A Bizarre Dream

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

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

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

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

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

Fiction: Photo Shoot

The fantasy is the same as always.  Different articles of women's clothing make me succumb to become ultra-feminine.  I become a cheerleader for the LA Clippers.  I am coerced into competing to become feminine.  I single-handedly betray my entire gender when I chose femininity over masculinity. 

For whatever reason, I find myself in the position of having to choose, and I can't help but choose womanhood.

No, here it is:

I'm walking around in public, minding my own business.  Some guy comes up to me and asks me if I'm there for the photo shoot.  "Photo shoot?" I ask.

"Yeah, aren't you one of the models?"

"Um, no..."

"Oh, I'm sorry.  I thought you were here for the shoot.  We've been waiting 40 minutes for our guy to show up, and so far no sign of him.  Say, would you want to try it out yourself?  We'll make you a big star!"

"No, thanks."

"Seriously, you're even better looking than the guy we actually were gonna pay to do this."

"Whatever, pal.  See ya."

"Come on!  We'll give you his money!  All you have to do is pose!"

"How much money?"

"Five grand."

"Guaranteed?  No strings attached?"

"No way!  We don't just pick up anybody off the street.  Come on, we're desperate, we're late, and we just want to get this done already.  Are you in or not?"

"Wait a minute.  You promise there won't be any bullshit?  I want half the money up front, or I walk.  You're just some salesman trying to trick me into some bullshit that I'll end up having to pay for."

"Fine," he says, counting twenty-five hundred dollar bills in front of me, and putting them in my hand.  "Now just go stand over there, and Tracy will take care of you."

Dumfounded, I do as he says.

Tracy sends me down the hall.  But I spot a ridiculously sexy woman in lingerie up ahead.  I figure, what the hey, even if it's not where I'm supposed to be, I've already got $2500.  All I want to do is look.  I'll just pretend that I'm there for the shoot.

She looks so hot in her stockings and bustier and undies.  She even has a feather boa.  Inside are a whole bunch of other scantily clad ladies.  I stand there for a full minute staring at all the pussy lounging around in that room.  A photographer has one girl on a bed, striking bawdy poses.  It takes a while to register that some guy with a clipboard is trying to get my attention.  "Hey, buddy, if you're not part of the shoot, then get the hell outta here!" he says.

"Um," I stammer, "I am part of the shoot."  I hand him a slip of paper that I got from Tracy, who sent me in this general direction in the first place.

He glances at it for a while, and sizes me up.  "Ok, sweetie, then you'd better get into costume quick."  With that, he shuffles me to a dressing room.  Inside are Betty and Monica, who are middle-aged but trying hard to be pretty.  Betty wears a thick black apron, and Monica has a blow dryer in one hand, and a measuring tape around her neck. 

"Come in, come in, sit!" beckons Monica.  So I come in and sit.

"It's truly amazing," says Betty.  "You'd never suspect some of these guys, would you.  Honey, we'll make you a superstar."  They immediately go to work on me.

It doesn't take long for me to realize that they're trying to apply makeup.  I try to stop them.

Monica scolds me.  "Listen, honey, just because you're getting paid $50 grand to show off your girlie side doesn't mean you get to treat me like a peon.  Just tell me what you want me to do, but don't give me this bitchy attitude, ok?"

"Fifty grand?!?"

"Oooh, sorry if it's more.  I didn't realize the caliber of superstar we're dealing with here."

I look at the slip of paper.  I am shocked to discover that it is, in fact, a contract for fifty thousand dollars.  As well as for five.  It appears that I have indeed infiltrated the wrong photo shoot.  There are two items on the schedule.  The first offers five thousand dollars for a standard men's magazine aftershave feature.  The second offers fifty thousand dollars for transvestites for an adult website. 

I am faced with a rather interesting dilemma.  Do I flaunt my boyish good looks, and increase my chances to score with ladies when I tell them I am a model, and pocket a month's worth of pay?  Or do I abandon my manhood for just a brief moment and take home a whole year's worth?  Not much of a dilemma, really.

Nobody will ever know about it, except the people here.

"You know," I say, "I'm a little unprepared.  I'm sorry, I haven't done this in a while.  I don't even know where to begin.  Why don't you two girls just go to town on me, and hopefully I'll turn out ok?"

They grumble, but they start to work.

First, they demand that I strip down.  They shake their heads and tsk-tsk at me.  Before I know it, I'm covered in depilatory cream.  They rinse it all off after the requisite amount of time has passed.  My body hair and facial hair are gone, without a trace.  My body feels chilly from the lack of insulation.  I am suddenly ridiculously smooth and sleek.  I'm beginning to wonder if this is such a wise decision.  But then I remember the payoff.

"Why don't you choose your outfit?" asks Betty.  "You fellas are usually pretty picky about this kinda thing."

I am surrounded by racks upon rack of lingerie.  I don't even know what to choose.  I am aroused at the sheer femininity around me, but too nervous for it to show.  I hesitate around a poofy lacy white bra.  I even hold its hanger in my hand for a minute.  "Hurry up, we ain't got all day," admonishes Monica.  That's when I notice that it's actually a bustier, with straps for stockings, and a matching full-cut boyshort type panty that's so lacy it's an insult to call it boycut.  Before I know it, they're helping me into it.  The bustier is acts as a corset, so it's difficult for me to strap myself in.  Betty hands me a package of white nylon stockings.  I put them on clumsily, and marvel at the sensation on my legs.  Betty hands me some white heels, which I slip onto my feet daintily, in spite of myself. 

I look into the mirror, and find myself shockingly sexy.  When I tuck my cock between my legs, I look positively female, from the neck down.

Betty sits me down in the chair and starts working on my face.  Monica starts working on a blonde wig on the sidelines.  In the end I look like a juicy little whore with far too much makeup.  I can't believe what a great job they did making me look like a woman.  I'm actually sexy!

"My, aren't we the little princess!" says Monica.  I'm not sure whether she was mocking me or not.  There was a tone of respect in her voice.  "Now go out there and knock 'em dead!"  She places a sheer robe over my shoulders and pushes me out the door.

