Working Out

For quite some time now, I've not been getting any exercise. I used to go jogging pretty regularly, and I had a routine of push-ups, crunches, and various other body-only exercises to keep in shape. I stopped, partly because of schedule changes and work and family obligations, partly because of laziness, and, crucially, partly because I didn't want to look so manly. 

Looking back to some years ago, my attitude to exercise has been corrupted by my secret desire for femininity since at least a few years ago. I used to exercise as a way to assert my manhood in the face of these feminine urges, but that stopped a long time ago. At some point, exercise became linked in my head with femininity. I love the way women look in tight athletic wear, and I yearn to join them.

Apparently, I never confessed to this here before, but for a while a few years ago, I had access to showers at work, where you'd have to borrow a key. I used to work out on the beach on the commute into work, and when I got to the office, in the shower, I would dress up in swimsuits. I remember this whenever I work out. Even then, I used to fantasize about working out on the beach wearing girl stuff. I need to write a post about that.

Anyway, By now it's been many months since I've done any kind of regular exercise, and I've got a pot belly, which looks just awful when I dress up. I want to get back into shape, and yes, a huge motivation is how I'll look in the mirror in a bikini or in lingerie.

Some of the few times I've jogged over the last couple of years, I've been possessed with the idea of getting in shape to be feminine. I long to wear women's workout clothes. Remember when I bought myself a sports bra and some workout pants when T__ took a brief trip that one time?

With all of this in mind, I've been strongly considering jogging in feminine workout clothes. I'm shopping online for some cute booty shorts, which I could wear under my male athletic shorts with nobody noticing. I could wear my sports bra under my shirt. This motivates me to work out, because it comes with the reward of going secretly en femme.

Once I have the shorts, I'll have a complete feminine exercise outfit. I'll start with jogging, but I'll be tempted to do my other exercises in it, too. Then the challenge will be concealing all of this from my family.

24 Hours En Femme: a Follow-Up

After I wrote about my day dressed as a woman, I took a long bath in the Jacuzzi tub. I played for a bit with my bathing suits, since I couldn't leave them out of the picture. I modeled each of them in the bathroom mirror, one after the other. It was such a tease, so different from my usual furtive sessions. I settled on the one-piece, which for whatever reason felt the most feminine to me. I tried to draw it out as long as possible, but I came pretty quickly, and very hard. While in the bath, planning my night's escapades, I had decided that I would taste my own jizz, as a way of succumbing to my desire for a feminine experience, so I slurped up some of it, even as the pink fog was lifting. It tasted gamy, not altogether bad, but overall quite gross. It's very hard to remain in the right frame of mind to enjoy it. Nonetheless, I was still excited about sleeping in panties and a nightie. I was fully committed to it.

I had washed some of my lingerie, and had it drying on my towel rack, and it was liberating having all my feminine stuff out in the open. I put on my nightie and panties, and got ready for bed. I had tossed my drab pajamas in the hamper already. As expected, I could hardly help myself from luxuriating in feelings of femininity and reckless abandon. I could take my time, enjoy the idea of remaining in my feminine attire all night, and probably repeat the experience, multiple times.

I eventually dozed off, sleeping uneasily with my tired arousal keeping me in a state of semi-sleep. At some point, the baby woke up crying. He had never seen me in such an outfit, and I had to think about whether to change or not. In the end, I thought it best to just remain in my nightie. I comforted him for a good 30 minutes, rocking him back to sleep while wearing panties and a satiny nightgown! I was a little bit uncomfortable about it. What if he somehow remembers someday? Did he even notice at all? Certainly he rested his head on my bare shoulder, which is usually covered in a t-shirt.

In the morning, I brought myself to climax yet again, and thoroughly exhausted my drive to dress like a woman all day. I had decided to return a couple of things to the store, because I have far too much girlie stuff now to easily conceal. So I ended up not keeping the sports leggings, which I had planned to wear that day. I put them on one last time, and loved how comfy and cozy and sexy they were, and questioned my decision. But in the end, I had to part with them before I ruined them.

I was done for the time being. I cleaned up after myself, the guilt and shame washing over me in anticipation of T__'s return. I was anxious about leaving some trace of my activities. In the end, everything was fine, and she remained oblivious. I was a bit disappointed in my lack of determination to see my plan through, but in the end I came only a couple of hours short. 

