Last night, after a rare lovemaking session with my wife, during which I fantasized about being the woman, I drifted to sleep remembering my old fantasies about becoming a lesbian.
I dreamed about T__ dressing me up in a pink bralette and panties, in good humor. I think I even had on a blonde wig for a while. I was happy and relieved that she accepted me like this. I put on a t-shirt and pants over it so that others wouldn't know, and I asked T__ if my bra straps were visible. "Of course your bra straps are visible, everybody can see them, silly!" she answered, not at all bothered by it. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the wide, satiny straps on my shoulders, not even close to being concealed by the unusually wide neck of my t-shirt. In retrospect, I know that women's t-shirts are often cut that way, so I suppose I might have been wearing one of those. In the dream, however, the point was to cover up my feminine undergarments, but even still I wasn't much bothered that my bra straps showed, because T__ was on board. My mother was visiting, and I still didn't want her to know, so I did hide from her, but I wasn't stressed out about it. I think I realized that I couldn't prevent her from seeing me, so I just happily went about my business, bra straps exposed for all the world to see. Then I met a famous woman singer/songwriter who doesn't really exist, and fawned all over her, telling her what a huge fan I was of her music, and how much influence she had on me in my early adulthood. I was ever conscious of my femininity, and happy and free and proud of it, even as I chatted with this famous person.
It was a wonderful feeling, and I'm still bathing in its afterglow!
Showing posts with label hetero sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hetero sex. Show all posts
Fantasy: Converted
You've seen all sorts of pictures. You've spent countless hours busily downloading them. You stare for hours at them in various men's magazines. You know exactly what you like: shapely girls in bikini-style panties, shiny like metal, or like glistening skin; round, pendulous boobs, restrained in sheer black lace; long, lustrous legs lovingly covered in fishnet stockings, starting at mid-thigh and ending at open-toed heels; waves of long, tousled hair tumbling upon slender, bare shoulders; I could go on. Just imagine if you could ever touch something so exquisitely feminine. What would you do? Where would you start?
I'll tell you what would happen if you found yourself with one of these fantasy girls from your precious pictures. Just think: she's posing, just for you, in the same outfit as in the photo. You forget, but she's used to better men pawing all over her. You'd try to put your hand on her waist first. Maybe touch her thigh. You're overwhelmed by her inhuman femininity. She lets you get so far, but then gently pushes your hand away with a girlish giggle. And you try again. You're reaching for her panties. She slaps your hand away. "My clothes stay on… for now," she says.
She can tell how desperate you are for a piece of her. That's why she's not giving you anything. Just letting you look, and maybe allowing you a little feel here and there to keep your hopes up. You'd do anything right now if she allowed you to simply caress her waist, her knee, her shoulder, or anything at all, with your hand. But she won't let you.
Some men might resort to violence in such a situation. Rush over and grab her. What can she do? Pick her up, throw her onto the bed, and rip off all her clothes. But you would never dream of doing such a thing to one so perfectly, divinely feminine. You are worshipping at the altar of femininity. You dare not defile it. You dare not contravene her will.
She struts around the room. You are hers. You want to be hers. You relish every moment that she tortures you. You drink up her every gorgeous curve, and clamour for more. And she's hardly let you touch her yet! Better still, she hasn't taken anything off! The anticipation is killing you. You need to touch her just like you need your next furtive breath.
Now she approaches you. She lets you caress her hips. She kisses you. You can smell not just her perfume, but the scent of her naked skin. The faint odour nearly knocks you unconscious. You mould your body against hers and keep your eyes open as your tongue meets hers. She closes her eyes. You fondle the waistband of her panties, but she takes her arms from around your neck and moves your hand away, grinning. "Not yet."
She places your hands back on her hips, and turns around. She lets you admire her waist, her hips, and her butt before she slowly leans back against you, rubbing her beautiful, round buttock against your dick. She gyrates her hips back and forth, and sends you into a fit of ecstasy. One hand fondles her hip, her butt, her thigh, and back up as she moves; the other her other hip, her waist, her breast and back down.
She is amazing. You reach for her panty waist and start pulling down, but she stops you. She turns around and playfully shakes a finger at you. "You're bad!" she admonishes. But now she continues her little dance while facing you. She moves forward against you for a brief moment, and your member touches her sanctum sanctotum against both your clothes. But she slowly dances away.
"You need to get naked," she says. You immediately obey. You stand naked in front of the avatar of the Goddess, who still wears her scanty little outfit. She looks at your throbbing erection and says, "I know what you want. You want this." She gestures at her body, knowing it to be worth more to you than everything on Earth. "But I need to know," she says, "just how far you'll go to have it."
"I'll do anything," you answer, meaning it.
"Anything?"
"Yes, anything!"
You know you've just sold your soul to the devil. But you don't care. It's worth it.
She sashays back to you with a demonic grin. "Well, then," she says, huskily, "Let's begin."
She grabs your cock and whispers into your ear, "I know what your deepest fantasy is, even if you don't." She sits you down on the bed and straddles you. You can feel the roughness of her fishnet stockings on your sides – then, the excruciating softness of her panty-clad pussy against your dick. You grab her by the ass and hump away greedily. She pushes you down and gyrates obligingly.
"Do you love me?" she asks.
"Of course I do!" you reply, humping her madly as she sits on top of you.
