Fiction: Fast and Furious

I was walking down the street, minding my own business, when suddenly, at a street corner, a white van screeches to the curb in front of me, opens its doors, and I get pushed in.  No sooner do I land on the floor of the van does the door slam behind me and we speed away, screeching tires again, as a velvet bag goes over my head.

I hear women's voices all around me.  "You never should have cheated on Marcia, you scumball.  We're going to destroy you!" says one, threateningly.

Now, I have no idea who Marcia is.  I've never met anyone by that name, much less cheated on her.  In fact, I haven't had a girlfriend in months, and I'm the one who got cheated on and dumped.  I try to explain that it's all a terrible mistake, but they were having none of it.

"John, don't be such a snivelling coward.  Do you really think we'd let you off that easily?"

"But I'm not John!  I swear!  You've got to believe me!  Look at my ID, it's in my back pocket!"

"Do you take us for fools?  We know it's you, John, and you've been very, very naughty, and you will be punished.  Are you going to take it like a man, or bitch and moan like a girl?"

After much pleading for my life, and them kicking me in the nuts, slapping, and punching my head, the van stops and they hustle me out of it and into some building.  I have no clue where I am.

They tear the hood off my head and drag me kicking and screaming into a sort of bathroom, where they cut away all my clothes, lather me with some noxious-smelling substance, and spray me down.  To my horror, all of my body hair washes away in the spray.

They restrain me again and wrap my limp penis in some sort of sleeve, which they then tuck between my butt cheeks, and tie.  I feel something soft and silky being slid up my now smooth legs, which turns out to be some sort of underwear.  Then I somehow have a bra put on me, matching the underwear, and I know I'm in trouble.  

Unable to move, I feel a sharp pain around my navel, as two women lean over me.  I feel something dangling from the spot where they put a hole in me.

They violently flip me over, and I can hear a soft buzzing sound approaching.  For the next few hours, I feel them cutting into the skin of my lower back, and giggling about a "tramp stamp."

Next they wrap a corset around me, and while a group of them work on squeezing the air out of me as they tighten the waist, others take advantage of my almost fainting by slipping stockings onto each of my bald legs, and hooking them onto the garters of the corset, which, it turns out, has a sort of frilly skirt to it.  Then they attach shoes with tight straps around my ankles.

They strap me down to a sort of chair, and start working on my face.  There's a knife being pressed to my throat, so I don't dare to move.  I hear buzzing again, and feel sharp pain as they colour my lips, cheeks and eyes.  At the same time, they pinch my earlobes a few times with some kind of tool.  Finally, they buzz off every hair on my head, and glue a blonde wig to my scalp.

At this point, they jab my arm with a needle, and as I gasp, they grasp my jaw, keeping it open, and press the knife even harder against my throat.  They grab my tongue, and pinch it hard with another tool.  It's agony.  I can't withdraw it reflexively, because the tool has too firm a hold on it.  As they remove the tool, they threaten me some more, as they attach something metallic to my tongue.  Finally, they let go, and I can feel a pea-sized metallic lump on the top of my tongue.

Finally, they let me go.  I stumble out of the chair to their laughter, nearly breaking my ankle as I lose my balance on my high stilletoes.  They point me to a mirrored wall, but it takes me a few moments to recognize myself.  I am now utterly feminized.  If not for the broad shoulders and over-large hands, I'd look just like a sexy woman.  My crotch is especially shockingly convincing, because my cock is tucked out of the way.

"Why have you done this to me?" I ask plaintively.

"John, Marcia was very, very upset when she found out about you and that tramp Vanessa."

"I'm NOT JOHN!"  I scream, terrified and furious.

"No, you certainly are not, John," says the ringleader, snickering, "Not anymore."

All the other girls laugh heartily as I cower in the corner.

"From now on," the ringleader continues menacingly, "you yourself will be known as Vanessa, now that you look so much like her."

I am speechless.