Thinking back on it now, I fondly remember pushing the stroller around the neighborhood with girl clothes just under the surface, partly visible, and wish I could do it again soon. I think I might even do it in women's leggings, in public, for all to see, because who even cares? I even put on the dress and tights and shoes last week again during a brief moment alone at home, and thoroughly loved it.

A Pleasant Dream

Last night, after a rare lovemaking session with my wife, during which I fantasized about being the woman, I drifted to sleep remembering my old fantasies about becoming a lesbian.

I dreamed about T__ dressing me up in a pink bralette and panties, in good humor. I think I even had on a blonde wig for a while. I was happy and relieved that she accepted me like this. I put on a t-shirt and pants over it so that others wouldn't know, and I asked T__ if my bra straps were visible. "Of course your bra straps are visible, everybody can see them, silly!" she answered, not at all bothered by it. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the wide, satiny straps on my shoulders, not even close to being concealed by the unusually wide neck of my t-shirt. In retrospect, I know that women's t-shirts are often cut that way, so I suppose I might have been wearing one of those. In the dream, however, the point was to cover up my feminine undergarments, but even still I wasn't much bothered that my bra straps showed, because T__ was on board. My mother was visiting, and I still didn't want her to know, so I did hide from her, but I wasn't stressed out about it. I think I realized that I couldn't prevent her from seeing me, so I just happily went about my business, bra straps exposed for all the world to see. Then I met a famous woman singer/songwriter who doesn't really exist, and fawned all over her, telling her what a huge fan I was of her music, and how much influence she had on me in my early adulthood. I was ever conscious of my femininity, and happy and free and proud of it, even as I chatted with this famous person.

It was a wonderful feeling, and I'm still bathing in its afterglow!

24 hours En Femme

My wife is on a trip this weekend with the older kid. I'm at home taking care of the baby. I thought this would be an ideal time to spend as femininely as possible! The baby wouldn't know the difference.

My plan had been to head over to Target after dropping off my beloved family at the airport. There I would find some casual leggings and a sports bra that I could wear throughout the day. I had toyed with the idea of wearing a dress, but I worried that the baby might be a little confused by it. I could, however, wait until he went to sleep, then cavort around in a dress and heels to my girlish little heart's content!

That's exactly what I ended up doing. Since my last store excursion, which was almost disastrous in how anxious I felt, and how much time I spent staring at bathing suits trying not to look creepy, I learned not to give any fucks. Somehow, having the baby with me in a shopping cart made it all so much easier.

I took a bit of time choosing my sports leggings. It was hard to find exactly what I was looking for. I struggle to explain it now, but I wanted something sleek and feminine, with sheer parts and/or a floral pattern. I wasn't sure if I wanted capris or full pants. I was hoping for something with straps on the calves. I also didn't want anything too obviously feminine, to avoid giving the baby something to remember. Black is best, but I wanted some zing, something bright, or at least something not too plain. I found a few with a floral pattern, but there were none in my size. I grabbed something light blue and gray, capris, and figured that would be good enough.

The sports bra was quick and easy. I wanted something strappy, and I found one with thin double criss-crossed straps. I was tempted to get one with a zipper in front, but the straps got the better of me.

Last week, I had seen some velvety little dresses on a rack near the front of the store. That's what had gotten me thinking about getting one. It looked perfect from what I could tell at a glance. Now that I was in the store, looking at it, my dream came true. This rack was right in the front of the store, on a busy walkway. People definitely saw me looking at dresses, and putting one in my cart. I didn't care!
I nearly left at that point, but I couldn't just wear a dress without tights! I went looking for the hosiery, but it wasn't with the intimates. None of the panties got my attention, but I did consider getting a shaping girdle. I finally found the hosiery. I was going to get plain black tights, but I was presented with such a glorious variety that I spent more time looking at my options.

Lo and behold, among the tights and pantyhose, were leggings! I found some that looked like they had sheer windows below the knees, and snagged them. I also found sweater tights to go with my dress. My mission was complete.

I headed home, and immediately put the baby down in his play pen, so I could go change. I had brought in my stash of girlie stuff, and laid it all out on the bed. I put on my trusty black panties, and squeezed into my new sports bra. It was a little tight getting it on, but it was comfy. Then I tried on the leggings.