"Do you worship me?"
"Yes!"
"You'll do anything I ask?"
"Yes!"
"Then STOP! NOW!" she screams. And you stop – not because she said so but because of the shrillness of her ear-piercing command.
She gets up from on top of you. "Good. Very good," she says. "I'm almost convinced."
She sits you back up, and drags you to the middle of the bed. She lies on her back, and drags you back on top of her. She kicks off her shoes. She grabs you by the ass and makes you come all over her belly. And she's not even naked!
"That was a bit premature, wasn't it? But you're ready for more, aren't you?"
And you are. You desperately want to fuck her now.
"Here, lick this off. I don't want this mess all over me."
And you do. You don't even hesitate. You're lapping up your own semen from her belly and the front of her panties, because you just want to taste her skin. Her belly is so infused with girlishness that you'd eat anything off of it just to put your lips to it.
Before you know it, she's had you remove her panties, and you're licking her glorious pussy. Her perfect, slender, fishnet-clad legs are on your shoulders. After she comes, she doesn't let you stop. She takes off her bra, then pulls you up to her by the hair. She lets you fumble around a bit before she guides your stiff cock into her dripping wet cunt.
My God! Do you ever love it! She's bucking like a bronco, and you're struggling to keep up. You grab her nipples, her ass, her clit, her hair, her thigh, her waist, her shoulder, and all you can think is: girl, girl, girl, girl, girl, girl, girl, girl girl girl girl GIRL! You want to come a million times. You never want to take her hands off of her. You want to explore her forever. You want to flip her around so you can admire her from every angle. She lets you.
"I know what you're thinking," she says as you fuck her pretty brains out. You've come at least fifteen times by now, and you're only getting hornier. "You can't get enough of me, can you?"
"No!" you pant, "I can't!"
"You want to touch me forever, don't you? You don't ever want to let go of my girlie bits, do you?"
"Yes! No I don't!"
"Well I hate to break it to you, but I'm done for tonight."
"Please! I need more!" You continue to fuck her frantically, clutching her tighter so she can't move away. But she's not trying; she's still meeting your every stroke with her own enthusiastic rhythm.
"I know. I have a solution for you."
"What's that?"
"What better way to eternally explore the female body than by becoming a girl?"
"What do you mean?!?" you cry, as your heart begins to pound with dread and excitement, your pelvis desperately keeping time.
"Think about it: if you were a girl…"
You're fucking her really hard now, but her voice is mesmerizing.
"You'd get to look at girl thighs…"
You moan as you look at her thighs, still clad in those ultra-sexy stockings.
"…Girl boobs…"
You realize that she's been fondling your nipple ever since you moved her hand there five minutes ago.
"…Girl waist…"
You prop yourself up on your hands, pounding harder still, and picture the slenderness of her waist on your own body, and just below that…
"…Girl ass…"
The picture is vivid in your mind. Oh…
"…Girl pussy…"
My…
"…Girl everything…"
GODDESS!
"…all the time!"
Your body convulses violently. You feel like you're having a heart attack. The pain in your crotch is excruciating.
"You'd get to touch girl non-stop for the rest of your life!"
Your skin tingles all over your body. You expect to withdraw from her and gape in horror at your own moist, tender pussy where your mighty penis once stood. This orgasm intensifies tenfold and reverberates throughout your entire body with this epiphany.
"And just think…"
You are shaking yourself loose from her, even as your climax continues, as you picture your now curvaceous body trembling as femininely as hers.
"You'll even get to use your pussy!"
"No!" you scream, at the top of your lungs, shrilly, like a woman, as you realize that you crave a huge, erect penis inside your cunt, even more desperately than you wanted your own penis inside hers.
"That's right! You get to fuck like a girl, too!"
What you thought was your climax a moment ago pales in comparison to the unbearable pleasure emanating from your crotch, and drowning your entire body. In your mind, you are her. You picture yourself as her from the very beginning, teasing, sashaying, dancing, and especially fucking. You long to taste another man's semen in your mouth. You deeply regret not having savoured your own when you ate it off of her belly.
"You'll even get to wear garter belts, stockings, lace, bikinis…"
 |
| Ali Landry |
Then, an hour later, you come down at last, when you suddenly realize that you are covered in semen, and that your hand is fondling your softening penis.
You have not become a girl, as you had hoped.
"So what do you say? Sound like a good idea?"
She's been sitting in a chair across the room, waiting for you to come back to Earth. You can't remember if this was some weird dream, or if she really did fuck you, and convince you to betray your own gender forever and become female. She is naked, and still terrifyingly beautiful. "What do you mean?" you sputter, shaking the cobwebs from your wet dream.
"You know exactly what I mean. Get dressed."
You are confused. Your first instinct is to reach for your pants, but the idea fills you with some inexplicable dread. You drop your pants back on the floor, perplexed.
"Is something wrong," she asks, pointedly.
"I… I have no clothes," you answer uncertainly.
"What about those pants, silly?" She plays coy. You glance at her, and take in that gorgeous smile of hers, and how sexy her butt is, and how you long for it once more.
"I can't wear those," you answer confidently. "Can I borrow something of yours?"
"Like what?" she replies, taken aback.
"Well, can we start with some underwear?" you retort. You don't feel like playing games anymore.
"I don't have any men's underwear, silly. You can't wear mine."
