Insatiable

While writing that last post, I mentioned knowing that if I had no boundaries, I would wank myself to death. I thought I had written about this before, but searched for it throughout my writings, to no avail. I wanted to link to the article I thought I had written, as a case in point. But there is no such article. Therefore, here's a little story about my insatiability when it comes to feminizing myself.

One evening, with my wife out of town for a bachelorette party or some such, I had decided to make full use of her absence to engage in as much girlish debauchery as I could handle. There was so much that I wanted to wear, and in only one night, that I hardly knew where to start. I have limited ability to recuperate at my age, so every wank must count.

Usually, when she's not far away, I have limited time to enjoy my femininity. I browse around the web for things that interest me for a while, which normally feeds some specific fantasy. I then fulfill it by wearing whichever girlie item fits the fantasy best. Sometimes, I'm already obsessed with some specific garment, and develop an elaborate fantasy around it. In any case, it's over after one wank, so I prefer my fantasy to match what I'm wearing, to maximize my pleasure. At times, this isn't enough to satisfy me, for various reasons. I actually keep a diary of every "incident", including what I wore, how much I enjoyed it on a scale of 1 to 10, and a brief description of the circumstances. Merely documenting this after the fact often launches me into another fantasy, so I find myself wanking again in another garment. This second orgasm is usually much harder to achieve. Interestingly, when making love to my wife, I can never muster the lust to come twice.

On this particular evening, I knew that I had all night. I was ravenous for femininity. I had a plan. Since I had no fear of interference, and total privacy for many, many hours, I decided that I would spend the evening wearing nothing but women's clothes, and sleep in my wife's little slip dress that she left behind under her pillow. I had fantasized many times about doing this, but inevitably my playtime would end after succumbing to the temptation of orgasm. This time, I was determined to at least see how long I could go, and try to avoid masturbating.

I whet my appetite browsing the web for the usual: pictures, stories, captions, videos, and so on. I probably wore swimwear while doing so (my records are sketchy, so I'm not sure). I tried to hold out, but probably lasted only an hour or so. In spite of my ambitions, I achieved my first climax quite quickly after all that preparation. In fact, it was too quick to be fully satisfactory. Thinking of my original plan, rather than giving up right then and there, I changed into a bikini. The thought of actually executing on my plan was so arousing that I couldn't resist coming again, soon after putting it on.

By now, I was already tired. My penis was sore from having climaxed twice. With resignation, I cleaned up the mess, and thought my valiant attempt had no hope of continuing. But there again was that thought: now that I've gotten it out of my system, I can surely wear women's clothes without having to masturbate. This would be somewhat less fun, but satisfying nonetheless, on an entirely different level. I slipped into my corset, stockings and high black boots, figuring that if I was going to do this, I might as well challenge myself.

I settled onto the sofa in my lingerie to watch a movie. I spoke to my wife on the phone. The whole time, I counted my blessings that I could wear such an outfit. I lounged happily in my feminine attire, fondling the lace of my panties and the smooth nylon of my stockings, snapping my garters, and adjusting my bodice. Before long, and much to my delight, I gave in to temptation yet again.

At this point, I would normally start feeling a little ill from all the strain, and more than a little over-satiated. And so it was then. But I had a seed in my head. I felt like I could go no further, but by now I was wondering if I even could cum if I tried. I struggled a bit to think of what I'd want to wear, but the very idea of being such a sissy that I could still climax after everything I had already done, spurred me on. I chose my favorite swimsuit, and carried on, knowing that I still had to somehow sleep wearing panties and a nightie.

It was less difficult than I had thought. It was somewhat painful, as with an overworked muscle, and it hurt to even have an erection, but the overload of femininity was too much to keep me from succeeding. I came again!

It was late by now, and I was exhausted. I felt like there was no amount of masturbation that would cure me of this fetish. All I had to do was allow myself to fantasize, and I could keep cumming over and over again. The idea that this dirty little fetish was impossible to satisfy made me want to come yet again! Somewhat unnerved, I slipped into the nightie and panties as planned, brushed my teeth, and went to bed, excited about sleeping en femme. I was drifting off to sleep, and just wanted to enjoy some sweet girlish dreams. I tried not to think about what I was doing.