The leggings are black polyester and spandex, with interesting panels of different textures. I've seen women wearing similar leggings, and have longed to wear some myself. They're nice and tight, and very comfortable. I wasn't sure whether I should keep the sports capris, but I figured I'd try them on anyway. They're more comfortable than the leggings, by far, but somehow less appealing. It's so hard to choose! I think I want them both! I figure I'll wear the capris tomorrow, since I have most of the day until I pick up my wife and kid from the airport.

I spent the day with my baby, wearing a boring old t-shirt over my sports bra, but otherwise going about my day, only dressed in women's clothes (except for the t-shirt). I wasn't brave enough to go out like this, unfortunately. I decided to put some pants on over my leggings to take the baby out for a stroll. I found myself swinging my hips as I went. I worried a little that my bra was visible under my shirt. I also knew that nobody would notice, even if it were. I passed by several neighbors, and nobody seemed to notice anything at all. If they did, it wasn't apparent. In any case, I was too comfortable to care!

I put the baby to bed for the night, and changed into my lovely velvety dress, with my sweater tights and ridiculous glittery wedges. I've been hanging around the house, doing laundry, with this outfit on. I went outside a couple of times in it to take out some trash. I don't care if anyone sees me! In fact, I almost want the world to see me like this, because I feel so comfortable!

I've had a serene experience so far. The plan is to sleep in my pink nightie, then wake up and put on my sports bra and capris, and spend most of the day en femme again. By noon, I will have spent 24 hours dressed in women's clothes. This is something I've fantasized about for years! And finally, I've been able to do it!

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.

Fiction: Beaten Into Shape

A slight change of pace: I'm thinking of all those kung-fu fighting video games in which all the female characters are incalculably gorgeous and wear slinky, revealing clothes.  Now, let's say that I ran into one...



I was never much of a fighter, so Sonya had no trouble with me at all.  She is now my mentor, and she has already taught me much.

Sonya is femininity itself.  Every man who has ever seen her has quivered at beholding such feminine perfection.  She is delicate, and she is very sexy.  She dresses revealingly in battle to distract her opponents.  The fact that she can pound the tar out of anyone on the planet takes nothing away from her shocking girlishness.  I might even say that it accentuates it, because she moves so gracefully, so alluringly when she fights.

I was foolish to attack her.  I spied her from a distance, not knowing who she is, and followed her.  I couldn't resist her beauty.  I wanted to experience it in all its grandeur.  It was dark, and we were nowhere near anyone.  I thought that I could have my way with her, and be done with it, whether she would give in willingly or not.  

She doesn't look strong.  She's not very big.  She is, in fact, quite petite.  No sooner had I tackled her behind a hedge and she threw me off of her and began toying with me.  She was wearing a long, tight skirt and three-inch heels, which I saw repeatedly at very close range.  No one can fight in clothes like that.  She even pretended to be vulnerable.

"Oh my God!  What do you want from me?" she gasped.

"I want your body, chickie.  And I'm gonna have it!"

She shrieked as I lunged at her, but jabbed me in the chin.  Before I knew it, she was kicking me all over the place.  I couldn't get up before she would crack my head with her delicate little fist, or rupture my balls with her soft, porcelain feet.  She had a strange smirk on her face as she slapped me around at will.  Pretty soon, I had nothing left, and I had to beg her, a small, frail-looking, beautiful, gorgeous sex kitten, for mercy. 
She stood above me, hands on her hips.  "Not much of a man, are you?  Can't even stand up to a little girlie like me!"

Flat on the ground, all I could see was her foot.  She picked me up by the scruff of the neck so that I was on my hands and knees.  That's when I got a really good look at her shoes and skirt and her spectacular stocking-clad legs.  

"Kiss my feet," she commanded.  I looked up at her face.  She's beautiful even when she's angry.  But I knew that I had to comply, or else she would kill me.  So I kissed her feet.  

"There, that's more like it.  That's the way to treat a woman."

She abruptly walked away, and I fell back on my face, mortally embarrassed.  I couldn't believe that I had been throughly mauled by a girl, and hadn't even done the least bit of damage to her.  At least no one would ever know.