"And just so you know, there's no turning back now.  We've tattooed makeup onto your face, pierced your ears a few times, and your belly button, and your tongue, and given you a butterfly tattoo just above your ass.  Your body hair won't be growing back for weeks, and nobody knows where you are.  We've already injected you with your dose of hormones for the day.  From now on, you serve Marcia hand and foot.  Understand?"

Horrified, I nod my head.  I stare at myself in the mirror.  I'm astounded that all it took was a few hours to turn me into a girl.

"Now, Vanessa, let's go to your mistress, so you can pledge your eternal servitude."

I meekly follow her out of the salon, girls tittering behind my back.  I can't walk very quickly with these stillettoes on, and they hurt my feet.  I'm terrified to fall behind her, because I'm afraid of what she'll do to me.  I am terribly conscious of my new appearance, as the pain on my face, my ears, my navel, my waist, my lower back, and my feet contrasts sharply against the softness and delicacy of my stockings, panties, corset, and bra.  My penis swells painfully, restrained in its sleeve, as I take in my new femininity.

As we approach an ornate door, I am instructed to approach Marcia with my head bowed, walk slowly and meekly to her throne, and bow before her, begging for forgiveness, and offering myself to her service forever as a small token of remorse for my cheating on her.  The first parts are not at all difficult, since I am horribly ashamed of what's happened to me.  The next is not so easy, since I have no idea who Marcia is, and I am apparently being punished for someone else's crimes.

Before I can even speak, she screams at me.  I haven't even looked at her yet.  I still don't know what her face looks like, since my head has been bowed all this time.

"John... or should I say, Vanessa, you fucking scumbag!  I hope you realize just how badly you fucked up!  You're worthless!  WORTHLESS!  And now see where your few minutes of infedelity have landed you!  I thought you would have known better!"

"Yes, your majesty," I reply meekly, too afraid to try to contradict her.

"Now, to show me just how sorry you are, Vanessa, you'll prove to me just how serious you are about renouncing your womanizing ways."

A muscular man, much bigger than me, and wearing no more than a thong, comes up to me, and picks me up off the ground, leaving me on my knees before him.  He takes out his cock, a massive, throbbing, muscular thing which puts mine to shame, and sticks it in my face.  He slaps my cheek with it.  I have no choice, so I grasp it, hands trembling, and bring it to my mouth.  I close my eyes as I put my lips around it, and feel it twitch.

I try not to notice the taste too much.  I notice that he seems to twitch and groan when my studded tongue touches his head a certain way.  I am so feminized!  I am sucking cock!  My own cock swells uncomfortably again between my butt cheeks.  This is so unbelievably dirty!  I find my hand jacking the base as I realize that I have tattoos and piercings the likes of which only the sluttiest skanks ever get.  I am wearing clothes designed to make women look sexy.  I'm more feminine than many women!

I gasp when I feel a pair of hands grab my waist and pull me up to my feet.  I am careful not to let go of the penis in my hand, and quickly put it back into my mouth.  Only now I feel another cock rubbing against my silky ass.  Strong, powerful hands have me by my now shrunken waist.  One hand lets go, and tugs at my panties.  A dick head probes along my butt, and finds the opening.  I gasp as it tears its way into me, but the penis in my mouth takes advantage of this loss of control to pump deeper, into my throat.

I have cock all over me, and I cringe with pain with each thrust into my ass.  I can hardly concentrate on the one in my mouth.  Soon enough, I feel the one in my ass pumping hot lava into me, relax, and withdraw.  The strong hands release my little waist, and I resume tickling the dick head in my mouth with my tongue stud.

Finally, his body twitches and jerks, and I taste some salty paste in my mouth.  I gag as he pumps his cock further in my mouth than I can control, and reflexively withdraw, and semen squirts all over my face.  I wipe it off on the back of my hand in disgust.

"Swallow it!" commands Marcia from her throne.  "Swallow it, or I won't be convinced that you really are sorry."

