.  I couldn’t tell if they howled with pain or with pleasure.  At least a few of them quivered orgasmically.  I must admit, even I wanted a piece of them, hideous and manly as they were, just for their tight new pussies.

So she was serious.  Who knew?

Meyer: Those of us who are left have split into two factions: the traitors and the men. 

The traitors prance around in lingerie and swimwear, under the protection of armed guards.  They get better meals, better beds, and clothes to wear.  We men shiver in cold dank cells, surrounded by gorgeous lace and satin and silk, eating bread and water, naked.

I long for my freedom.  The traitors make me horny.  I want to fuck a girl.  I want to fuck the commander.  But no, I must remain naked and imprisoned and unsatisfied because of my principles.  No more! 

It’s still difficult to go ahead with it.  I don’t want to be killed or harmed by the men.  I don’t want to lose my penis, but being a girl can’t be all bad!  The Pleasure Corps gets special treatment around here.  They walk freely and are loved and admired by all the troops.  They fuck like minks.  They’re all so proud.  I toy nightly with the idea of trying on some panties, just to see what they’re like.  But I must resist.  I only wish I still could.

Thankfully, it’s night time, and nobody can see me.  So I try on some stretch lace panties.  I’m sure that I’ll immediately be disgusted by my crime and take them off.  But they feel like freedom!  They mould my hips into some unfathomably feminine shape.  They are utterly exquisite.  A moan escapes my lungs.  But no, I must stay true to my country.  I quickly slip them off, and go to sleep, knowing that I could never give in.

The next morning, drowsy from lack of sleep, and in everyone’s view, I slip into those same gorgeous panties, and strap on the matching bra without a moment’s hesitation.  I stride out of my cell confidently and proudly, proclaiming my new allegiance with every graceful step.  I turn up my nose to the men who all glare at me contemptuously.  A few of my friends make moves to attack me, but the guards who appear at my side to escort me keep them away.  Today, I eat with the Candidates.  We can all chat about our underwear and what we’re doing to make ourselves more feminine.  I can’t wait to lose my virginity!

Johnson: I can’t help it.  I’m a coward.  I can’t take this stinking prison anymore.  It’s not even a question.  I’ll wear the stupid bikini if it’ll get me out of here.

I cower when I cave in like this.  I don’t like being out in the open, wearing something so feminine.  But damn it, I love the food they give me when I do this.  Some of the guys who do this more regularly seem to get better food.  I think if you wear stuff for 3 straight days, they let you take a warm shower.  I’ve never done it for more than two in a row.

This guy Meyer has totally flamed out.  He was one of the pillars of resistance at one point, but now he’s been prancing around like the biggest sissy for a couple of weeks non-stop.  It’s been the worst betrayal yet.  He held out longer than any of us – including King, who gave in every now and then just to get a decent meal.  He never gave in at all.  Until the other day.  Now he’s a prime candidate to join the Corps.  Cripes, he almost looks like a girl already.

Now he’s sitting next to me, all pretty, and chatty, and generally a pain in the ass.  He strikes up a conversation with me.

"Johnson!  What a nice surprise!  You were here yesterday, too, weren’t you?"

"Yeah.  So what?"

"Well, maybe you’ll come back tomorrow, too?"

"Maybe."

"You know, they’ll treat you right.  Don’t you worry about all those dickheads out there.  You just enjoy yourself and enjoy the ride."

I can’t take this.  "What the fuck, Meyer?  What happened to you?  You were the only real man left in this place, and now you’re acting like you can’t wait to have a dick in your mouth.  Let me eat in peace, and I won’t be seeing you tomorrow."

I swear he blushed when I spoke of sucking dick.

"Come on, Johnson.  I’m not doing this to be a traitor.  It’s actually a lot of fun if you let it get into it.  Look at all the perks I get!"

You’re just a weak-willed coward and a traitor.  Fuck you!"

"You’re one to talk.  You’re wearing a bikini, too, bitch."

"Keep talking and I’ll fuck you up, you fucking pansy."

"I'd like to see you try."