Or so I thought at that brief moment before she returned, and tossed her shopping bag down in front of me.
"Open it!" she barked.  There were women's clothes in it.  Nothing but women's clothes.  Sonya has fine taste.  I couldn't identify exactly what was in the bag yet, but I had followed her through the mall, so I could guess.

"Take off all your clothes.  Now."  

I looked up at her sheepishly, and she slapped me hard across the face.  "I said, NOW!  Do it!"  So, with my broken bones and blood all over me, I managed to pull out of my clothes.  Sonya didn't help me at all, except for the threats.

"Now, empty the bags onto the ground.  Take a good look at what's inside."

I did as she said, and found lingerie, a mini-dress, and a pair of heels.  Everything seemed to go together nicely.  I guess she had bought an outfit.  Lucky for me that it matched.

"Pick up the panties."  I found the lacy black panties for her.  "Now," she began, giggling, "put them on."
I hesitated, and looked up at her again.  She was serious.  She smacked me in the face again.  "PUT THEM ON!" she screamed.  I did as I was told, and she snickered.  "Aren't you the cute little pantywaist?  Put on the bra, too.  Then the garter belt and the stockings."  With some difficulty, and quite a bit of laughter from Sonya, I did as I was told.

"Do a little pirouette for me!"  I tried, and probably looked ridiculous because I was in such pain from the beating she gave me.  That made her squeal with delight.  I couldn't do anything about it.  "That was awful.  You've got a lot to learn, young lady.  Now put on your dress, and let's go."

She zipped me into this tight little sausage casing, which was so short on me that one could almost see the crotch of her panties.  The skin of my upper thighs was clearly visible.  Then she forced my feet into the heels, grabbed me by the hand, and dragged me back to the sidewalk.  Headed back towards town.  "If you even try to run away, I will utterly destroy you," she whispered to me menacingly.  I could barely keep up with her, but I knew that I couldn't hope to escape her wrath if I fell behind or tried to get away.  I had no idea what she wanted to do to me, or where we were going.  All I knew was that I had been beaten up by a girl, and that I now wore her clothes, in public.

We took a nice long walk downtown, on the busiest streets.  We took public transportation.  She put me on public display, dressed like a girl.  Thousands of people stared at me.  We stayed out for hours, in crowded, wide-open spaces where everyone could see me.  She beamed with satisfaction.  I couldn't escape, because I felt so weak, and because I feared for my life.  She even introduced me to some total strangers as her "girlfriend."

At length, we returned to her home.  Under different circumstances, I would have been overjoyed to enter, but this time I felt a bit uncomfortable about it.  She tossed me into an empty room as I was, and locked the door until morning.  I passed out, still wearing everything.

In the morning, she had me lick her feet again.  She wore only a nightie, and I thought I would die from her unimaginable beauty.  "Do you still want my body?" she asked coyly.

"Yes!" I gasped, unable to comprehend the sudden turn of events, but all to eager to accept it.  Meanwhile, I still had all this feminine clothing on me, down to my panties and bra.

"Good!  Let's get started!  We have a lot of work to do. . ."  She slapped me across the face, and brought me to my knees again.  I was totally shocked.

"Now, swear to me that you hereby renounce your manhood."

"What?!?"

She slapped me again.  "Swear it!"

"Never!"

Slap.

"No!"

Slap.

"Please. . ." I whimpered.

"Swear it!"

"OK!"

"Say it!"

I hesitated for a moment.  She raised her hand to slap me again.

"I renounce my manhood."

"You will now embrace womanhood with all your heart, or die trying."

"I will embrace womanhood, or die trying."

She immediately had me nair my body, and take some pills.  She got me dressed up in the same outfit as the night before, and began my training.

Femininity really sneaks up on you.

Within a few short days, I began to look forward to wearing some new feminine outfit that I had never experienced before.  I got right into it.  I wanted nothing more than to become female.  I wanted to look as sexy as my mistress, wearing the same sexy clothes.  I loved the feel of my hairless skin.  I prayed for my tits to grow out.  I longed for an hourglass figure.  I was like a girl going through puberty, taking pride in all of the changes that I expected to come.  I frolicked in silk and lace, reveling in my new-found femininity.  Sonya found this very amusing.  So did I.