Glancing down at my new outfit, I realize that it's not worth fighting, so I lick the jizz off my hand and swallow it, like the obedient slut that I am, and look at her for some sign of approval.

Instead, I see shock.  I shake free of my reverie and understand why.

"You're not John.  Who is this?  Tyra, who is this man?"

"Why, Marcia, that's Vanessa now!"

"No, that's not what I mean.  This is not the man I wanted you to punish!"

"What!?!"

"Who are you?  Why didn't you resist?"

"But I did resist!" I protest.  "I pleaded with them to check my ID.  I told them I'm not John.  But they did all this anyway!"

"Are you gay or something?  Why did you suck Moe's cock then?"

"I didn't think I had a choice!"

"Oh my God!  What have we done!"

With that, hysteria breaks loose in the room.  Girls are crying and screaming, some are laughing.  I am standing there in the middle of this chaos, still in my sexy lingerie and shoes, still tasting Moe's cum.

"We're so sorry," says Tyra into my ear, "We've made a terrible mistake.  Please come with me."

Tyra seems like an entirely different person now as she leads me by the hand out of the room again.  She leads me back to the salon, and hands me back my torn clothes.

"Here," she says, "put your stuff back on, and get out of here!  And don't you dare tell anyone what happened!"

"You've got to be kidding me!  I look like a fucking bimbo!  How can I not tell anyone after what you've done to me!  You yourself told me that there's no turning back!"

"Look, aside from the piercings and the permanent makeup, nobody ever has to see anything else."

"You made me do gay things!  And you gave me hormones!  What the fuck is that going to do to me?!?"

"You sucked that cock all on your own, boy.  You've got only yourself to blame.  Now get out!"

Showing a fierceness that she didn't show before, she shooed me out the door, still wearing my lingerie.  I put my own clothes back on over top of it, took off the earrings, and staggered home in the darkness, only dimly aware of where I was and which direction I needed to go.

Fiction: Pleasure Corps

The setup:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The selections begin in one week from today."

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

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

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

So she was serious.  Who knew?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah.  So what?"

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

"Maybe."

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

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

I swear he blushed when I spoke of sucking dick.

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

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

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

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

"I'd like to see you try."

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

"I thought so," he said, tauntingly.

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

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

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

"You know I still love my country."

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

"It's not even that, Sir."

"I know.  No need to explain."

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

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

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

"I can see that."

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

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

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

"Good for you."

"Anyway, glad you’re OK with it."

[god that went nowhere]

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

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

"Whatever Meyer.  I just needed the shower."

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

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

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

"Yeah."

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That’s impossible."

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

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

"Bullshit!"

"Careful with that!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fiction: Becoming a Body Double

Christina opened the door to my padded cell and walked in, wearing nothing but the bikini she wore when I ogled her at Alex's cottage last Summer.  She's a very sexy girl, with long, slim legs, firm but smallish breasts, and a fine, curvaceous figure.  I couldn't believe my eyes.  It had been weeks since I had seen any woman, much less had any sexual gratification.  

"Are we ready to begin?" she asked the two burly guards who watched over me.  They nodded and held me down as she strapped me into a bikini very similar to hers.

"What are you doing to me?" I whimpered.

She laughed as she tied up my bra and began to explain.  "You've surely heard about how my life is in danger?  Well, we need a lookalike to take some of the heat away from me.  We've run out of suitable women to imitate me, and you're the best of the rest."  

Christina is about 8 inches shorter than me, and 50 pounds lighter.

"But I don't look anything like you!"

"You'd be amazed what we can do these days with plastic surgery and makeup. . ."

"But I'm not even a girl!"

"That's the only snag.  And it's the first thing we'll work on.  C'mon, you'd better change your attitude, or you'll never get to be like me!"

With that, the men rubbed me down with some depilatory cream, and made me swallow some pills.  This continued for weeks.  Every day.

At first I resisted.  It took me a long time to get used to it.  Christina was very nice to me though.  She really wanted me to be just like her.  I loved to stare at her body, and I guess that pretty soon, her plan started to make a strange sort of sense to me.