I knew I couldn’t do anything, or else I’d lose my meal privilege, and possibly get punished on top of it.  I couldn’t afford it.

"I thought so," he said, tauntingly.

King: Meyer came to talk to me early in his transformation.  He was all aflutter, and wearing a cute little white dress with red flowers.

"Captain," he said, "I'm so sorry I let you down."

"It's OK," I answered, knowing that he was ready to snap the whole time he was resisting.  It’s always the extreme resistors that you know are going to cave the worst.  They always overcompensate out of fear.

"You know I still love my country."

"I know, Meyer.  You just couldn’t take this shithole anymore.  I understand.  I wish it weren’t so, but I understand."

"It's not even that, Sir."

"I know.  No need to explain."

"Still, I feel like I need to explain."  He pressed his knees together and looked at the floor.  "Thing is, I really like becoming a girl."

"How's that?"  I had never heard anyone admit it before, including all the obvious homosexuals who had turned pretty early.

"I just love the way these clothes feel on me.  I feel so incredibly sexy.  I love it!"

"I can see that."

"I can imagine myself as a girl.  Oh God, this is so embarrassing.  You know I was totally straight until five days ago?"

"I never imagined you weren't," I replied, honestly.

"Well now I’m flaming gay.  I want to feel a penis inside me.  I can’t wait to get changed!"

"Good for you."

"Anyway, glad you’re OK with it."

[god that went nowhere]

Johnson: I thought about what Meyer was going through, and I decided to risk going another day, just for the clean shower.  I wore a one-piece bathing suit this time.  Sure enough, Meyer came by to gloat as I was getting ready for my shower.

"Johnson!  I knew you’d be back today!"

"Whatever Meyer.  I just needed the shower."

"That's what they all say," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Whatever.  They’re about to let me into the shower now."

He grabbed me by the arm as I was turning away, and looked me straight in the eye.  "Isn't this your third day?"

"Yeah."

"You know you don’t get rewarded with a shower on your third day, don’t you?"

"What?"

"Of course not.  They wouldn’t want people taking advantage of the system unless they really wanted to join the Pleasure Corps."

"So what’s my incentive?  They told me yesterday it was a shower."

"Yeah, they lied.  They lie to everybody.  But trust me, this is better."

He let me go, and I was ushered into the showers.  But not to a shower stall, as I expected. 

It was a changeroom, filled with racks of fancy lingerie that only advanced pansies like Meyer get to wear.  But I knew that even he hadn’t been allowed to wear anything like that for at least a full week.  The guards told me to pick out the prettiest thing I could think of.  It was a very difficult choice.  I found a black baby doll with matching g-string.  They made me put it on.

It felt quite different the way the cloth lightly brushed my hips.  I thought of how Meyer wore this stuff all the time.  As did the commander.

"Do you know that you're going to be completely female someday?" asked one of the guards.

"It doesn’t matter how masculine you are.  All the damage done to you by your testosterone is reversible.  You’ll become a complete girl, indistinguishable from any supermodel."

"That’s impossible."

"Nope.  You get effeminated more and more every time you wear women’s clothes you know.  You do it once, and you’re fucked.  Fucked!

"You didn’t choose that outfit by chance.  You committed yourself to it because it turned you on."

"Bullshit!"

"Careful with that!"

I realized now that I was rubbing my crotch and feeling all sexed up.  After I came, I was disappointed when they asked to have the babydoll and g-string back. 

"That’s your third reward," they said.  "A taste of things to come."

Meyer: After the fourteenth day, I was given a very tough choice for my reward: suck a real man's dick, or take a pill of female hormones.  I was angry that the commander hadn’t chosen me yet.  I was more feminine that most of the Pleasure Corps!  Part of me wanted to prove my dedication by giving a blow job, and another part of me wanted concrete improvement to my feminine physique.  I already knew by now that the clothes were loaded with estrogen, and that every time anyone wore them it rubbed into their skin and made them female.  I wanted more.  I was ready.