Diary: Bad Things

A__ has referred to having sex, or for that matter, doing anything sexual, as "doing bad things."  Bad, in the sense that she feels like she isn't allowed to do them, that they feel great, but that good girls don't do them.  

I, on the other hand, don't consider these things "bad" in any way, except maybe in that I may be corrupting her by fucking her.  But that's no big deal, really.  It gives me a little bit of a rush, especially when I'm fucking her from behind.  She's so innocent and virginal, except for those times when she's got my dick in her. 
I, on the other hand, have a totally different definition of "doing bad things."  

The similarities, now that I think of it, are remarkable: in a sense, we're both afraid of being feminine.  A__ doesn't wear sexy clothes, because she's afraid of looking slutty, or of attracting too much masculine attention.  When I do bad things, I feel defensive about my femininity, too.  I think we both feel like we're losing virginal innocence when we wear sexy lingerie and miniskirts.  Femininity is somehow dangerous for us.  Understandably more for me.

There is a lot more to it than that.  There's something about femininity that is unquestionably bad for men.  I'm being bad right now.  I'm a very bad boy.  I'm wearing the black satin panties I gave A__ for Christmas.  And one of her white bras (the one that matches these panties isn't here.  Damn!).  My very own garter belt and black stockings.  And a very sexy, short black dress of A__'s.  

It's related somehow to the discovery of sexuality.  I always did hide to masturbate.  Lord knows why.  I suppose it's because every time I masturbated, it was with women's clothes, or at least with women's clothes in mind.  It was a bad thing to do.  Those clothes aren't mine.  I need to fictionalize this.

I'm a young boy.  There's something about girls that's very, very exciting.  They make me feel all funny in my groin.  Even more exciting are their skimpy little outfits.  There's something about the female body that I simply can't understand, something about the shapes and curves that fascinates me, as well as every other heterosexual man.  I often feel an uncontrollable urge to do bad things.  Things that involve girls and my thingie.

I suppose I know, even at this tender age, that I'm a boy, and boys must do boy things, not girl things.  I must assert my identity as a boy at all costs.  Nothing must indicate weakness of any kind.  Girls are icky, and neither I nor my young male friends like them.  They're just so different.

However, there's a little problem.  I can barely even see the contradiction in this most of the time.  My secret urges compel me to wear girls' clothes.  I cannot resist.  At the very least, I imagine it, and yearn for it, while I masturbate.  I know that it's a very bad thing to do.  But I do it all the time anyway.  Because it feels so incredibly good.

It's all so innocent.  Girls are just so pretty.  Something about them.  I can't get them out of my mind.  They're so deliciously delicate, so soft, so curvy.  I start rubbing myself against my besheets, naked, imagining that I'm wearing something outrageously and unequivocally feminine, like a bikini or lingerie.  I feel incredible when I think about wearing women's clothes.  I imagine myself becoming female, or that I will somehow become female if I continue to imagine it, or if I ever actually do wear something feminine.  That only makes me even hotter, and I look forward to becoming a girl, and be pretty and sexy and wear bikinis and silk and lace and dresses and pantyhose. . .

And I get an orgasm.  I'm so young that I don't even necessarily come.  But I realize instantly that I have done something very bad.  I am supposed to establish my masculinity, even at this young age.  But here I am, fantasizing about being a girl, to the point where I want to go beyond just dresses and tresses, and actually wear women's underwear.  I deeply regret my secret crime, and vow to never let such thoughts take hold of me again.  Next time I masturbate, I cannot allow myself to think about becoming a woman.

Of course, it's no use.  There's no way to censor my own thoughts.  I get horny, and I try to think of other things, but I can't help but go back to my bad thoughts of wearing girlish underthings, of becoming a girl.  And always, I finish with shame.  I have been bad.  Again.

Rather than getting better, it gets worse.  I start rolling up my own underwear to make it more effeminate, to try to shape it more like a bikini bottom.  I tie the bottom of an extra-large shirt into a crotch, and pretend that it's a bathing suit.  I'm always so ashamed.  But fantasies and make-believe are one thing.

What once passed off as mere fantasies suddenly becomes much more real.  Once, I only thought of putting on women's clothes, only imagined becoming a girl.  But now, my bad thoughts take me the next logical step further.  I sneak into the laundry basket to borrow my mother's pantyhose.  I curse myself for allowing myself that dangerous escapade, because now I do it more and more often.  