You start to wonder if you're losing your mind. You figure that she must be testing you.
"Can I please?"
"What?"
"Please, can I wear your underwear?"
"You can't wear women's underwear. You're a man. Put on your pants."
"I don't want to be a man. I want to be a girl." You blush as you say it. "I want to be a girl, and I want to wear girlie clothes."
"Are you fucking serious? After the night we had last night? This isn't funny."
"I am serious. Don't mess with my head. You convinced me last night that the best way for me to love you is to become you. Don't pretend it didn't happen."
"Come on, now," she says. "You're starting to scare me."
You start to feel horribly embarrassed. Is this some kind of sick joke?
"OK, I know you're kidding," she says. "But sure, have it your way. You can put on the outfit I had on last night. Come on, put it on!"
You pick the panties up off the floor, and slowly, gracefully, slip them on. You already feel sleek and curvy. You can picture your pussy again. You've never worn panties before – only in your imagination. Now you feel the luxurious satin tightly against your hips and especially your crotch. You like it, an awful lot.
Encouraged, you find the bra on the other side of the bed. She follows your every movement like a hawk. You wrap it around your waist, its back on your belly, and tie it; then you turn it the right way as you put your arms through the straps and bring it up to your pathetically small boobs. You love the way it feels tight around your chest, and how unforgettably feminine it feels to bare your waist between matching satin undergarments.
"You're really going to do this, aren't you?"
You take your time rolling on the stockings. You lament the fact that you have so much unsightly body hair to get rid of. You almost want to stop and shave your legs now, but you just can't resist the feeling of enveloping your legs in girlishness.
She tosses you the dress as she sees you strapping on the shoes. They are far too small, but you can't bear to wear anything else. You thank her and slip into the little sausage casing she wore last night at the club. You feel marvelously empowered.
"So, are you ready to go out?" she asks. She put on some jeans and a t-shirt while you were busy with your precious stockings.
"Well, I'd have liked to shave my legs, but this will have to do for now. Thank you so much for the clothes! I feel wonderful!"
And you go out onto the street, dressed like a girl.
No sooner do you go out the door than she drags you back in and says, "OK, you've passed the first test. Now go shave your body, and I'll have a surprise for you when you're done.
And you go into the shower and shave off all your body hair. You're very excited about your new look. You imagine that maybe she'll bring back some more clothes for you. You get out and put on her clothes again. She arrives just in time with a man.
"Here's your second test. If you really want to be a girl, you'll enjoy this."
And you do. You enjoy it even more than you ever enjoyed fucking any girl. He really makes you feel like a girl. At first, you're coy about sucking his cock, but the way his hands fondle your sleek lingerie-clad body turns you on so much that you can't help but encourage him. You lament not having a pussy, but settle for him fucking your ass. It feels so feminine to have a penis inside you that you come with every third stroke. And after he comes deep inside you, you don't hesitate to revive his erection with some more fellatio. The whole time you imagine that he really is fucking your pussy.
After he's done with you, you help him fuck her. You get him hard, and guide his dick into her pussy. You live vicariously through her for a while. She lets him do things that she never let you do to her. He even fucks her in the ass, and you feel a tinge of jealousy – not of him, but of her.
Finally, you relax with a cocktail of feminizing hormones, and put on the most outrageously girlish lingerie in her closet, well on your way to becoming a she-male sissy faggot chick-with-a-dick.
Fiction: Caught on the Front of the Battle of the Sexes
So many fantasies tonight…
It all started with a picture in my head of Milla Jovovich half naked crouched down with a frilly black garter on her thigh. I have never seen such an image in my entire life, but I can imagine it. That’s what I want to look like right now. I’m imagining that I’m wearing that frilly black garter, and it’s the last straw: I can no longer pretend that I can go back to wearing men’s clothes ever again. My thigh is bald and totally effeminate now. I feel relieved about slipping into a little black dress, and going out as a woman in public for all to see, and being indistinguishable from any other hot young tart. Plus I look like Milla Jovovich. My transformation is complete.
Another thought: girl says, “What made you think no-one would know?” She has caught me and confronted me, caught me wearing black panties, a bra, and – you guessed it – a frilly black garter on one of my thighs. Or maybe she caught me rifling through her things, and is showing me what it’s like to wear them. And I’m going along because it makes me feel like Milla Jovovich.
Finally, it’s the fantasy of the worldwide battle of the sexes. I am the commander of the last bastion of masculinity on the front. Female civilization is destroying manhood. I have been instructed about the horrendous dangers of coming into contact with any feminine undergarment, unless it is being worn by a sexy female. It is perfectly ok to fuck girls, as long as you don’t get tricked into wearing their clothes. I have seen ultra-virile men turned into flaming transsexuals in a matter of weeks after they got cajoled into putting on a bra or some panties by a hunnie they just laid.
I get seduced by a girl who looks just like Milla Jovovich. I fuck her brains out one night – I fuck lots of girls here on the front. I don’t know if they’re all trying to seduce the fighting men to turn them into girls, or if they’re just horny and want dicks inside them. Anyway, I wake up alone in my barracks with a frilly black garter on my left thigh. I groan in disbelief, knowing that I am corrupted, and that I will soon become a flaming transsexual. I vow to fight it harder than any man ever fought.