So by my 28^th day, I had already started filling out my bra.  I held off on sucking dick, even though something in me craved to swallow loads of semen.  So I celebrated my latest denial by smoking a pole.

By the following week, I had gone to great lengths to suck more dick, outside the bounds of my candidacy.  I had been sneaking blow jobs to the guards just for fun.  My waist was shrinking.  I was taking it in the ass.

So when they finally chose me, and performed the surgery, I was rewarded with the best news of all: I had had to wait simply because I was being tested for membership in the Elite squad.

Diary: Re-Over-Thinking the Massive Forced Feminization Saga

I think I’ve got the right spin on the mega-story now.

Clearly, it’s too cold now as it stands.  I am missing the accusatory aspect, and I am also missing the element of decision.  It seems that far too many of my candidates are much too willing, and have very little surprise in store.  Also, the first grade courses are far too general.  I think now that all our candidates must begin in Grade 1, and move through the ranks accordingly.

Most importantly, I have isolated what I think is the key turning point in a man’s thought on his way to becoming a woman.  The programme must therefore change its focus slightly, and become more covert about its ultimate goal.  The only thing left is finding a reason for all these men to be in this situation.  All I can think of is prison, and a psycho-social experiment that they each volunteer to participate in to reduce their jail time – or perhaps an alternative sentence.  They can have no idea what the end goal is, but they are all carefully screened and enlisted in the scientific way I have described above.  

Thus the course begins as an exercise in defining female beauty.  All of the men are asked to scour girlie magazines, the internet, or anything at all to find materials upon which to base their study.  They all participate with great enthusiasm to this initial exercise, without knowing the ulterior motive: each man will be subtly encouraged to emulate his paragon of femininity.  It’s a twist on the story of the man who so admired Elle MacPherson’s beauty that he moulded himself in her image.  Here we will have 125 men all choosing an ideal, and finally becoming it.

Grade 1’s goal therefore changes, although the rating system remains intact.  Rather than embarking on some poorly defined, vaguely feminist quest for sympathy for women, first graders will establish their own explicit model of femininity, and begin to worship it.  When they exhibit evidence of having grasped the idea that their servility to it proves its potency as a controlling influence on not only them, but all men, they graduate to Grade 2.  In other words, when they admit that girls rule, they move on.

This becomes the seed for the rest of the course.  They will go on to learn the same things originally scheduled for Grade 2, but in the same ulterior context as Grade 1.  This time, they will focus heavily on all the aspects of their ideals that make them so powerful.  They will not necessarily explore any reason to explain how it affects them so much, but will focus only on identifying and admiring in close detail the exact characteristics of femininity that drive them so crazy.  Inevitably, this will lead to curves, textures, and clothing.

Grade 2 will also be far more maddening, as each participant will be teamed up with an outrageously gorgeous woman who closely matches his ideal.  This woman will actually live in the same cell, and will possess an entire wardrobe of insanely sexy undergarments and evening wear.  The men will continue to wear their prison jumpsuits, but must watch helpless as a living paragon of womanhood dresses and undresses before them, and provides flesh and blood work materials with which to enrich classroom discussions. 

The beauty of this approach is the new method for grading.  No longer will each participant be required to use his newly acquired knowledge of women’s wear to somehow plan a shopping trip for his own feminine wardrobe – an impossible event to justify both in terms of character development and plausibility – but he will now be monitored closely for any signs that he wants to wield the power that he worships.  To graduate to Grade 3, each man must voluntarily put on an article of his cellmate’s clothing for the purpose of making himself feminine.  It is entirely up to each man to show when he wants to graduate.  Of course, he will invariably do it in secret, so he will be monitored without his knowledge.  The moment of graduation will be his first willing and independent foray into his cellmate’s wardrobe, secret or not.  This will signify that he has chosen to at least experiment with becoming feminine.  He will be allowed, in some cases, to experiment for some time before his cellmate confronts him.  That moment will be his graduation.