I was so curious.  After so many years of just imagining wearing something girlish, I finally dare to actually try on pantyhose.  I slip it on, over my own underwear, careful not to let that effeminate material actually touch my crotch, at the risk of instantly losing all control, all manhood.  I just want to feel it against my legs.  There is nothing that men wear that can compare to pantyhose.  It's so tight on the leg, so sheer, so soft.  They remind me of women's thighs.  I want to have thighs like that, too.  And I know the risk I'm taking.  I know that if I go ahead with this, I am taking a frightening step closer to becoming a girl.  I do it, because I want to feel like a girl at that point.

Needless to say, I go on to wear pantyhose all the time.  It's incredibly bad.  But what can I do?  I'm powerless.  I think of all the dainty little straps coiling around girlish bodies, and having silky little straps coiling around my body effeminately and turning me into a girl.  I yearn for a bathing suit, for a garter belt, for a bra.  But I don't dare.  Yet.

I'm so very bad.  I start stealing things from a friend's sister.  I finally wear a bikini.  It's fantastic: that tiny stretchy soft tight skimpy little bikini bottom makes me feel more like a girl than I've ever felt before.  I know that it's bad.  But I revel in it.  I crave it.  I want it to last forever.  I want to be a girl so desperately.  I want to experience all female clothing.  I'm completely corrupted, and I know it.  Worse, I love being corrupted.  I know how bad I am, and I want to be the worst I can be.  I am not just curious about wearing lingerie.  I have a pretty good idea of what it will feel like.  I know how wonderful it will feel.  But I can still only dream of it.  I manage a modest collection of female clothing, which I hide under my bed.  I'm ashamed of my bad thoughts, but I cannot help but indulge in them whenever possible.

Last night I dreamed that I was walking around in public when I realized that I was wearing a black mini-dress and blue stockings or pantyhose.  I was totally masculine underneath, and I was quite pleased to be wearing a dress, but I was embarrassed because I was in public, and people could see me.  I passed by my college, afraid that some friends might notice me.  I wanted to hide from them, I wanted to go home and hide.  But I was out in public, for all the world to see, wearing women's clothes.  My legs weren't even shaved, and I could see the hair under the pantihose.  I realized that people were laughing at me, and I was ashamed, but I was also proud and quite pragmatic about the whole thing.  There was no point in my trying to hide, or taking off the clothes I was wearing.  So I might as well try to ignore everybody, and just enjoy my little adventure.  I even remember rubbing my stocking-clad legs together, and reveling in the sensation.  I was sitting down inside a bus on the way home.  

So here I am wearing some of mom's clothes again, because I feel so horny from that dream.  I gotta go now.  And do bad things. . .

Fiction: Caught and Kicked Out

(I'm having trouble latlely about whether my hero(ine) should start off completely innocent, or if I should start him off as a closet girlie like me.)

I've long had this strange habit.  I like to wear women's clothes, and particularly their underwear.  But I've been careful to never let anyone know about it.  Not anyone.  It's a disgusting little habit, but I just can't help myself.  It just makes me feel so wonderfully sexy.  I mean, what man can seriously look at a pair of panties, or a garter belt, or nylons, and not feel aroused?  I've taken the next logical step: I put those things on.  I think they look irresistibly sexy, and I want to be in them.  I want to be like the girls who would wear such things: beautiful, sexy, bouncy, juicy.  When I slip into some lingerie, I want to be a girl.  I want to be as lucky as them, to have all those sexy little panties and bikinis and leotards to wear all the time.  Girls don't know how good they have it.

It just so happens that one night, A__ was away at her parents'.  Or at least, that's what the plan was.  I took advantage of the opportunity to pull out my lingerie and parade around in her clothes.  As I said, that was the plan.

We live in the middle of the city.  Our front door leads to one of the busiest streets anywhere.  Even at night, there are people milling about.  It's a very busy area.  

I didn't hear her when she came home.  She was trying to sneak up on me, as I so often do to her.  I didn't hear her unlock the door.  Imagine her surprise when she saw me right away, prancing around in her mini-skirt, her silky underthings clinging to me underneath.  I know that I probably almost fainted: her waist is much slimmer than mine, not only because of our gender difference, but because she is so much smaller than me.
  