The guy with the clipboard ushers me to a bevy of women such as those I had previously observed.  "You're number 19.  Just stay here and wait your turn."  Of course, upon closer inspection, I can see that these women are actually men in drag.  I'm not sure whether to whistle or cringe.  Two of the five look at me jealously.  The others are much too happy in their outfits to be anything but welcoming.

I can't help but look at myself, and admire what I'm wearing.  This is the kind of outfit that I've only ever dreamed of having one of my girlfriends wear.  And here I am, decked out in it like a strumpet, looking every bit as sexy as any girl I ever dated.  I can't help but rub my thighs together when I walk, for the sheer pleasure of the sensation.  I'm very nervous.  I never thought I'd allow myself to be caught dead wearing women's underwear.  The idea always seemed so revolting to me.  But in the end, it's not so bad, especially since I'm getting fifty G's out of it.

I can feel all kinds of eyes on me.  The other "ladies" are talking amongst each other about their favourite outfits and so on.  I have nothing to offer.  They're such flamers.  Their every gesture is so unerringly feminine.  I feel out of my depth.  I keep my distance, hoping that none of them will come on to me.  I concentrate on thinking of what I will do with the money I'm making.  Even though I'm standing around in women's lingerie with a bunch of flaming transvestites, and at least a dozen others, too.

I get to watch all of the other "girls" pose.  A few others show up behind me.  They're disturbingly awkward as they camp it up, trying to be girlish.  The photographer acts like it's a real photo shoot, with real hot girl models.  At least I get some ideas for what I'm supposed to do when it's my turn.  I hope they can't tell that I'm just a straight guy doing this for the money.

Finally, it's my turn.  I stumble onto the platform, since I've never walked in heels before.  I'm horribly embarrassed.  Everyone is looking at me!  And I'm dressed like a girl!  I'm standing there, immobile, petrified. 

"Come on, baby," cajoles the photographer.  "Don't be shy.  Just be yourself, feel natural!  Show me what a sexy little tramp you are!"

He starts snapping photos.  "Yeah, I get it.  You're the shy little debutante, aren't you?  Yeah, that's it baby!  I like it!  Yeah, be coy, look away from me like you're afraid of me!  Yeah, that's working, baby!"

I notice that I'm not even looking at the camera, and I'm shyly covering up my shameful outfit.  I'm crossing my legs, and feeling the stockings on my thighs.  Everywhere I touch, there's silk or lace.  Oh my God, what have I done!  Is this worth fifty thousand dollars?

"Yeah, baby!  Touch yourself some more!  That's what I want to see!"

I'm gently moving my hands over my hips, over the gentle elastic of the lace.  I've never felt anything like it.  I'm picturing Vanessa's body in my mind.  I'm touching all of her best parts, like her waist, her hips, her flanks, her boobs, her butt.  I'm shaking my hips to the beat of the music. 

"Oh yeah!  That's it!  Get into it now!"

I'm dancing around a bit now, barely moving my feet, but rubbing my silky legs together.  I'm feeling it now.  I can't stop it.  I'm moving my body delicately, pretending I'm Vanessa, doing the little striptease I've always wished she'd do for me.  I'm luxuriating in this fancy lingerie.  I feel dirty.  This is so wrong!  Not only am I dressed like a girl, never mind a skank, and not only am I being photographed, but I am actually enjoying it!  To think that I'm getting a small fortune for it to boot!

Finally, the photographer puts a stop to it, having used up a roll on me.  Some other clipboard guy ushers me off the stage, and directs me to Jen, who stands by a table, handing out cheques.  I stride over to her confidently, and put out my hand.  It is with great disappointment that I notice a zero missing from the sum.

"Five thousand?  I thought I was supposed to get fifty!" I squeal.

"Well then, you shoulda gone to the aftershave shoot like you were supposed to!"

"What the Hell!  It says on the schedule that transvestites get fifty!"

She shows me the little checkbox on the contract that shows that I signed on for five thousand dollars.  "It's in your contract, sweetie.  Better luck next time."

She turns around, and I'm about to shout back some witty retort, when I realize that I'm standing around, arguing with a woman while wearing sexy lingerie and a wig. 

Mortified, I skitter back to my dressing room, clopping along in my pretty white heels, almost in tears.  I whip out of my clothes as fast as I can, ashamed that I'd been tricked into compromising my manhood for a mere five thousand dollars.  I want to rid myself of every trace of my error.  Only I struggle to get out of the corset, and Betty and Monica have to stop working on some other, more seasoned trannie to help me.

Even after I put on my pants, I don't feel quite right without my body hair.  It looks like It'll be a while until I can forget all about this. 

I'm about to storm out the door when Betty hands me a bag.  "Don't forget your clothes," she says.

"What clothes?"

"Duh!  You get to keep your lingerie, you know.  You think anybody else wants to wear it after you?"

I sheepishly accept it and go on my way.  I toss it in a dumpster behind the mall.

[A few weeks later, as I rummage through my closet for a particular sweater, I notice an unfamiliar white bag.  I peek inside it, and am shocked to discover my lingerie from my photo shoot fiasco.  I almost faint from the rush of shame.  I hold up the panties, and admire the flowery lace design, and the sexy cut.  I shudder to recall the greed that led to me prancing around for a camera in something that feminine.  Could it be a coincidence that Vanessa and I aren't getting it on so well ever since?  It was very difficult to explain the loss of hair.  I never did own up to what I did.

With heavy heart, I toss the panties back into the bag, and walk out to the kitchen, and]

A few weeks later, I notice a large manila envelope with an anonymous return address, sent to me, in my mailbox.  Inside is a set of five photo contact sheets of what appears to be a scantily clad woman.  Upon closer inspection, it becomes clear that it's not a woman, but me.  These are the photos from my shoot!

Along with the contact sheets is a note from the photographer, offering me prints of any size for a fee.  He also mentions that I've been a hit on the website, and that they'd be happy to photograph me again for "another cool $50 K". 

Again, my face reddens, but this time with rage.  How dare they rip me off like that!  And rub my face in it by offering me proof of my shame at a price!  I throw down the offending documents and storm off to my computer.  I want to see what they've done with my photos.