The first few weeks were absolutely demeaning.  I wore all sorts of different female garments.  I got to experience it all: bikinis, one-piece bathing suits, leotards, panties and bras, garter belts, stockings, and all sorts of lingerie.  Every time, Christina would make me examine her body, admire its every curve, and smell it and touch it and feel it.  She didn't have to tell me how gorgeous it is, but she did.  She also told me that I would soon have one just like it, if I was good and co-operated with her.  This would make me horny as a toad, so she would bring in the goons to jerk me off, and fondle me like a girl.  Then when I came she would make me admit that I liked it because I felt like a girl.

Eventually, it became routine: a new set of undies to wear, more exploration of Christina's body, and the infamous rubdown.  By then by body was hairless and getting soft.  My nipples were starting to get sensitive from the hormones they fed me.  I started to look at her with envy rather than lust: I could relate to her underwear, because I wore it too, and I stared longingly at her crotch, admiring its shape not as something to fondle but to emulate.  

Finally, she let me get dressed by myself.  And I didn't hesitate.  I actually looked forward to it.  It dawned on me at last that I was going to be a girl.  I rather liked the idea.  I figured that I might as well enjoy it.  She noticed my enthusiasm, and began stage 2. . . .

Fiction: Chained and Forced to Choose

"So," said the captor to her prisoner. "Have you ever worn women's clothing?"

"Of course not!"

"You've never worn a dress as a practical joke?"

"No."

"Your big sister never forced you to play dressup?"

"I don't have a sister."

"You never snuck into your mom's dresser to try on her panties?"

"What the Hell are you talking about?"

"Aren't we defensive? And you're blushing, too!"

He didn't answer.

"We know all about your little secret, Mister. We know that you wear lingerie for fun. We know that you secretly want to be a girl, just so you can wear pretty little frilly lace undies that boys aren't allowed to wear."

"What?"

"Oh, I understand. Your fragile little masculine ego won't let you admit it to anyone. But I know that you want to be just like me."

"Am I supposed to be scared?"

"Not really. You're supposed to be excited, though. And I know that you are. Just thinking about wearing a sexy little garter belt turns you on."

"This is a joke."

She moved her face to his, and the scent of her perfume invaded his nostrils. She looked him in the eye, and he couldn't hold her penetrating gaze. Her breast brushed against him as she leaned over his shoulder to smell the back of his head. She stayed there a few moments, breathing heavily. Suddenly, she backed away, breaking the spell.

"Do you think I'm sexy?" she asked. 

 
She was, indeed, gloriously beautiful. She looked like a supermodel. Plus, she was in her skivvies, revealing her perfectly shaped body in its curvaceous majesty.

"Yes," replied the prisoner.

"Do you want to fuck me?"

"Yes."

"Oh, that's so sweet!" she exclaimed coyly, as she threw her arms around her prisoner's neck, and moulded her body against his. His naked body almost convulsed in ecstasy as she touched him. Unfortunately, he could do nothing, suspended by the chains on his arms and restrained by those on his legs. She backed away seductively as he gasped at this unexpected pleasure.

"You know," she said, "I'm not supposed to fuck my prisoners. So we'll have to make a little deal."

He was speechless. 

 
"I can't do anything for you unless you do me a little favour first."

"What? Tell me, what must I do!"

"You have to admit that you want to wear women's underwear."

He paused, shocked. "Is that all I have to do to fuck you?"

"Yes. That's all."

"But that's ridiculous! How can I fuck you if I don't feel masculine? How can you want me to be feminine?"

"Fine!" she snapped, and turned sharply away towards the door.

"Wait! Wait!"

She turned, fury distorting her gorgeous face.

He hesitated. He knew that this was a trick. She had him backed into a corner. He desperately wanted to have sex with her, and he knew that she probably wouldn't anyway. Moreover, he knew that she would likely torture him and force him to her will anyway. It was a tough call. "OK, I'll do it."