I remember the worst case. Johnson came to my barracks in the middle of the night, bawling his eyes out. He said that he was sorry, and that he wasn’t a traitor, that he just wanted to fuck her. But he had somehow found himself in a moment of playful passion, in spite of his training, wearing the girl’s bra for a laugh. I told him to be strong, and to fight every instinct of girlhood he had. For the next four or five days, his spirits were pretty high. Just in case, we got him some whores and had him do the nastiest most degrading sex acts on them, as according to our training, it should get him back in the spirit of manhood. But he started to fade somehow. He began to look more and more nervous with each passing day. By the end of twelve days, he was quaking like a leaf. On day fourteen, he was seen running out of his quarters with a whore. She was buck naked. He was wearing her sleazy tarty lingerie and miniskirt and tight tube top and had his face all made up. They had him parading on the front lines prancing around like a total sissy the next morning. They made sure that we wouldn’t be able to get a decent shot at him to take him out.
Johnson was the worst case by far. He voluntarily put on that girl’s bra, and lasted a quarter of the time that most men with his affliction do. One guy held out for a year before he got caught masturbating in a one-piece women’s swimsuit. He was taken out of his tent and shot as he was. All reports confirm that he couldn’t possibly have gotten that swimsuit but the very same day, when he rode a cheap redheaded bitch like a bronco, and chased her off the camp naked. It was her swimsuit. He had been in remission for so long that we all figured he had long since recovered, and was simply taking advantage of the health benefits by fucking hookers every day. It turns out his diary was filled with anxiety and fear, as he fought tooth and nail with his fantasies of being the girls he fucked every day.
There are some survivors, but they’re not fit for the front. There is not one single case of any cure having worked for anyone who ever wore women’s clothes. I vowed to be the first.
As the commander of the last battalion of men on the front, I had to maintain my manhood at all costs. If I gave in, and if any of the men found out about my potential defeat, then all would be lost. I would have to keep it secret, even as I fight against whatever pernicious mind control had affected so many of my men.
I gripped the garter and just as I moved to tear it off, I hesitated. I would have to find a way to dispose of it completely. Burn it. Bury it. Swallow it. I could not keep it with my gear, because of the mandatory inspections that were meant to weed out any transvestitism among the troops. If I buried it, the upturned earth would be a dead giveaway. If I burnt it, the smoke and flames would surely attract suspicion. I could never swallow it without making myself horribly ill. So how would I dispose of it? I fingered the elastic on my thigh as I considered this.
Suddenly realizing what my hand was doing, I angrily slid it off my leg and flung it down onto the bed in front of me. I stared at it for a long time. I pondered how the lace and satin alone made it incredibly feminine, and how the bunched up satin made it look so frilly and delicate and girlish. How could something so unfathomably feminine gotten onto my muscular, macho, virile leg and not wither against my undeniable masculinity? I pictured it on my thigh again. I didn’t feel the least bit feminine. I was sure that I would survive it.
Then, my thoughts became clouded with a most insidious idea. My problem was that I had to dispose of the garter somehow, as its existence compromised my manhood in the eyes of my troops. If I was unaffected by it, I could hide it on myself, as no-one would ever check my own clothes; if I had been affected by it, I might as well wear it since I would be turning into a flaming faggot sissy eventually anyway. Either way, I had found a solution to my problem: I would wear the garter under my uniform. I liked the idea of putting it on again. I enjoyed the thrill of challenging my manhood.
Of course, that was bullshit, and I knew it. I found myself fantastically excited about the prospect of wearing the garter again. Worse, I was increasingly aroused about the prospect of my capitulation. I giggled at the thought that I could wear a frilly sexy girlish garter all day and no-one would be the wiser. I imagined how sexy it must feel for my leg to be bald, and wearing silk and lace panties and a brassiere to match under a little black cocktail dress. I thought about Johnson’s fourteen-day record, and how I, the most virile of men, would shatter it by 13 days, 23 hours, and 55 minutes.
I jolted myself back to my senses. I had to resist! I could not allow myself to cave in! I reached for the garter and was about to throw it into the fire when the alarm sounded warning of an attack. I got dressed as quickly as I could and rushed out of my quarters to engage the enemy.
We were hopelessly outnumbered, and we were caught totally by surprise. We fought hard for maybe 2 hours before we were overrun and captured.
I saw that all my men were led into semi-private areas where they were being seduced into wearing women’s underwear. They were all trained to resist to the death. I was led to a completely private dressing room filled with lingerie and sexy dresses and swimwear. Milla was there waiting for me.
She stripped off my uniform. “Did you honestly think that we wouldn’t know?” she asked, pointing at the garter on my left leg. I blushed.
“As you know, all our captives are shown the ways of women’s clothes. I’m going to leave you here by yourself for an hour. How you emerge will decide the fate of all masculinity the world over.”
She slunk out of the room, leaving me there alone.
I couldn’t resist my overpowering urge to try on some lingerie. I desperately needed to get some panties on. But then I got distracted by the bikinis. Knowing that I had only an hour, I flung off my panties and got myself into a gorgeous little string bikini, and pranced around for a few minutes in absolute bliss. Then I tried on some one-piece swimsuits just for the experience.