I turn up a little ways down their front page.  Apparently, I was the "Sissy of the Day" for July 23rd.  I rated a 7.3 from viewers of the site, which is crawling with images of shemales and transsexuals.  I must admit, I do look awfully feminine.  I look far better than most of the other "girls" on the site, although some of them are astoundingly beautiful.  But I can only see one photo, as the other 12 are available to members only.

I don't feel so bad if my photos are not particularly widely available.  Thank God Vanessa still knows nothing of this.  We've been having so much trouble since then.  I just haven't felt quite like the man I used to, and she's gotten antsy.  I don't think she bought my excuse for the loss of my body hair.  I guess I'm still depressed about having been tricked so badly.

I lost out on forty-five thousand dollars!  Giving up my manhood for five thousand certainly wasn't worth it, but I doubt I would feel so badly if I had actually gotten paid properly.

Now, I know that I should know better, but they are offering to pay me fifty to shoot me again.  I've done it once before, and it's my own blunder that cost me the full amount.  What harm could there be if I did it again, and got the full amount?  I might as well get my due.  Consider the first incident a loss, but the second makes up some of it.

Naturally, Vanessa is not to know.

Lucky for her, I'm uncommonly horny that night, and fuck her brains out.

In the days leading up to my appointment, I excitedly scout around for some sexy outfits.  I look at all sorts of pictures from lingerie vendors' websites.  I get excited thinking about how sexy those girls are.  I know that I have to take a hit to my manhood, but for fifty grand, it's cake.  I'll have them in mind when I prance around on the stage, and it'll be over before I know it.  Easy money.

The same people are set up in the mall.  The guy who shanghaied me into this to begin with doesn't even recognize me, but he does a double-take when he sees what I'm signed up for.

"Didn't you do an aftershave ad for us?"

"Um, no.  I mean, yes."

"Heh, well here it has you signed up for the transvestite lingerie shoot.  Somebody's clearly fucked up somewhere."  He says this loud enough for everyone within a ten foot radius to hear him.

"No, that's right," I whisper.

"OK, I'll switch you over to the deodorant ad."

"No, I mean it was right before."

"What?"

I'm straining to keep my voice low, but he's not hearing me.  "The lingerie," I say with clenched teeth.

"You're here for lingerie?!?"

"Yes."

He looks at me for a long time.  A few other people are staring.

"OK," he says, finally.  "Lingerie it is.  Now go see Tracy by that door over there."

I walk timidly over to Tracy, who is trying not to laugh.  "OK, Lingerie is suite 233.  Here's your contract."

I look at it closely this time, and sure enough, they are trying to rip me off again!

"Hey," I shout, "this is for only ten thousand.  I thought I was getting fifty!"

"In one shoot?" she replies, incredulously.  "What are you, nuts?"

"That's what it said in the letter you sent me!  And that's what you were going to pay the first time when you ripped me off!"

"Read the contract!  It says you'll get up to fifty after four shoots, if your site gets the enough hits.  According to our records, you're only a tier 3, so that means ten grand.  Take it or leave it!"

Another difficult decision.  They're certainly tricking me again.  But it's also better than five.  I'm already here, and all these people already know why I'm here.  I'm not happy about it, but I didn't come all this way for nothing.

"Fine.  I'll do it."

This time, I take more time to pick out an outfit.  I was particularly smitten with a photo of Carmen Electra in a silver teddy with a furry trim, but they had nothing like it.  I had so many hot women in mind, but the selection of lingerie was somewhat limited.  I felt like I was shopping for Vanessa.  I couldn't help but remind myself that I would be wearing it.  I settled for a sheer black babydoll, silk string bikini panties, fishnet stockings, all with red bows, and knee-high black fuck-me boots.  Betty and Monica removed all my hair again, and I got dressed.  I felt like I had everything under perfect control until I zipped up the last boot.  Oh my God, I thought, what the Hell am I doing?  I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror.  My hair and makeup had yet to be applied.  This is so fucking flaming gay, I thought to myself.  I trembled as I walked to the chair and sat down for my makeover.  I'm turning into a girl! I thought.  I sold my manhood for ten thousand dollars!

By and by, the women finished their work, and I was gorgeous.  My heart pounded in my chest like a jackhammer.  I couldn't walk away now.  In fact, I didn't even need to be ushered to the side of the stage.  I was psyching myself up, thinking about how Carmen Electra would look in this outfit. 

At the stage, there was no sign of the coy debutante.  Instead, I was a raunchy, horny little slut.  I felt so wonderful acting like a girl.  I was imagining that my outfit was so feminine that my penis shrank into my body and became a pussy.  I didn't want to stop.  I went home with my panties on instead of my boxers, knowing that Vanessa wouldn't be home.  I even got to keep the boots!

I hid the outfit in my closet.  I thought I'd put it where Vanessa would never find it.  It was buried under all sorts of junk, where it could do no harm.

For weeks I marvelled at the huge sum of money I had made, just for wearing lingerie, and having some pictures taken!  I couldn't wait for the next shoot.  I didn't especially need the money, but I figured it was so easy, and so harmless, that I might as well go back another three times and collect my cool fifty.  I was still embarrassed enough to not want Vanessa to know.  She didn't trust me at all anymore.

Unfortunately, the shoot didn't go as well as I thought.  My ratings on the website had dropped to a 6.5.  I clearly didn't look curvy enough.  I looked like a man in drag.  I could only conclude that I hadn't prepared enough, so I started to practice when Vanessa was out.  Since it's worth so much money, I thought I might as well put some effort into it.  I might make more.

When she found my stash from the last shoot, she thought there was another woman.  I tried to tell her that it was for her, but I didn't know how to present it to her because she always resisted this kind of sex play.  She then confronted me about the shemale website in the browser history.  She called me a sick pervert, although she still didn't quite make the connection between the two.  So I had to give her the outfit, even though the boots didn't fit her at all.

Imagine my disappointment when Tracy told me that my 6.5 rating dropped me into tier 4, and that I'd only be making five thousand for the third shoot.  I accepted it, because I knew that there was only one way to get my rating back up.  I chose a sexy little pink camisole, a thong, and slippers with straps all the way up to my knees.  This time, I knew how to pose.  I made sure to accentuate all the good girlie parts.  I posed like a pro.  Sure enough, when my pictures showed up on the site, they were worth an 8.