"You'll do what?" she asked, unable to conceal the glee in her voice. "Say it!"

"I'll wear women's clothes."

"You'll what?"

"I'll wear women's clothes!"

She clapped her hands joyfully and skipped over to him to kiss his nipple. "I knew you'd cave in, you little sissy! I can't wait to see you in a bra! You'll be so cute! You'll be so effiminate that you won't even want to fuck me anymore! Hee hee!"

He couldn't believe what he had gotten himself into. He began to think about his near future, and dreaded its approach. What would she do to him? He couldn't stop thinking about her in her wonderful underwear, and fantasized about all the different things in her dresser that she would force him to wear. He could hardly contain his shame when he realized that the thought of it aroused him in a strange, unwholesome way that aroused him all the more for its perversity.

When the time came, she did not force him to wear something of her choice. Instead, she presented him with many options. He had before him all kinds of underwear, lingerie, swimwear, leotards, garter belts, stockings, chemises, and nightgowns. All were unmistakably feminine. His very proximity to these dainty items brought hormones rushing through his body. He was very nervous. She left the clothes in his cell, and released him to pick out something girlish to wear. 

 
He picked through the clothes with apprehension, still unable to believe that he would have to wear it. He couldn't picture himself in any of it, but had no trouble imagining his captress.

"Pick something! You're worse than a woman!" she boomed from the microphone. She watched him from the room above, which overlooked his cell. Trembling, he snatched a one-piece swimsuit- the least sexy item he could find. He didn't want to give in too much.

"Put it on!" she screeched from above.

He slipped into the swimsuit, which clung to him like a second skin. The soft fabric and high cut gave him an instant erection, of which he was desperately ashamed. He was quickly chained up again, unable to remove his new garment. All he could do was writhe.

"Do you like it?" she asked when she came down from her perch to see him. She wore a bikini for the occasion, picking it from the selection he chose from and changing into it in front of him.

"What if I don't?" he retorted.

"Oh, I can tell you love it! Look at this bulge!" He reddened in guilty shameful pleasure as she stroked his covered penis. "Do you feel feminine?"

"You promised you'd have sex with me if I wore women's clothes! I wearing it now, so let's do it!"

"Tsk, tsk. Not so fast! You're all chained up there, and you can't exactly do anything about it, can you? Don't worry, I'll fuck you. But not now. For now, I just want to do girlie things with you.

She began to rub up against him. "I want you to feel like a woman. Just imagine what I'd look like wearing that."

She showed him pictures of her wearing exactly what he was wearing. "And just think: you're wearing it now!  You're dressed like a girl. And you seem to like it! Isn't it great to have something caress your body like that?  Don't you just love the delicate material?"

He convulsed with erotic shame. He writhed and struggled, disgusted with himself for becoming feminine. Listening to every word she said, and feeling jolts of exquisitely forbidden pleasure rising from his cock. He struggled to escape from her swimsuit. He felt trapped in it, but relished guiltily every moment of it. "Do you feel feminine?" she asked again.

"YES! YES!"

"Do you like it?"

"YES!"

"I think you've had enough. Let's get that off of you."

"NO!" he screamed. "Don't stop!"

The bathing suit seemed to shape his body into a girlish hourglass. He imagined that his crotch looked just like a girl's, that his chest looked busty. These thoughts sent jolts of intense ecstasy through his body. He had always found it sexy to see empty suimsuits and panties and bras, because it meant that there was probably a naked woman nearby. He felt that knowing the inside of a woman's underwear was incredibly intimate - and arousing. Only this time, he felt the inside of his mistress's bathing suit clinging lewdly to his body. Only women know what that feels like. And now, he does, too. And he felt proud and lucky for it. And feminine.

Fiction: Transformation and Choice

[transcribed from a notebook, many pages earlier, near my class notes from 1998; I remember coming across this while studying, and a girl noticing my writings...]