Anyway, she went ballistic.  She ran at me and started hitting me.  She beat me on the head a few times, and then she threw me out the door.  All the way out the front door, as a matter of fact.

So there I was, all sprawled out on probably the busiest sidewalk ever made, wearing nothing but women's clothes.  I even had a pair of women's shoes strapped onto my feet.  They made it difficult to run, but they sure felt sexy against the nylons wrapped around my feet.  

I sort of picked myself up off the floor knowing full well how ridiculous I must look in women's clothes.  People were staring at me.  I felt so naked.  And there was nowhere to hide.  Not even an alley, or a bush, or a doorway.  I was standing there, looking like a complete freak, in the most public place in town.  I might as well have been on a stage.  

I self-consciously sashayed to the front door, which was locked, and pounded.  "A__!  Please let me in!  A__!"  I looked over my shoulder, and noticed that a small crowd had begun to gather at the spectacle.  I could feel the little summer breeze blow up my skirt and tickle the naked skin of my thighs, left exposed by my garter belt and stockings.  I was quite sure that people could see the little straps on my butt leading to the stockings as I stood there, whaling at the door.  I was so ashamed.  Most girls don't even dress that revealingly!

I had no choice.  I couldn't get in.  I couldn't just stand there with all those people staring at me.  So I did the only thing that I could: I ran away.  

I ran away in my high-heeled shoes, my skirt too short to flap in the wind.  I tried to slink around walls, and sort of hide myself wherever I ran.  But everywhere I went, people saw me.  I was irrevocably exposed!

At length, I found my way to a dark alley, where I hid behind a dumpster.  But I was still trapped.  What could I do?  Take off my (or, more accurately, A__'s) clothes?  Was running around naked any better than running around in women's clothes?  No, I had to keep my clothes on, despite the fact that they weren't really mine.  I had to stay like this until I could somehow get back into my house.  I had to walk back there, too, and create another scene.  I had no money, no keys, nothing.  Just me and my clothes.

As I stood around pondering my situation, I marvelled at how different it feels to be dressed like a girl outdoors.  I still felt very sexy.  My shoes made me so conscious of my effeminate situation every time I took a step that I couldn't forget what I was wearing.

What was I to do?  I had to get home somehow.  I was totally helpless out here.  And I was dressed like a girl to boot.  I slinked to a pay phone on a dark street corner and called A__ collect.

"Hello?"

"Hi, sweetie."

She paused.  "Hi."

"Sweetie, I'm sorry."

"Sorry?!?  What the Hell was that in my apartment?!??  It sure as Hell wasn't my R__!"

"I'm sorry dear.  But it's getting cold out here.  Please, let me in."

"Why should I?"

"A__, please.  You can't just let me sleep outside dressed like. . . this."

"I shouldn't let you do anything dressed like that!"

"A__, I'm sorry.  Please, just please let me come home.  It's not the way it looks.  I'll explain everything."

Another pause.  "Alright.  Come home.  We'll talk about it."  And she abruptly hung up the phone.

I slinked back to my apartment, trying hard not to let anyone look at my face too closely.  Luckily, my long, luxurious hair covered most of my face.  

I finally managed to make it back home.  And A__ waited for me at the front door.  "Let's go for a walk," she said as I scurried to the entrance, desperate to get out of public sight.

"Please, A__," I whispered coarsely.  "Let me in!  Let me get out of these clothes!"

"No."

I stopped in my tracks.  "Why do you want me to walk around like this?"

"Because you need to be taught a lesson.  You want to wear my clothes, then you'll just have to wear them for the time being."

I stood there sheepishly.  "I'm going for a walk," she said.  "And I'm not opening that door.  You're either coming with me, or I'm not ever letting you in there again."

Again, I had no choice.  I went with A__.  

She led me through the crowded streets, she wearing pants, I wearing a mini-skirt.  I could sense her anger.  

"So?" she demanded.  I didn't know where to begin.  "Well, spit it out!"

"I'm sorry, sweetie," I answered sheepishly. 

"That's just not good enough.  What the Hell are you doing in my mini-skirt?  Why don't you start there?"

"I just wanted to wear it, that's all."

"Why?  Why?  What are you, some kinda drag queen?  Is that it?"

"No!"