Imagine the many scenarios: Cellmate barges in on him while he preens in her garter belt and stockings; Cellmate confronts him about stains on belly of her bathing suit, and browbeats him into admitting his crime in a Cinderella-like scenario where he must try it on to prove the innocence he proclaims; he is forced to wear Cellmate’s clothes against his will, because he just doesn’t get it, and he resists bitterly until he realizes how kinky it is and how desperately he looks forward to it, at which point he begins experimenting on his own; man shamelessly asks cellmate to borrow her clothes, and parades around in front of her in them.  The best part is that it varies wildly depending on the rating of each man!  There’s a different story for each one, and each one must ultimately show how a participant chooses to effeminate himself.

The cellmate must cajole her candidate after catching him flagrantly in the act.  She can be angry, supportive, indifferent, embarrassed, or any combination thereof, as long as she understands that the goal is to grant him some portion of her wardrobe for his secret pleasure.  She must promise him to keep his secret, yet allow him to continue his exploration of femininity.  This can go on for an extended period of time.  The candidate only graduates when he deliberately and without coercion reveals his femininity in public.  

Public femininity must, of course, have severe consequences.  Grade 4 students will have their entire wardrobes permanently replaced with those of their female cellmates.  Whether they are comfortable in their new clothes or not makes no difference.  They have already chosen, and must now actively pursue feminine roles, in public.  Since the original plot had participants either buying their own wardrobes or somehow being granted them, it missed the opportunity to expound on the discovery of new ways to become feminine.  Now, each man makes the choice, on his own, to pursue womanhood.  Because his choice involves the clothes of his avatar cellmate goddess, who wears only the things that drive him most crazy, she relinquishes her wardrobe to him at the moment of his graduation.  From then on, the only clothes he can wear are hers.  He has her entire collection at his disposal, but nothing the least bit masculine to fall back on.  Best of all, her entire collection was chosen by him to highlight her femininity in Grade 2.  This must be presented to him as both reward and punishment: his indiscretion must bring him acute humiliation; but the punishment also satisfies his wildest desire for feminine power.  He can take this in as many ways as there are participants.  He can either take full advantage of his luck and make himself as pretty and girlish as he can, or he can resist and go naked until he succumbs again and gradually gives in.

Having admitted that girls rule, and that femininity is the most powerful force on earth, each man gradually learns how to wield that power.  This is a finishing school for sissies.  Graduation occurs when our participant actually uses his feminine powers to seduce a real man, and suck his cock and get fucked in the ass by him. 
The fifth and final grade consists of a reminder of one’s innate masculinity, and how far removed each candidate is now that he wears nothing but lingerie and miniskirts, and sucks cock for fun.  He is reminded of his subservience to womanhood, and that the power of girls is such that he has attempted to transform himself wholly into one.  He is mocked and humiliated.  But it’s only a test.  He is hereby led to becoming ultimately female, by exploring options in plastic surgery and hormone therapy.  Again, he must choose his lot.  I can mostly imagine the reluctant ones unable to resist using their feminine powers, even as they refuse to take the extreme measures required to become completely female, until they finally give in.  Again, 125 candidates, 125 scenarios.

This new scenario has far fewer holes in it.  Now each man must make four excruciating choices before becoming a woman.  Each moment of choice should be enough to make it exciting.  Also, the whole story becomes more plausible, and therefore more sexy.

Diary: The Variables In the Massive Forced Feminization Stories

My feminization camp stories are missing one thing: a goal for its interns.  No, a competition.  I am watching the Miss Universe competition.  I think my candidates should compete in a beauty contest for the privilege of becoming female.  The losers are released into the world as they are; thus they have every incentive to turn completely female, or else re-enter the world as mere transsexuals.

All of the contestants are told from the beginning what they must strive for.  Those who resist must either submit or die, as we have already established.  And of course they must all struggle with how badly they want to be effeminated.  Of course, they all start from different points of view.  The variables:

1. Experience (never imagined, imagined, tried a few times, often, regular)
2. Desire (not interested, indifferent, curious, interested, desperate)
3. Resistance (rebellion, reluctance, passivity, acceptance, zeal)

This gives us 125 participants.  Of course, this is only how they begin.  They all eventually succumb.

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?]