Of course I wasn't satisfied.  I had only gotten five thousand. I took it as a challenge.  A rating of 8 made me a tier 2 trannie, which would be worth fifteen thousand dollars at the next shoot.  As much as I wanted to stop, for Vanessa's sake, the money was just too good.

That's how I explained the whole thing to her when she caught me wearing her bikini.

I figured I needed to expand my horizons a bit, and try some new things.  I was horribly ashamed when she found me.  She was in tears.  I told her the truth: that I was doing it just for the money, that it was harmless.  After a while, she forgave me.

She said she'd stay with me, but only if I would split my earnings with her.  She would help me out by showing me the proper way to do my own makeup, and how to walk and talk.  After the final shoot, it would all have to stop.  I readily agreed, to save our relationship.

She had me dressing up every other day by the end of it.  She had me try on just about everything.  I was getting really good at being female.  The third shoot was a smashing success.  I wore a one-piece bathing suit, and looked every bit like Carmen Electra.  They gave me fifteen thousand dollars, as expected.  I split it evenly with Vanessa.

For the fourth shoot, we decided that I'd have enough time to grow my hair.  It would be a crucial factor.  My rating went up to 8.6 based on the swimsuit pictures.  I practiced every day in preparation.  I even started going out to buy my own lingerie and swimwear and skirts and dresses and shoes, while dressed en femme.  I spent the week before the final shoot as a girl.  I even showed up this time already dressed in a miniskirt and a tight little blouse.

When it was over, I had decided to break it off with Vanessa.  By now, she was holding me back.  My wardrobe had become sexier and more feminine than hers.  Plus I wanted all the payoff to myself.  Besides, she was horrified about the hormones I started taking to keep the hair off my body and put some natural volume in my brassiere.

Diary: Shoes, and the Prospect of Living Alone

Against my will, a bunch of crazy ideas came to my head today.  First, I remembered that I do this only when I fail with women.  My only recourse is to make myself a woman.  Second, I realized that I need some sexy sandals.  I’ve never really worn women’s shoes.  I’m tantalized by sandals and heels now.  They’re so ridiculously feminine.  Utterly, unmistakably for girls.  How humiliating, how deliciously, beautifully effeminating it would be to wear some, and walk around a bit in them.  Then it occurred to me that once I move out, I can mail order anything I want.  Anything at all.  Including pretty girlish shoes.  I wouldn’t have to worry about hiding anything.  I could stock up to my girlish heart’s content.  And finally, I got the idea to take pictures of myself in women’s clothes.  Make a visual record of my debauchery.  How incriminating.  How utterly humiliating.  I’ll look horrible, but it will be incontrovertible proof that I am a flaming pantywaist, and that I love it.  I imagine that I’ll make a little story out of it: the boy who is forced at first to wear these things, but who slowly gets used to them, and finally grows to adore making himself girlish.  How I wish I had shoes now!  There’s a picture of Katie Price that has me particularly horny.  It’s all about her shoes, somehow.  Anyway, off I go!

Fantasy: Teen Transformation

Wow, has it ever been a long time.  I got distracted thinking I could be in love with a girl.  Somehow the urge didn’t strike me at all for almost 2 months.  But now, I am heavily in its throes.  I have discovered teens.  They are so young and innocent and lithe.  They’re so sexy, especially when they wear heels, because they are just getting used to their sexual potency.  They still look awkward.  But they’re so incredibly feminine and hot.  That is my fantasy now: to be one of these awakening hotties.  I want to experience that same discovery, the same way.  I want to turn into a teenaged girl.

I had a story once about a woman who seduces a teenaged boy, and turns him into a girl, just for fun.  It reminds me of my own sexual awakening.  I wasn’t very hairy when I started turning myself into a girl.  I dreamed of wearing bikinis.  Hell, I actually did wear bikinis.  I imagined it turning me irrevocably into a girl.  I worried that it would actually work.  I prayed that it would actually work.

I just put on my silver bikini.  I am alone at home for a week.  I can lounge around the house in girlwear the whole time.  

The whole idea is happy capitulation.  I’m not much of a man, so I might as well work on my womanhood.

The idea of turning a teenaged boy into a girl: it’s not too late, there’s still hope.  Puberty hasn’t fully set in yet, so maybe he’s still salvageable.  He starts off resisting.  He’s encouraged to model like jandmstars.com, with a gaggle of lovely but slightly older teenaged girls.  He’s only 13 or 14.  They take away all his clothes, and send him to the same wardrobe as the girls.  He must either remain naked, or put on something sexy and feminine.  He is surrounded by girls who have no qualms about stripping down and getting dressed all sexy in front of him.  They laugh and cajole him for being naked, and encourage him to join in the fun.  They’ll show him how to be comfortable.  He’s horribly embarrassed, very afraid of girls.  These are all 16 to 19 and stunningly gorgeous.  He’s afraid to stand up to them.  He’s skinny and lithe too.  His body could go either way yet.  

He’s afraid of even touching the girls’ clothes.  They’re far too sexy.  He’s never seen girlwear so intimate, so close.  The clothes themselves are fascinating and innately sexy.  The girls make every effort to show him all the prettiest things: bras and panties and garter belts and miniskirts and halter tops and stockings and heels and dresses.  He knows he can’t remain naked.  He hides himself with his hands.  There are no corners, no furniture to hide behind.  It’s like a nightmare to him.  But it’s very very real.

Eventually, when many of the girls are out of the room being photographed stripping and pouting and being beautiful, the few who remain in the changeroom with him goad him into at least touching a bikini, to get a feel for it.  He’s very interested, and unable to hide his interest.  He’s still trying to hide his nakedness.  He’s nervous about holding it in his hand.  “Does this make me gay,” he wonders?  I have to admit it’s very pretty, and very sexy.  I’d love to see it on each of these girls.  It would be so gay for me to wear it, even though they’re practically forcing me to.