It was no use. I woke up in the middle of the night with a massive erection, throbbing with the dull pain of muscular fatigue. I would not be able to sleep until I wanked it out, so I once again satisfied my urges.

By now there was no longer any doubt. I had discovered that there is no practical limit to my arousal when indulging my feminine fantasies. I could literally wank myself to death if I allowed myself to. It was also both arousing and disconcerting to confirm that my ample appetite for straight heterosexual intercourse was far smaller than that for feminization. This was not surprising. That the latter was limitless, was.

By morning, I was so worn out and so sore that I couldn't imagine how I would explain to my wife why I wasn't eager to fuck her when she returned. I schlepped around all day in a fog from my exertions of the night before. I had only now, after all these years, discovered the magnitude of my problem.

Fantasy: Contrived Innocence

(A contrived situation where I somehow find myself innocently in women's underwear)

So here I am, wearing this one-piece women's swimsuit.  It's not even remotely masculine.  It can't in any way be mistaken for anything but a woman's swimsuit.  The shape, first of all, is meant to accentuate hips, butt, and tits.  The leg is so high-cut it's almost to my waist.  My cock and balls are squashed snugly by the crotch, which is meant to contain nothing at all.  The lycra is soft.  It's got wires where my boobs should be, for support.  And the colour doesn't help me much, either: it's primarily pink, with little flowers.

The first time was innocuous enough.  I didn't know the speedos I had on were actually a female bikini bottom.  I should have known from the lack of drawstring, and the way it hung off my hips, and seemed so high-cut.  Otherwise, it was just simple navy blue.  I hammed it up when I was told.  I pretended that I wasn't mortally humiliated about being out in public wearing nothing but a woman's bikini bottom.  I pretended that my manhood wasn't permanently and irrevocably destroyed.  I don't think that I knew, however, how much I loved the idea.

I guess the fact that I didn't immediately change out of it didn't help.  I tried to keep my composure.  Not that it would have mattered, though.  The seed was planted.  I wondered immediately how it would feel to wear the matching top.  The thought put a weird itch in my cock.  I felt like I was the centre of attention, and I liked it.  Above all, I loved the way the bikini panties felt on my body.  Maybe keeping it on had less to do with keeping composure than with girlish pleasure.

When we got home from the beach, me still in my bikini panties, I thought about how it would feel to slip into some silk panties after my shower.  With lace trim.  And a bustier.  Stockings.  3-inch heels.  I wanted more.

So now as I prance around in this floral swimsuit, at the beach once more, gushing with pride as I explain how wonderfully erotic it is to be feminine, envying all the pretty girls for their sexy outfits, I can't help but think: damn it, this swimsuit, in spite of its feminine cut, girlish colours, and luxurious softness, isn't anywhere near feminine enough!

At first I denied it, but it only made me want it even more.  It started that first day, when they asked me if I was going to make a habit of wearing bikini bottoms.  I vigourously denied it, but the thought aroused me.  By the time I heard the 20^th joke about my mistake, I angrily defended myself, while at the same time inwardly swearing to never wear anything masculine again.  I practically pictured it fitting me the way it was meant to, if you get my drift.

Naturally, I tried to return the faulty panties to the store, but they informed me that they don't accept returns of bathing suits that have been worn.  I begged them to let me exchange it, but they refused.  I ended up buying the matching top, and a one-piece that I tried to exchange it for.  I couldn't wait to get out of my boy briefs!

It didn't take more than a couple of days to get used to walking in heels.  Finding my size was a hassle, but it was worth it.  I couldn't be feminine enough.

Now I tell people, in between mouthfuls of cock, that I fantasize about having my own pussy.

Fiction: Baby Steps

What happens if you keep going that extra little bit too far...

It all goes in baby steps.