Suddenly I realized what I would be subjecting my men to. Either they were suffering the same glorious discovery as I was, or they were staunchly resisting with every ounce of manhood they had. If I emerged from here in an hour wearing any article of women’s clothing, I would thereby destroy everything I held dear. If I came out naked and proudly masculine, the men back home could take some of my courage and fight on. But I had an entire hour! I could do both! I could make myself as girlish as I could for 59 minutes, and strip down again just in time…
Of course, if all my men are being effeminated anyway, I might as well enjoy myself. Besides, why would I want the fight to continue? I couldn’t consider this a defeat in any way, as I was so overwhelmingly overjoyed to be turned into a girl.
When Milla knocked on the door, I found myself in a slinky black nylon dress, fishnet stockings, pumps, and a lacy little thong. I smiled lewdly at her as she took my hand to lead me out the door. I pulled her out of the way, and sashayed out the door like a supermodel, more confident in myself than ever before. The rustle of the dress against my hips was exquisite. I was completely effeminate. Every last one of my men still wore his uniform. They had all fully resisted.
I was the only one who gave in, and I gave in more than any man in the history of this conflict. I had betrayed my gender. They all looked at me with horror.
I laughed with great gusto at them. “I am a girl now! Fuck all you men!”
Demoralized, they all became playboy bunnies.
The girls had plans for me, though. I had been such a smashing success (I even started taking hormones that very day) that they figured I would be a perfect agent back in my homeland. They sent me back undercover as a man to bring them down from the inside. The only way I could agree to it was if I got to keep an article of women’s clothing on at all times. I couldn’t bear the thought of being away from my flowery dainty girlie things.
I wore a slinky little black garter under my clothes as I seduced the male government into total absolute submission.
It all started with a picture in my head of Milla Jovovich half naked crouched down with a frilly black garter on her thigh. I have never seen such an image in my entire life, but I can imagine it. That’s what I want to look like right now. I’m imagining that I’m wearing that frilly black garter, and it’s the last straw: I can no longer pretend that I can go back to wearing men’s clothes ever again. My thigh is bald and totally effeminate now. I feel relieved about slipping into a little black dress, and going out as a woman in public for all to see, and being indistinguishable from any other hot young tart. Plus I look like Milla Jovovich. My transformation is complete.
Another thought: girl says, “What made you think no-one would know?” She has caught me and confronted me, caught me wearing black panties, a bra, and – you guessed it – a frilly black garter on one of my thighs. Or maybe she caught me rifling through her things, and is showing me what it’s like to wear them. And I’m going along because it makes me feel like Milla Jovovich.
Finally, it’s the fantasy of the worldwide battle of the sexes. I am the commander of the last bastion of masculinity on the front. Female civilization is destroying manhood. I have been instructed about the horrendous dangers of coming into contact with any feminine undergarment, unless it is being worn by a sexy female. It is perfectly ok to fuck girls, as long as you don’t get tricked into wearing their clothes. I have seen ultra-virile men turned into flaming transsexuals in a matter of weeks after they got cajoled into putting on a bra or some panties by a hunnie they just laid.
I get seduced by a girl who looks just like Milla Jovovich. I fuck her brains out one night – I fuck lots of girls here on the front. I don’t know if they’re all trying to seduce the fighting men to turn them into girls, or if they’re just horny and want dicks inside them. Anyway, I wake up alone in my barracks with a frilly black garter on my left thigh. I groan in disbelief, knowing that I am corrupted, and that I will soon become a flaming transsexual. I vow to fight it harder than any man ever fought.
I remember the worst case. Johnson came to my barracks in the middle of the night, bawling his eyes out. He said that he was sorry, and that he wasn’t a traitor, that he just wanted to fuck her. But he had somehow found himself in a moment of playful passion, in spite of his training, wearing the girl’s bra for a laugh. I told him to be strong, and to fight every instinct of girlhood he had. For the next four or five days, his spirits were pretty high. Just in case, we got him some whores and had him do the nastiest most degrading sex acts on them, as according to our training, it should get him back in the spirit of manhood. But he started to fade somehow. He began to look more and more nervous with each passing day. By the end of twelve days, he was quaking like a leaf. On day fourteen, he was seen running out of his quarters with a whore. She was buck naked. He was wearing her sleazy tarty lingerie and miniskirt and tight tube top and had his face all made up. They had him parading on the front lines prancing around like a total sissy the next morning. They made sure that we wouldn’t be able to get a decent shot at him to take him out.
Johnson was the worst case by far. He voluntarily put on that girl’s bra, and lasted a quarter of the time that most men with his affliction do. One guy held out for a year before he got caught masturbating in a one-piece women’s swimsuit. He was taken out of his tent and shot as he was. All reports confirm that he couldn’t possibly have gotten that swimsuit but the very same day, when he rode a cheap redheaded bitch like a bronco, and chased her off the camp naked. It was her swimsuit. He had been in remission for so long that we all figured he had long since recovered, and was simply taking advantage of the health benefits by fucking hookers every day. It turns out his diary was filled with anxiety and fear, as he fought tooth and nail with his fantasies of being the girls he fucked every day.
There are some survivors, but they’re not fit for the front. There is not one single case of any cure having worked for anyone who ever wore women’s clothes. I vowed to be the first.
As the commander of the last battalion of men on the front, I had to maintain my manhood at all costs. If I gave in, and if any of the men found out about my potential defeat, then all would be lost. I would have to keep it secret, even as I fight against whatever pernicious mind control had affected so many of my men.