"Then what the Hell are you wearing my clothes for?  You're even wearing my undies, aren't you?  Aren't you?"

"Yes."

"So what gives?"

"A__, can we please not do this in public?"

"No."

"Please, let's go home.  You've taught me my lesson."

"I don't think I have."

"You have!  Can you imagine what it must be like to be dressed like this in public?"

"I sure can.  I do it all the time.  But the difference is that I'm a girl, and you're not."  She sure had me there.  "You're not supposed to wear things like that.  But hey, you're wearing it."

"A__, I never meant for anyone to see me like this.  Now the whole town knows.  And people are staring at me!  Please, let me go home!"

"NO.  I want you to understand what it is that you're doing.  You're dressing up like a girl, but you're not letting anyone see you.  I, on the other hand, have to look pretty all the time, and I'm supposed to have people stare at me all the time.  I think that it's time you started to understand exactly what it is to be a girl."

"But I don't want to be a girl!"

"Then why are you wearing my clothes?"

I couldn't answer.  Why was I wearing her clothes if I didn't want to be a girl.  Even though we were discussing it, I wasn't feeling so odd anymore.  What else could I say?  "Because I like them."

"So.  There it is.  You like wearing my clothes because you like them.  Why don't you just admit it?  You like wearing my clothes because you want to be a girl."

"No!"

"Oh, yes.  And you'd better admit it.  Not just to me, but to everyone.  You want to be a girl.  And you might as well start coming out of my closet now."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you're going to wear my clothes in public if you want me to even let you step through my door again."

"But I am!"

"I mean voluntarily."

I was stuck.  "You can't do this to me."

"You did it to yourself.  Now you have to live with the consequences."

"So what exactly do you want me to do?  I'm already dressed like a girl in public."

"I want you to throw out all of your clothes, and wear only mine.  We've already started."

I grumbled.  "What if I refuse?"

"What choice do you have?  Everyone knows your little secret already."

"Alright.  Let's just go home."

"What's that?"

"I said, alright.  Now let's go."

"I want you to shout it out to everybody."

"Shout what out?"

"Tell them that you're wearing women's clothes, and that you love it."

"You want me to shout that?"

"Yeah," she retorted, "Who'll ever believe it."  She lifted my skirt as she said it.

Angrily, I stepped up a tree planter, and shouted: "I'm dressed like a girl, and I LOVE IT!"  I looked down at her, and she still looked angry.  "I LOVE IT!"  I repeated, just to spite her, just to make sure she heard me, just to make sure that she couldn't go back on me and tell me that I never did it.  "I FUCKING LOVE TO DRESS LIKE A GIRL!  AND I WANT THE WHOLE GODDAMNED WORLD TO KNOW IT!  DO YOU HEAR ME?" Each shout made me feel more and more liberated.  "I LOVE TO WEAR WOMEN'S CLOTHING!  I LOVE TO DRESS LIKE A GIRL!"

I looked down at last, after a crowd had begun to assemble, and saw a look of satisfaction on A__'s face.  I jumped down, and strutted away from her in a huff.  Every step made me feel more and more effeminate.  And I strutted right down the middle of the sidewalk, shaking my girlish little tush.  A__ followed behind me, but I didn't even look back.  I had said it, and I suddenly realized, blushing proudly, I had meant it.  And everybody knew it.

(It seems pointless to me to continue the story.  I would like to say that the hero went on to wear A__'s underwear forever, and that he got to dress up in her nightgown that night.  But that would be anti-climactic.)



Anyway, I would like to add that I'm experiencing the most amazing sexual rush ever by wearing all this stuff tonight.  I feel incredible.  I feel like such a little bitch.  I even went out on the deck like this.  Tonnes of people at the bus station can certainly see me.  I didn't go out in public, but I sure loved the feel of cool air on my legs and naked thighs.  This is just fantastic.  

That wonderful part about this fantasy that keeps me going is this: no matter how far I go, I can always go further.  I have gone further than ever tonight, and it only gets better and better.  Right now, I want to be a transvestite full-time.  Fuck men's clothes.  I want skirts, dresses, lingerie, bikinis.  This is just unbelievable.  I can't wait till I can go all the way.  Maybe I should even tell A__ about this, and involve her in it, too.  It would be even better if I could do it even when she's around.  But that would be crazy.