Finally, he succumbs, mostly to hide his nakedness, but also fully aware that he’s being gay, and that his manhood risks being terribly compromised.  He puts on only the panties of a bikini, thinking that these in particular are the most boyish he’s seen, and that they won’t appear particularly feminine.  But they feel so different from his old jockeys.  They’re soft and smooth and tight and high-cut and elastic, like nothing he’s ever worn before.  The girls applaud with glee when he slides them up his hips.  “You look so cute and girlish now!” they squeal.  He turns livid with shame, but keeps them on.  At least now he isn’t showing them his tiny little prick that they so ruthlessly made fun of.

He refuses to put on the matching bra.  

Eventually, they all get to see him.  They all make comments about him coming to his senses and becoming one of the girls.  They congratulate him and compliment him on his little black bikini panties, but question him about why he’s running around topless.  Still, he steadfastly refuses to wear the bra.

Then his turn comes up for shooting.  The photographer angrily asks him where his top is, and complains that he could get in trouble for taking nude photos of teenaged girls.  Our boy protests that he’s not a girl, and the photographer compromises.  He insists that he cover his nipples on all the shots, and mostly concentrates on his backside.  As humiliating as it was to put on bikini panties in front of girls, posing like one for model photos was infinitely worse.  He was terrible at posing.  The poor photographer was getting terribly frustrated with him.  “If you’re gonna pretend to be a girl, at least move like one!  Come on, swing those hips!  Pout!  Show me what you’ve got!”

After the shoot, humiliated and broken, having given in and posed like a girl in bikini panties, our boy returns to the dressing room.  The girls all give him tips on how to be sexy like them, and how to pose and be pretty.  They’re all getting dressed to go home, and they ask him why he’s not.  He says he has no clothes, and they tell him to pick something from the wardrobe.  There is nothing but ultra-feminine girlwear to choose from, and he wisely, prudently, declines.  He remains in the changeroom to sleep all night, afraid to go out.  He keeps his bikini panties on, just in case.  He cries all night, terribly upset about how gay this makes him.  


The next day, the girls insist on him trying on something else.  Another bikini, at least, because they can’t allow him to wear the same thing on consecutive days.  Since he feels dirty, he reluctantly agrees.  He again tries to choose something at least a little bit boyish.  He sticks to solid colours and low-cut leg, but everything is so unquestionably feminine that he ends up in no better position than the day before.  The shoot goes much the same way.  He cries a lot.

That night he explores the wardrobe in great detail.  He tries to identify anything at all that he could wear and not give up his gender completely.  He fails utterly.  Instead he spends more time ogling the sexy outfits and masturbating about how pretty they are.

The next day, he chooses yet another boyish panty.  He’s running out of options.  He’s getting along pretty well with the girls.  They feel for him, but are clearly trying to get him to give up his manhood.  He lets them talk him into putting on the matching bra this time.  He feels better for it, because the girls are very proud of him.  He knows he’s taken a huge step in the wrong direction, but he is happier for it.  He poses with enthusiasm.

Over the next few days, he becomes expert in putting on brassieres.  He still sticks to bikinis, because he doesn’t want to be too adventurous.  He knows that he’s getting used to wearing bikinis, and it frightens him.  He feels sexy when he poses.  It shows in the photos.

Now he becomes aware that he wants to try on sexier, more feminine clothes.  He gets horny thinking about wearing a bikini with a floral print on it.  He suppresses the idea with shame.  He thinks he must continue to resist, but knows that he can’t continue to fight when he’s modeling a different swimsuit every day.  Most importantly, he doesn’t want any of the girls knowing that he’s getting used to it.  He steadfastly believes that his ordeal will soon end, and he will be back wearing his own boy clothes in no time.  

At night, he begins trying on everything he can think of.  He can’t help it.  It’s so incredibly gay of him, but he loves it.  He realizes that every second he spends wearing a bikini makes him gayer and gayer.  But it feels so cool.  He does this secretly for weeks.  He allows himself to wear more an more feminine bikinis during the day, when people are around.  They can tell that he’s giving in, but he won’t admit it.  He sometimes reverts to boyshorts when overcome by shame at his nightly explorations.  He still cries at night.

Then he gets caught.  Nobody is angry.  They are happy and proud.  He is humiliated.  They showed up an hour earlier, because of the shift to standard time, which he was unaware of cloistered in the women’s change room for so long.  They catch him in a cute and sexy little minidress, over top of a matching lingerie outfit and heels.  They make him wear it all day.  Busted.

From then on, they become much more insistent about what he models.  Lingerie, swimwear, club wear.  He is always reluctant, insisting that it was a mistake.  But he looks better and better as a girl.  He knows it, too.  And he blushes when he becomes aware of it.  He likes it.

At last, he has a heart-to-heart with the prettiest of the models, on whom he’s developed a crush.  She convinces him to admit that he’s incredibly flaming gay, that he adores dressing up like her and her friends, and that he desperately wants to be a girl.  “It’s not too late, you know.  At your age, you can start taking hormones and you’ll hit puberty just like we did – that is, as a girl.  By the time you’re our age, you’ll have your own boobs, all natural, and your waist will be perfectly proportional.  You’ll look so killer in all these outfits!”

“But I’ll have to commit myself to being gay.  I don’t want to be gay!  I can’t just give up my manhood!”  He blushes at the thought of it, because it excites him enormously.

She offers him his clothes, and a chance to leave as he came: a teenaged boy.  

“Can I take a couple of panties with me, at least?  Nobody has to know that I’m wearing them.”

“Will you wear girls’ panties all the time?” she asks, pointedly.

He smiles coyly and blushes.  “Why not?”

“Wouldn’t you rather just go all the way, and wear all girl clothes all the time?”

“I’m still a boy.”

“Not anymore.”

He thinks about it for 48 hours, and decides to return to his boyhood.  The girls refuse to let him take any souvenirs.  He must leave dressed completely as a boy.

He finds himself looking at girls differently.  He wants to wear their clothes.  It drives him mad that he has no panties, no bikinis, no dresses, no stockings, no heels.  After a couple of weeks, he can take no more.  He spends some of his modeling income on some lingerie.  He makes a fool of himself in a lingerie store buying it.  Who ever heard of a 14-year-old boy buying lingerie for his girlfriend?  He wears it that night and every other day, but wants more.  He similarly buys swimwear, and wears it in secret.  He gets more underwear, too.  He proudly wears it as often as he can, as proof to himself that he can get away with it.