I gripped the garter and just as I moved to tear it off, I hesitated. I would have to find a way to dispose of it completely. Burn it. Bury it. Swallow it. I could not keep it with my gear, because of the mandatory inspections that were meant to weed out any transvestitism among the troops. If I buried it, the upturned earth would be a dead giveaway. If I burnt it, the smoke and flames would surely attract suspicion. I could never swallow it without making myself horribly ill. So how would I dispose of it? I fingered the elastic on my thigh as I considered this.
Suddenly realizing what my hand was doing, I angrily slid it off my leg and flung it down onto the bed in front of me. I stared at it for a long time. I pondered how the lace and satin alone made it incredibly feminine, and how the bunched up satin made it look so frilly and delicate and girlish. How could something so unfathomably feminine gotten onto my muscular, macho, virile leg and not wither against my undeniable masculinity? I pictured it on my thigh again. I didn’t feel the least bit feminine. I was sure that I would survive it.
Then, my thoughts became clouded with a most insidious idea. My problem was that I had to dispose of the garter somehow, as its existence compromised my manhood in the eyes of my troops. If I was unaffected by it, I could hide it on myself, as no-one would ever check my own clothes; if I had been affected by it, I might as well wear it since I would be turning into a flaming faggot sissy eventually anyway. Either way, I had found a solution to my problem: I would wear the garter under my uniform. I liked the idea of putting it on again. I enjoyed the thrill of challenging my manhood.
Of course, that was bullshit, and I knew it. I found myself fantastically excited about the prospect of wearing the garter again. Worse, I was increasingly aroused about the prospect of my capitulation. I giggled at the thought that I could wear a frilly sexy girlish garter all day and no-one would be the wiser. I imagined how sexy it must feel for my leg to be bald, and wearing silk and lace panties and a brassiere to match under a little black cocktail dress. I thought about Johnson’s fourteen-day record, and how I, the most virile of men, would shatter it by 13 days, 23 hours, and 55 minutes.
I jolted myself back to my senses. I had to resist! I could not allow myself to cave in! I reached for the garter and was about to throw it into the fire when the alarm sounded warning of an attack. I got dressed as quickly as I could and rushed out of my quarters to engage the enemy.
We were hopelessly outnumbered, and we were caught totally by surprise. We fought hard for maybe 2 hours before we were overrun and captured.
I saw that all my men were led into semi-private areas where they were being seduced into wearing women’s underwear. They were all trained to resist to the death. I was led to a completely private dressing room filled with lingerie and sexy dresses and swimwear. Milla was there waiting for me.
She stripped off my uniform. “Did you honestly think that we wouldn’t know?” she asked, pointing at the garter on my left leg. I blushed.
“As you know, all our captives are shown the ways of women’s clothes. I’m going to leave you here by yourself for an hour. How you emerge will decide the fate of all masculinity the world over.”
She slunk out of the room, leaving me there alone.
I couldn’t resist my overpowering urge to try on some lingerie. I desperately needed to get some panties on. But then I got distracted by the bikinis. Knowing that I had only an hour, I flung off my panties and got myself into a gorgeous little string bikini, and pranced around for a few minutes in absolute bliss. Then I tried on some one-piece swimsuits just for the experience.
Suddenly I realized what I would be subjecting my men to. Either they were suffering the same glorious discovery as I was, or they were staunchly resisting with every ounce of manhood they had. If I emerged from here in an hour wearing any article of women’s clothing, I would thereby destroy everything I held dear. If I came out naked and proudly masculine, the men back home could take some of my courage and fight on. But I had an entire hour! I could do both! I could make myself as girlish as I could for 59 minutes, and strip down again just in time…
Of course, if all my men are being effeminated anyway, I might as well enjoy myself. Besides, why would I want the fight to continue? I couldn’t consider this a defeat in any way, as I was so overwhelmingly overjoyed to be turned into a girl.
When Milla knocked on the door, I found myself in a slinky black nylon dress, fishnet stockings, pumps, and a lacy little thong. I smiled lewdly at her as she took my hand to lead me out the door. I pulled her out of the way, and sashayed out the door like a supermodel, more confident in myself than ever before. The rustle of the dress against my hips was exquisite. I was completely effeminate. Every last one of my men still wore his uniform. They had all fully resisted.
I was the only one who gave in, and I gave in more than any man in the history of this conflict. I had betrayed my gender. They all looked at me with horror.
I laughed with great gusto at them. “I am a girl now! Fuck all you men!”
Demoralized, they all became playboy bunnies.
The girls had plans for me, though. I had been such a smashing success (I even started taking hormones that very day) that they figured I would be a perfect agent back in my homeland. They sent me back undercover as a man to bring them down from the inside. The only way I could agree to it was if I got to keep an article of women’s clothing on at all times. I couldn’t bear the thought of being away from my flowery dainty girlie things.
I wore a slinky little black garter under my clothes as I seduced the male government into total absolute submission.
Fiction: Losing In Style
It’s such a release to wear your clothes, to turn myself into a sexy, gorgeous girl, like you. It makes me feel so unbearably sexy when I pretend to be a girl. It feels so naughty. I should definitely not be doing it. But it’s so much fun! I love the way silk and satin feel on my skin. More than that, I love the way your clothes are themselves innately feminine. I love the way my wearing them obliterates any pretense I ever had of being masculine.