Damn, she's so sexy in those panties.  And they look so erotic just lying there on the chair, flung so carelessly in a moment of passion.  I pick them up, just to feel the soft silk in my hands.  I'm so turned on by this item of pure femininity.  I touch it to my cock.  Heaven.  Just a couple of strokes... oh, yeah, that's good.  Like my cock inside her soft smooth cunt skin.  I'm still stroking.  Uh oh.  Time to clean up.

I have defiled my girlfriend's underwear.  What can I say?  It's certainly erotic.  I just have to be careful not to come all over it again.  She'll think it's weird.  I will hide the evidence in the laundry, and forget this ever happened.

There's so much more to panties than the texture.  I like to fondle the shape, and imagine her pussy inside it, and her hips, and her belly, and her thighs.  Crumpling it up against my cock just doesn't let me appreciate them as much.  How can I feel this silkiness on my cock without wrinkling and mangling them?  How can I fondle them as if her body is in them?  I need a mannequin.  Damn, that would be pretty creepy.  I want to feel her cunt!  I want to fuck it!  Now I'm rubbing the absorbant part that's on the crotch against my dick.  Her pussy touches this!  I want to touch it!  I want to caress her ass, the curves that converge on that spot!  How can I do it?  I want this femininity all over me!  I want to be surrounded by it, in its most concentrated form.  I want to feel her body all over me.  I can't rub them on me hard enough.  I'm not getting enough girlieness!  I'm stepping into them.  I'm grinding against them, and OH MY GOD, it feels so good!  Oh my GOD, the femininity is all over me, and I couldn't get away from it if I even wanted to!  I have never been so aroused in my life!  I am worshipping her girlishness!  I am wearing her panties!  And I love it!  I can't take it anymore... And now there's a mess all over, and I'm thoroughly disgusted with myself.

Two months later.  I don't know what possessed me.  But I haven't been able to shake it ever since.  It felt so sexy.  I could imagine what it must feel like to be a girl, all sleek and smooth and curvy.  It didn't hurt that her panties are unlike anything I've ever  felt before: so ridiculously smooth, and form fitting.  I have to be careful never to do that again.  I don't want to compromise my manhood any more than I already have.  How depraved and disgusting.

There they are again, beckoning me.  I still can't believe I wore them.  They're so indescribably feminine.  I've surely broken something inside myself by wearing them.  How can I ever consider myself a true man again?  But then again, how can an inert piece of cloth possibly change anything?  It's just a little silk cloth.  So why am I so compelled by them?  Why do they make me so nervous?  Why am I so fucking horny all of a sudden?  What happens to a man when he's exposed to such overwhelming femininity?  It can't possibly make the slightest bit of difference.  I'm sliding them on, hesitantly, tentatively.  I can't do this again.  I can't risk it.  A few strokes, and I take them off.  That was easy, wasn't it?  I felt the feminine, and I resisted.  Let's try that again.  Oh God.  No.  I can't handle it.  Whew.  They're off again.  I put them away, and let's think about her some more.  How wonderful she looks in those panties.  I'm caressing myself, grinding into the bed, naked.  How amazing they felt on my hips... Oh yeah, that's much better.  Thank God I didn't wear them.

It's three months later.  I've just had a bit of a scare.  I almost wore her panties again.  Damn, it felt so fucking good!  I jerked off like crazy, but I'm still so unsatisfied.  What can I do?

I resisted enough.  I know for sure that I can control these urges.  I might as well give in every now and then, no?  That's not going too far.  I mean, it is just silk.  So what if it's worn only by women.  I can't believe I'm doing this again!  I feel so relieved now that I am wearing them.  I want her femininity!  To hell with my fears!  I want it!  It feels incredible when I picture her body, and I can feel it in my hands, too.  It's like I'm fondling her.  It's like my body is now hers!  Oh!  It's like I'm channelling her body through her underwear!  It's making me her!  YES!  This is what it's like to be female!  OH YES... What have I done to myself?