I guess it doesn't even matter how I got into this mess. An unpredictable and unstoppable chain of events brought me to this place, to this fate. Was it fate? Was it destiny? Did my own free will have nothing to do with my ending up here? Oh, they keep telling me that only those who want to, come here. Nobody gets forced into this. Some may protest vehemently, but it's their own choices, ultimately, that bring them here. Like I said, it doesn't matter.

It came as quite a shock, this radical transformation. I would never have thought it possible if I hadn't experienced it myself. I remember when that wonderful bevy of young women awakened me to allow me to witness it.

Imagine emerging from a druggy haze to see the most beautiful woman on earth shaking you awake. She wore nothing but a lacy red teddy with matching stockings. She looked like a lingerie model. Five more girls, each more beautiful than the next, milled about the room in equally revealing outfits. A__, the sexy one in red who woke me up, cuddled up to me lasciviously, and told me to wake up, or I'd miss all the fun. I couldn't even speak. I couldn't move, either. She was so sexy, so pretty, and I wanted to jump on her right there. But I couldn't.

Somehow, I realized that I was vertical, not lying down. I was chained by the ankles and wrists like a star. And I was buck naked. Drugged as I was, I couldn't understand what was going on. I felt like I was in paradise.

They began their work as soon as A__ gave the signal. All six girls descended on me like buzzards on a corpse. At no time did any one of them ignore me. At lieast one at any time cajoled me and caressed me suggestively. I still couldn't move. They kept me informed at every step.

They started by shaving my chest. They used pink disposable razors and women's shaving gel. They were very delicate. Not the slightest cut. The whole time they fondled me. They saved my legs for last.

When it came time for the legs, they gave me a most sensual treatment. They worked with such care and delicacy that I already began to see my legs the way I saw theirs: hairless, smooth, sleek, and above all, sexy and feminine. The way they handled my legs, the way they caressed them, I thought of supermodels in pantyhose or lady leg shaver commercials.

Finally when they finished rinsing me, and I was as hairless and smooth as, if not more so than, them, they began to dress me. First they wrapped a think lacy garter belt, white, around my waist. Simultaneously, white fishnet stockings went up my legs, slowly, sensually, up to my thigh. Their hands slid against my shaven skin all the way up, reminding me of how effeminate my legs had become. Then they slipped on a satiny white teddy with lacy trim. One at a time, and attached it gingerly over my cock. They rolled in a full length mirror and showed me what I looked like. Except for the bulge in the crotch, the body in the feflection looked entirely female.

Then they slipped me more drugs; and they teased me with their bodies. They each showed me, up close, the sexiest parts of their bodies.

“See these legs?” said one, gorgeously. “Yours will look just like them.” And on it went. I passed out with visions of them, their bodies melding into mine, transforming me into one of them. I protested, I resisted with all my might, but it was no use. A__ herself shook her hips right in front of my face. “See this?” she said, pointing at her panty-clad crotch, “See this wonderful little curvy mound, this smooth, soft, exquisite space – you'll soon have one just like it.” I could feel the stockings slithering up my legs all over again, I could feel the garter belt tightening around my waist, I could feel the teddy slide over my chest, and the panties surround my crotch. I tried desperately to squirm free, but there was nowhere to go, no position to assume that would stop it; I tried to pull it off, but instead found my hands impulsively caressing the delicate fabric. It was on me, all over me, but I continued to squirm and fondle. How could I not fondle? My legs were girls' legs; my chest felt effeminate; my crotch, oh how my crotch burned with ecstasy as I moved my hips, gyrated my hips. It was like making out with a girl, and feeling her body's sensations on top of my own. Part of me still resists, in vain. Another begs for more. I know that I am not a girl, and yet I also know that I have essential items of girlhood on my body. This incongruously divides my will: deep inside, I fear this effeminacy. It means the destruction of my manhod. But on the surface I cannot resist the pleasure. I imagine wearing all sorts of girlish things like bikinis and lingerie and miniskirts. I dream of transforming my crotch into one as heavenly as A__'s.