I long to wipe my manhood away, and reveal myself for the woman that I am. I long to transform myself into a girl, and do everything that real girls do with complete impunity.
It starts when I make fun of homosexuals. I laugh at them and denigrate them. But my girl, she takes offence. She says that my making fun of them is proof that I’m not comfortable with my own sexuality, and that the fact that I laugh at gays only betrays the fact that I am secretly like them, or at the very least that I secretly want to be gay. She goes on with this ad nauseum. I joke with her that she’s a lesbian, and would love to have pussy. When she objects, I call her a hypocrite for being afraid of her own homosexuality. So we make a bet: she says she’ll see me take a cock in the ass and in the mouth voluntarily in no more than 90 days; I say she won’t, but I’ll have her eating carpet by that time. If I win, I get to have a threesome with her and another girl of my choice; if she wins, she gets to have a threesome with me and another guy. In either case, the more numerous gender must perform lewd homosexual acts for the entertainment of the lone member of the opposite sex.
90 days is a very short time to completely transform any man, and especially me. I ask her how she expects to do it (we stipulated at the time of the bet that there would be no force allowed, nor any psychological shanghaiing such as hypnosis, nor any surreptitious feeding of hormones or mind control drugs; it would all have to be done through conscious actions; she would have to win me over with convincing arguments) and she tells me that all she has to do is plant a seed in my head, and I’ll begin my slow but inevitable transformation immediately. She also mentions that I won’t even know what the seed is until it starts to eat away at my façade of manhood.
She tells me that the only way I can avoid becoming a flaming faggot in 90 days is by wearing her underwear.
I laugh at this blatant contradiction. More likely I would begin my hopeless spiral into gayness only if I did as she said.
"So then," she says triumphantly, "you admit that it’s possible that you’re going to become a total raging cocksucker."
"Never," I reply.
"Then why are you afraid of wearing panties and a bra?"
"That would be gay. Besides, that’s just your trick to get me to fall into your trap. I will not make myself the least bit feminine for any reason."
With that the seed is planted. I try to imagine how wearing women’s underwear could possibly save me from becoming a fag, but I just don’t see it. Confident in my manhood, I start to imagine the ways I could convince girlie to develop a taste for pussy. Visions of girls making out together dance in my head.
I am pretty confident at this point. I am so confident that I laugh some more about the idea that my wearing women’s underwear could somehow undermine my manhood. I figure that I could probably do it and come out unscathed. Nothing can change what I am.
She starts to taunt me when we make love. She tells me to imagine what it’s like for a girl when she gets to have a big fat dick slide inside her. She tells me to picture what a girl tastes when she has a mouthful of cock. Meanwhile, I proselytize about the wonders of femininity, about how incredibly sexy women are, and how she knows it. I convince her that she looks at fashion magazines because she knows how pretty girls are, and she wants to taste one. This gets me hotter than hell. I love thinking about her fucking another girl. Girls everywhere. Nothing but girl. Girrrrrl girl girl woman girl girl girl girlie girl.
Somehow, my appreciation of girls becomes tainted with the graphic detail my girlie gave when describing how it feels to have cock inside her. I begin to imagine being a girl. Not fucking or anything, just being. Being sexy and girlish and curvy and effeminate. I know what makes girls sexy, and I can feel it all over myself. By day 30 I’m worried sick about losing the bet. I can’t stop thinking about how sexy it must feel to be a girl. Every time becomes more intense. Soon I start fantasizing about actually wearing her panties. The idea makes me incredibly horny. I figure, it’s gotta be worth a shot. Maybe she wasn’t kidding, and wearing her panties will save me from these nasty thoughts.
The moment I put them on, as my knees quiver and buckle while I collapse in a sexual heap of girl-mad femininity, I realize that it was a trick, that I had now lost all hope of ever winning the bet. Worse, this realization filled me with unbridled ecstasy. While I wore those panties and that bra, I rejoiced in the fantasy that they would turn me momentarily into a complete perfect female, and that I could start fucking and sucking dicks forthwith. I pictured myself as a girl, with a big fat cock in my pussy, in my mouth, and luxuriating in every second of it. I could feel the bra shaping my chest into a pair of full, perky tits; I felt the panties mould my butt into a cute little round girlie’s ass, and suck in my waist, and wither away my precious cock into a delicate, delicious cunt. And when I came I turned livid with shame and put it all away never to be spoken of or thought about again.
That’s when I knew that she wasn’t kidding after all. The experience of wearing her panties showed me just how close I am to becoming a flaming homosexual. I could never even think of doing it again for as long as I live.
Just to be sure, I repeated the experience with all kinds of lingerie, swimwear, and anything else I could think of. That ought to teach me.
By day 60, I could no longer pretend that I could win. This is when I realized that my pride wasn’t worth giving up the intense pleasure of being feminine. I couldn’t help but celebrate by buying my own lingerie and electrolyzing off all my unsightly body hair. I still kept up appearances for girlie’s sake, because I wanted to surprise her. I sucked my first dick on day 75. I got fucked in the ass the very next day.
I manage to surprise girlie on day 89 by contriving to have her walk in on me sucking and fucking dick simultaneously while wearing my own babydoll and fishnet stockings. From then on, we become like sisters, except we have a threesome with this gorgeous hunk of a guy to seal the bet.