As much as he tries to hide his femininity, it somehow exudes from him.  Other boys call him a faggot, and question his manhood.  He blushes when they accuse him, lending them more ammunition.  He can’t fight back knowing that he’s wearing lace under his jeans.  How gay of me, he thinks.  He finds himself attracted to boys.  

He begins to notice signs of puberty.  He’s getting hairier, ever so slightly.  It clashes horribly with his underwear.  He longs to wear a skirt again, and to make up his face.  

Finally, after a few weeks of this, he snaps.  He goes to the mall as a boy, and goes shopping.  He doesn’t care who sees him.  He buys a pretty little outfit at Le Chateau, and happily explains that it’s not for his girlfriend, it’s for himself.  He can’t wait to put it on, so he wears it home.  He feels so girlish in it that he actually looks like a girl.  He shops around and buys himself an entire wardrobe of girl clothes.

The very next day, he returns to the modeling agency to get his job back.  He becomes one of the girls like never before.  He begins his hormone treatment and watches over the months as his body becomes more and more femininely proportioned.  

By the time he’s 18, he is a girl.  He’s been effeminating for four years.  His birthday present is surgery.  He then helps take on another young teenaged boy, and turns him into a girl, too, just like one of the original pretty models did for him.  

Fiction: Captured in the Battle of the Sexes

This time, an image of a perfect specimen of femininity in a little off-white sequined dress, standing with hands on a rail.  The dress is not extremely tight, but enough to lovingly caress the hips, gently holding tight, curvaceous buttocks.  It drapes the thighs down to the tops of the knees; long, smooth, bronze legs, firm and sinuous, yet sensuously curvy, support that perfectly round little tush.  How did you learn so quickly to carry yourself that way?

Another image, relating back to the last story about the literal battle of the sexes: the men are crucified, still wearing their camouflage fatigues.  They are surrounded by their female captors.  They stoically resist, as they have been trained.  They will not succumb to femininity.  They are men of stone, steadfast and determined.  They are masculine to the unshakeable core, the mightiest, most virile men.  They all face a huge stage, backed by a massive screen.  Each of them watches the podium with trepidatious composure.  Their resolve rests upon the sanctity and purity of each man’s individual machismo, backed by confidence in each other’s strength, and ultimately held together by their illustrious godlike leader: a man so strong-willed, and so unquestionably virile that no woman can but fall to her knees and beg for his affections.  This man commands their hearts, their minds, their lives.  He is their foundation.  Together, they are the last of the army of men.  They know that they are incorruptible, because of his leadership.  He is the last hope; they are his elite guard.  The situation is grim, but they all suspect that their leader will somehow pull them out, perhaps by seducing and overpowering his would-be captors and bending them to his will.  One hundred men depend on it.

(Here the fantasy splits into two scenarios)

One: The video screen behind the stage shows a man on a cross near the front of the forest of men.  A bevy of gorgeous half-naked women begin to slink around him seductively, mussing up his hair and feeling his powerful chest.  They fiddle with the buttons of his uniform, slowly undoing them.  They begin to unbutton his shirt.  He squirms with discomfort.  Some of the men envy his luck, but wonder why he cringes.  Soon the women tug at his undershirt.  What is that beneath his white tank top?  A wide tuft of black chest hair?  Not surprising on such a man.  But no, it shimmers.  A thin black band rises from his pectoral to his shoulder.  His chest appears covered with something, but he’s shifting his body away from the camera.  Good God, it can’t be!  The women have now pulled back the camouflage shirt, and torn away one half of Johnson’s tank top, revealing a lace-trimmed brassiere.  The men gasp in horror.  One of their number was a traitor all along.  How could they have trusted him?  He has stopped resisting, and his femininely adorned chest becomes fully exposed.  He bows his head in shame.  The women who stripped him laugh at him cruelly as they undo his pants and pull down his boxers.  His panties match the bra.  He endures the hateful glares of his companions.

Now the camera cuts to Terwilligger, at the opposite end of the crowd.  He pleads for them to stop.  Him too, wonder the others, as another gaggle of lithe young hotties slowly strips him to an unmistakably feminine panty and bra set.  He weeps with embarrassment as the other men begin to mutter in disbelief.

Next went Smith, who wore a string bikini.  Then Parish in just panties.  Wang in his one piece swimsuit came after that.  Then Dalton.  Then Lee.  Then Patel, Schmidt, Torres, Garcia, Hakkannen, Visniewski, Dekembe, Miller, Groulx, and Santini.  One by one, the men were exposed in women’s skivvies.  By the time they had lost 20 men, those remaining began to question each other’s virility.  If so many could be traitors, how could anyone tell if the man he shared a tent with was another traitorous fairy?  Bolton harshly accused Silverman, who shook visibly with apprehension.  They came for Bolton first, revealing him in his frilly white silks to Silverman, who turned out to only have been hiding a garter.

After exactly half of them had been exposed, the women asked for volunteers.  Any man who spoke up now would be spared the humiliation of being stripped before his peers.  MacPherson, Moore, Cadieux, and Vandenburgh all screamed like the sissies they were, and were untied and sent to the stage.  Seeing that they weren’t being molested, seven more piped up.  All told, 23 men were too cowardly to get stripped down.  When it became evident that no others would give up, these men were made to strip anyway, one by one, to burlesque music.  Most were happy to have found asylum, and strutted like supermodels in their various lingerie outfits.  It was easy for them, since they knew that the traitors outnumbered the loyalists.  Once they had each proclaimed their abject femininity, they lined up on the stage holding hands.

There now remained 28 men.  Fifteen more were exposed.  Every one of the first 87 men exposed had something girlish to hide.  At last, Maartens turned out to be clean.  So did Franks, Julien, Chung, and the leader, Meyer.  All the others were sissies.

All told, 95 of the hundred last men were already corrupted.  Only five had remained true to their gender.

Now the women asked the 5 remaining naked men if they wanted to convert now to avoid the shame of being effeminated aggressively, publicly, and ruthlessly.  Chung begged for mercy, and he was given a French maid’s uniform, which he put on greedily and expertly.  Franks caved in, too, and was given a tight little bikini, which he struggled getting into, but appeared to enjoy when he got it on.  Then they let go all the crucified sissies, since it was no longer possible to shame them since they were all transsexual anyway.