At length, I emerge from my drug-hazed sleep still chained spread eagled and wearing lingerie. My lust for femininity has faded almost to nothing – but my outfit reminds me of my thoughts, my corrupted perversions of before. I blush with shame and feel a hot rush of horniness simultaneously.

I can forgive my wearing the lingerie. I was forced. But I cannot account for, nor forgive my transsexual fantasy. I can't even understand it. But somehow, just the memory of my drug trip fantasy makes me want to relive it. The stockings still decorate my shaven legs. I still look like a sexy woman. I can feel myself slowly succumbing again to the grips of feminininity, only this time without the drugs. I need only think about my visions of before, and quiver, guiltily, with desire. I am thankful to be alone. Not that it matters. Surely A__ and the girls know how much I enjoyed myself. They put it into my head.

I know I shouldn't but I can't stop. I want to feel myself, but I also hate myself for succumbing again. I Imagine wearing all sorts of other girlish things. The conflict raging in my head. I feverishly consider the possibility of wearing panties and a bra – maybe even, god forbid, a bikini. Perhaps even a one-piece swimsuit. I consider it fearfully, because I'm afraid of how exquisite such effeminate clothes would feel on my body. My fear becomes fantasy, guilty fantasy, and fuels my desire. Soon it becomes desire, as I picture myself slipping into a skimpy little bikini, my masculine conscience fades away.

Suddenly, as I'm lost in fantasy, writhing in my lingerie, the girls enter my cell. They saw me dancing hotly in the lingerie. I'm embarrassed. “What's the matter?” asks A__. “don't you like it?” I can't answer. “We're letting you go. If you don't want to be one of us, we'll understand. We're leaving it up to you.”

I feel the chains slacken, and I'm free. All the girls are looking at me. “So, what'll it be,” coos A__. “Are you with us or not?” She's got her hand on my suddenly girlish hip.

My first instinct is to remove the clothes I'm wearing. I look down at my lingerie-clad body. I unclasp the stockings from my garter belt, and start rolling them down. In shame and disgust. But my legs are so sexy. And they're so pretty in these stockings. I get to my ankle, and I hesitate. I feel up my sensuously girlish thigh. I look at each of the girls in turn. They all seem indifferent. And they're so damned gorgeous in their underwear. They don't seem to ccare either way. I stare at my clothes, how pretty they are. I want to keep these clothes. I look at A__'s crotch, her tits, her legs. I want them all. I picture my body as hers. I fondle the lingerie all over. Soon, I'm masturbating openly. I pull my stockings back up and announce my decision.

“I want to be a girl!”

A__ beamed. She was proud of me. They led me to a storeroom stocked with all kinds of female attire. Here I would pick out some fresh clothes, which would be the first new additions to my wardrobe. I had to choose from panties on outwards. I dressed like a whore, sleecting some dainty bra and panty set, in black, with a garter belt and stockings to match. Then I found a short red minidress that clung to me like a glove. Finally, I picked out some sexy black sandals, with two-inch heels. I had to hitch up my butt like a girl when I walked. I had to parade around like this all day to test my dedication. I put it all on in front of them. I hesitated again. Could I turn back on my decision now? The thought of having a strictly feminine wardrobe, filled with dainty panties and bras, enticed me into continuing. And I did prance around like that all day. I could hardly believe it. There could be no turning back now.

At night, I was to choose a nightgown. I picked one like a dress, a short one. It looked so feminine. There's no mistaking it.

The next day, after picking a new outfit, I was introduced to Joe. He was tall, strong, muscular. I was told that for the next week, I would be Joe's panty slave. I would be his little slut, and I would have to grant him his every wish. If not, they would throw me out on the street, to return only when I'm serious. It wasn't necessary. I felt so girlish. I wanted to rub myself all over his muscular body. I dreamed of him sticking his dick on my girly clothes. I was putty in his hands. His touch made me feel so ... feminine.