I long to wipe my manhood away, and reveal myself for the woman that I am. I long to transform myself into a girl, and do everything that real girls do with complete impunity.
It starts when I make fun of homosexuals. I laugh at them and denigrate them. But my girl, she takes offence. She says that my making fun of them is proof that I’m not comfortable with my own sexuality, and that the fact that I laugh at gays only betrays the fact that I am secretly like them, or at the very least that I secretly want to be gay. She goes on with this ad nauseum. I joke with her that she’s a lesbian, and would love to have pussy. When she objects, I call her a hypocrite for being afraid of her own homosexuality. So we make a bet: she says she’ll see me take a cock in the ass and in the mouth voluntarily in no more than 90 days; I say she won’t, but I’ll have her eating carpet by that time. If I win, I get to have a threesome with her and another girl of my choice; if she wins, she gets to have a threesome with me and another guy. In either case, the more numerous gender must perform lewd homosexual acts for the entertainment of the lone member of the opposite sex.
90 days is a very short time to completely transform any man, and especially me. I ask her how she expects to do it (we stipulated at the time of the bet that there would be no force allowed, nor any psychological shanghaiing such as hypnosis, nor any surreptitious feeding of hormones or mind control drugs; it would all have to be done through conscious actions; she would have to win me over with convincing arguments) and she tells me that all she has to do is plant a seed in my head, and I’ll begin my slow but inevitable transformation immediately. She also mentions that I won’t even know what the seed is until it starts to eat away at my façade of manhood.
She tells me that the only way I can avoid becoming a flaming faggot in 90 days is by wearing her underwear.
I laugh at this blatant contradiction. More likely I would begin my hopeless spiral into gayness only if I did as she said.
"So then," she says triumphantly, "you admit that it’s possible that you’re going to become a total raging cocksucker."
"Never," I reply.
"Then why are you afraid of wearing panties and a bra?"
"That would be gay. Besides, that’s just your trick to get me to fall into your trap. I will not make myself the least bit feminine for any reason."
With that the seed is planted. I try to imagine how wearing women’s underwear could possibly save me from becoming a fag, but I just don’t see it. Confident in my manhood, I start to imagine the ways I could convince girlie to develop a taste for pussy. Visions of girls making out together dance in my head.
I am pretty confident at this point. I am so confident that I laugh some more about the idea that my wearing women’s underwear could somehow undermine my manhood. I figure that I could probably do it and come out unscathed. Nothing can change what I am.
She starts to taunt me when we make love. She tells me to imagine what it’s like for a girl when she gets to have a big fat dick slide inside her. She tells me to picture what a girl tastes when she has a mouthful of cock. Meanwhile, I proselytize about the wonders of femininity, about how incredibly sexy women are, and how she knows it. I convince her that she looks at fashion magazines because she knows how pretty girls are, and she wants to taste one. This gets me hotter than hell. I love thinking about her fucking another girl. Girls everywhere. Nothing but girl. Girrrrrl girl girl woman girl girl girl girlie girl.
Somehow, my appreciation of girls becomes tainted with the graphic detail my girlie gave when describing how it feels to have cock inside her. I begin to imagine being a girl. Not fucking or anything, just being. Being sexy and girlish and curvy and effeminate. I know what makes girls sexy, and I can feel it all over myself. By day 30 I’m worried sick about losing the bet. I can’t stop thinking about how sexy it must feel to be a girl. Every time becomes more intense. Soon I start fantasizing about actually wearing her panties. The idea makes me incredibly horny. I figure, it’s gotta be worth a shot. Maybe she wasn’t kidding, and wearing her panties will save me from these nasty thoughts.
The moment I put them on, as my knees quiver and buckle while I collapse in a sexual heap of girl-mad femininity, I realize that it was a trick, that I had now lost all hope of ever winning the bet. Worse, this realization filled me with unbridled ecstasy. While I wore those panties and that bra, I rejoiced in the fantasy that they would turn me momentarily into a complete perfect female, and that I could start fucking and sucking dicks forthwith. I pictured myself as a girl, with a big fat cock in my pussy, in my mouth, and luxuriating in every second of it. I could feel the bra shaping my chest into a pair of full, perky tits; I felt the panties mould my butt into a cute little round girlie’s ass, and suck in my waist, and wither away my precious cock into a delicate, delicious cunt. And when I came I turned livid with shame and put it all away never to be spoken of or thought about again.
That’s when I knew that she wasn’t kidding after all. The experience of wearing her panties showed me just how close I am to becoming a flaming homosexual. I could never even think of doing it again for as long as I live.
Just to be sure, I repeated the experience with all kinds of lingerie, swimwear, and anything else I could think of. That ought to teach me.
By day 60, I could no longer pretend that I could win. This is when I realized that my pride wasn’t worth giving up the intense pleasure of being feminine. I couldn’t help but celebrate by buying my own lingerie and electrolyzing off all my unsightly body hair. I still kept up appearances for girlie’s sake, because I wanted to surprise her. I sucked my first dick on day 75. I got fucked in the ass the very next day.
I manage to surprise girlie on day 89 by contriving to have her walk in on me sucking and fucking dick simultaneously while wearing my own babydoll and fishnet stockings. From then on, we become like sisters, except we have a threesome with this gorgeous hunk of a guy to seal the bet.
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)
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)
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