That left Maartens and Julien flanking their beloved leader Meyer.  Maartens and Julien relied on their captain to lead them out of their predicament.  They needed Meyer’s strength to pull them through.  Meyer defiantly refused to co-operate, and his henchmen followed his lead.

The women decked out Maartens like a whore.  He wore lingerie fancier and more feminine than any of the other men had ever even imagined themselves in in their wildest dreams.  He whimpered in distress, but Meyer encouraged him to remain manly, to be strong, to not let the feminine accoutrements destroy him.  Maartens held fast, although he struggled visibly to restrain himself from expressing his long-repressed feminine side.  Julien did not fare much better.

Meyer, however, was released from his cross, and made to dress himself.  He had to wear the whole deal.  He looked like a whore.  When they marched him to the stage, he quickly learned to wiggle his butt in those 3-inch heels.  The lace and silk were too much for him.  He crumpled at the feet of the queen and came all over himself.  Maartens and Julien wept with relief, and came too.

Scenario Two: Much the same as One, except only 25 or so men prove to be traitors.  The other 75 are stripped naked one by one, proudly showing up the women by being well-endowed and manly to the very skin.  The last man is the leader.  He is more defiant than any of the others.  It appears that the women, in spite of having won the final battle, will not be able to add insult to injury.  The women are truly in awe of Meyer as they apprehensively go about their task.  They know that they have lost, but they crave to see the manliest of men in all his naked glory.  They long to ride him.  The other men feel their strength returning.  They could break their bonds and overpower their captors, and make a desperate escape...

But wait: There is something under Meyer’s fatigues.  It’s a black silk corset with pink bows!  And a matching silk thong, garter belt, and stockings!  His skin is shaven smooth like a girl’s!  He’s laughing!  He’s shaking his girlish hips at his men in a seductive way.  He’s the most effeminate of them all! 

The men’s spirits sink, free-fall, splatter.  The women fall away from Meyer with mirth, and he breaks his bonds.  He then goes to each man in turn and sucks his cock, snowballing into the next man’s mouth.  Then each man is given a panty and bra set, and brutally effeminated.

Scenario Three: 99 men on crosses.  Then someone vaguely familiar appears on the stage.  She’s absolutely gorgeous in her sequined white dress.  What a gorgeous ass.  Is she a movie star?  Some kind of celebrity?  She steps up to the microphone and speaks.  In Meyer’s voice: “You’re all going to be girlies now.”

Of course, with scenario three, there are two further options: Meyer is either totally converted in a matter of seconds, much to his embarrassment, or he is already longing to become a girl, and has been leading his men to doom all along.

The conversion:

Meyer is led into a dark room with a spotlight in the middle and a mirror.  He is stripped naked and made to stand in the spotlight.  Someone tosses him a pink satin panty and bra set.  He reticently refuses to wear it.  The panty is a thong with snaps.  His arms are strapped to cables from the ceiling, and his ankles shackled to long chains on the ground.  Slowly the ceiling cables start moving apart, lifting him from the ground, and spreading his arms.  The chains also tighten from opposite ends of the room, leaving him suspended in air and spread eagled.  He is stretched so tightly that he cannot move.  A woman gingerly snaps the panties on, then the brassiere.  Meyer is made to face the mirror and contemplate how he looks in women’s underwear for 12 hours.

He remains mentally strong, and resists.  He tries uselessly to squirm out of his new underwear, but in the mirror he appears to be enjoying himself.  He stops struggling, and realizes that he can’t remain passive either, so he squirms some more.  He vacillates all night, determined to not betray his gender in spite of the circumstances.  He refuses to accept that he is doomed.  He convinces himself that no matter how feminine he looks as he tries hopelessly to squirm out of his panties and bra, it will not change him.  He convinces himself that if he can withstand this, he can withstand anything.

When they finally release him, they laugh when he does not immediately tear off his feminine underwear.  He instead massages his strained arms and legs.  When they laugh, he moves to undo the snaps on his panties, when he realizes how feminine this is.  His hand lingers on his hip.  Finally after a moment’s hesitation, he slides them down his legs and kicks them across the room.  He fumbles with the brassiere for five minutes before he can unclasp it, slide it off his shoulders, and fling it away. 

They then hand him a different panty and bra set.  He puts it on himself since they’re going to force him anyway.  They tie him up a bit more loosely this time.  He is horrified by what he sees in the mirror.  Every squirming movement of his hips only reinforces the feminizing effect of the panties.  He cannot abide it.  He must resist more!  He squirms harder and harder.  In the mirror he stares at a go-go dancer oozing sexuality.  With every movement, his defiance grows stronger.  Nothing can shake his manhood.  If these panties are the epitome of femininity, they cannot break him.  He squirms in defiant celebration.

When he awakens, his bonds have been released.  He does not know how long he has been sleeping in women’s underwear, unbound.  He feels humiliated and cheated, enough to slowly roll off his panties and snap off his bra.

Now they present him with a choice: a one-piece swimsuit, a string bikini, or black panty and bra set embroidered with red lace. 

Even though the swimsuit is less revealing, it is still unmistakably feminine.  It clings so tightly to his skin that he must squirm even harder to shake it loose.  His restraints are loose enough now that he can touch the straps of his bathing suit and rub his thighs together. 

The next time, he chooses the bikini.  It’s a test of his determination.  This time, the restraints are loose enough for him to squeeze his nipples as he withstands another onslaught of femininity. 

The next time, restraints are not necessary.  He dresses himself up in lingerie.  There is no longer any pretense of maintaining manhood.  Nothing is feminine enough.  He is given access to an entire inventory of women’s clothes.  He removes his body hair.  Not feminine enough.  He begins to take hormones.  Can’t get feminine fast enough.  He wears everything in the store to make himself more feminine.

Finally after only a week of feminization – all of it broadcast to his captured troops – he finds the little white sequined dress.  He is the girl in my imagination.  He goes out to his crucified men, and rubs his panties against their cocks.  They think he’s a girl until he speaks.  “You wouldn’t believe how good this feels,” he says between mouthfuls of cock.  “I can’t believe I resisted this at all!”

Fiction: Devotion

Heidi was my goddess.  I worshipped the ground she walked on.  I collected and catalogued every one of the 594,391 photos of her I could find.  I humbly deferred to her every whim.  She was sometimes difficult to please, but I did everything in my meager power to satisfy her in every way possible.

I stumbled upon her when she had a photo shoot in the desert hills in Southern California.  I knew instantly who she was, from all the swimsuit issues and lingerie catalogues and calendars and so on.  Somehow, I caught her eye, and she had me getting her water.  Her photographic entourage waited on her hand and foot, and I got caught up in it, too.

We became very close.  She was so vulnerable.  She wouldn’t let me touch her much at first.  She was afraid I would just fuck her and leave her, bragging about it to my friends for the rest of my life.  I assured her that wasn’t so.  Still, she resisted.  Who was I to argue?  If I had to be patient for this one, the woman of every man’s dreams, I would wait forever.

Nonetheless I struggled to get her to become intimate.  She always questioned my dedication, even after a few months.  I had only kissed her a few times, and gotten to rub lotion all over her body for some photo shoots.  I had seen her naked many, many times, as she was perfectly comfortable changing in front of me.  I even got to gather her discarded bikinis whenever she needed to change into a different one for the next series of shots.  

She got to trust me quite a bit.  We started spending some intimate time together.  She made me do all sorts of things to prove to her that I truly did love her.  But she never fully bought into them.  They usually involved me making a fool of myself publicly.  Every time, I acquiesced without hesitation.  If I could convince her without a doubt that I worship her, she would surely relent.  When I thought of my ultimate goal of winning her heart, it was easy to agree to do anything.

At first, I simply waited on her.  I got her absolutely anything she wanted.  But that was easy.  She then made me kneel and bow my head when I brought things to her, and I did.  Happily.  I so desperately wanted to be worthy of her!  She had me singing love ballads to her at the top of my lungs on the spur of a moment.  She only had to look at me a certain way, and I would stand on my head for her amusement.  The more she got me to humiliate myself, the more readily I would do it, just to prove my deep, passionate lasting affection for her.  

She must have thought I would have been horribly humiliated about wearing her bikini at one of her beach shoots, with hundreds of bystanders gawking at her.  It was one of the biggest crowds I had ever seen.  Usually, they keep these shoots private, because it makes everyone involved more comfortable, and more open.  This time the photographer wanted to capture the crowded beach as a counterpoint to his shockingly beautiful subject.  Even in a sea of people, she would stand out.  And so, feeling shy about the mob around her, she asked me, very publicly, if I would try on her swimsuits first, not only so she could see what they looked like on others, but to deflect some of the spotlight from her so she could concentrate on looking beautiful.  

I had some difficulty putting them on at first, but she had some of her aides help me.  By the end of the shoot, I had no trouble putting on a brassiere.  It felt funny at first, wearing her sexy bikinis.  I always thought of women’s underwear as being innately sexy.  She said I blushed when she told me how cute I looked.  I liked the snugness of the panties on my crotch, and the delicate way they caressed my butt and my hips.  I knew I looked ridiculous, and that the entire crowd was laughing at me, but I didn’t care.  I was pleasing Heidi Klum!  I was the focus of her attention, after the photographer.  I was publicly humiliated, just for her, and I didn’t care.  I even made several of the local papers, and some worldwide news wires.  The world would henceforth forever question my virility, but I honestly did not care.  It was a worthwhile sacrifice for my Heidi.


Still, she questioned my commitment.  She was convinced that I would want to get back into my clothes the instant the shoot was over, so I could reclaim some of my dignity.  I proved her wrong.  I dared to beg her to allow me to continue wearing her bikini if it pleased her, and pledged my continued subservience, not in spite of, but because of her grace in allowing me to wear her sexiest clothes.  She frowned and thought about it for a while, then commanded me to wear my regular clothes.

Unfortunately, my readiness to humiliate myself at her every whim enticed a suspicion in her that I was only trying to get her to relent.  She began openly flirting with other men to test my resolve in the face of jealousy.  I steadfastly stayed by her side.  She rewarded me by continuing to allow me into her most intimate circles.  She had me bring her men, whom she would fuck right before my eyes; but when she kicked them out of her bed, she snuggled up to me and slept.  She told only me what was on her mind.  But she still didn't believe that I loved her enough.  She made it quite clear that if I objected to her sleeping with other men who she barely knew, it was proof that I only wanted her for sex.


It was one thing when she made me wear her bikinis in public.  It was quite another when I wore her lingerie in private with her.  To wear it in public is a public gesture, and can be seen as jest.  In private, alone with her, it has an entirely different connotation.  In her inner sanctum, I wear her panties and bras and corsets and stockings not as an easily dismissible joke, but as a sincere, intimate preference.  She could tell that I honestly adored wearing her clothes.  It felt like such a privilege to me to even touch garments that she wore, much less her skin-tight undies, least of all wear them!  To wear them was almost bliss.  I felt so much closer to her when I wore them.  I even felt sexy, in a dirty, feminine way that I kept secret from her.  Eventually, I thought it wise to throw away my own underwear and wore only her hand-me-downs, to show my devotion.

Still, Heidi, my precious Goddess, was not satisfied with me.  She wanted nothing less than complete uninhibited surrender.  I was more than happy to comply.  The hormones I had started to take to better shape my body into her lingerie were beginning to kick in around this time.  My brassieres began to become fuller, and I became quite adept at arousing her boyfriends with my skill at fellatio.  It had become quite clear that I could only do one thing to prove to her that I am not doing this just for sex.  They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; I naturally began abandoning my inhibitions and devoting myself to her worship.  I proudly began to eradicate any vestige of myself, and dedicated myself to becoming her.  I changed all my makeup and began to style my hair like hers.  

The plastic surgery molded my face into hers.  I walked and talked and moved just like her.  If not for the little nub of my pathetic little dick, which she wouldn’t allow me to remove, we are practically twins now.  She has sent me to stand in for her in some of her shoots, and nobody knew the difference.

Only after they replaced my genitals did she trust me enough to fuck me.