It's three months and a day later, and I've finally given in again.  I've been pining for that orgasm for weeks.  I can no longer tell myself that it was a one-time deal.  I'm sure it's perfectly normal.  I think about her all the time.  It's not like I'm becoming a fag or anything.  It just feels really good on my body.  I guess now I know why girls love their lingerie: it's all about the texture.  It's too bad that men can't have silk and satin and lace underwear that fits like that, cuz I'd wear it all the time.  I'm sure this is all perfectly normal; all the same, she can't ever find out that I've done this.  I swear I'll never wear those panties again.

It's such a shame that I have sworn to never touch those black silk panties of hers ever again.  I guess I'll just have to imagine... Just imagine wearing panties again.  Not just those black silk ones... anything!  It's so naughty!  I'd be in such serious trouble if I was really wearing panties again!  It would be so exquisite!

Damn, how I miss those panties.  It's just not the same without them.  I know, I know, it's dangerously faggy.    I know it's undermining my manhood.  But that's exactly what I fucking love about it!  I'm so naughty, I've worn women's underwear!  And I just know that it's turning me into a girl!  Oh God!  I'm turning into a girl!  And I want to come just thinking about it!

Three weeks after that last entry.  This is really starting to scare me.  Not a day goes by that I don't fantasize about putting on those panties.  The things that go through my mind!  I might as well be wearing them, for all the perverted thoughts I've had.  But no, I won't give in.  There's too much at stake.

What harm could there be if I wear these panties again?  I've done it before !  I put them on so shamelessly!  I can't believe I starved myself for so long.  What a feast we shall have tonight!

The very next fucking day!  I made a vow to myself, and I broke it.  I have now officially lost a part of my manhood.  I swear that I will never do that again.  I'll go double or nothing: I'll never give in again; if I do, I willingly accept to lose double the masculinity.  I'm that confident that I'll succeed.  Otherwise, I'll be twice as feminine, and who knows what that will lead to.

Clearly, that kind of deal will lead to me being twice as feminine.  Just think: I've only worn one pair of women's underwear, so how feminine can I be?  Imagine how much more fun it would be if I were twice as girlish?  I could wear other panties!  Like those pink flowery lace ones!  Or the sheer white thong!  I'm sorry, but with those kinds of benefits, I don't see the point in stopping.

Twenty minutes later.  That was fucking hard, wasn't it?  At least that should satisfy me for a while. 

The lacy panties are, believe it or not, even more exquisitely sexy on me than the black satin.  Now that I'm twice the girl, I get twice the fun.  I'm not beating around the bush with this anymore.  I have now reached a whole new level of femininity!  And it feels fantastic!

A month later.  I'm now drawn to all her underwear.  I've got to stop at two.  I already know far too much about wearing women's underwear than I'm comfortable with.

It's such a shame that she's wearing the ones I've already tried.  Tsk-tsk.  I guess I have no choice.  I'll have to put on some others.  Why limit myself?

Six months later.  I think I've tried on all of her sexy panties by now.  Each time I tell myself that it's the last time, but I come back anyway.  I can't let this become a habit, or she'll surely catch me in the act.

Aw, panties again?  Sure, they're lots of fun, but I want some excitement!  How about that bikini bottom?  Yes, it's a very big step, going from just innocent panties to a bathing suit.  But I'm in so deep now that there's no point in resisting.  Still, with all my experience, I tremble with the bikini panties in my hands.  This is so feminine that I can hardly fathom what I'm getting into.  Oh, yes!  This is sweet!  How will I ever explain this one?

Two weeks later.  It's bad enough that I wear panties almost every other day now, but I'm now trying on swimwear!  No more for me.  I don't care how good it feels.

I couldn't possibly do without this for 48 hours anymore!  Wasn't it only yesterday that I utterly effeminated myself by wearing panties?  And also the day before?  And the day before that?  Don't tell me now that it's not having an effect.  I'm hooked.  I'm turning into a girl!  The more I do this, the more irreversible it gets!

Three months.  I'm a fiend.  This is better than sex now.  I can't believe she doesn't know.  As long as it's a secret, I should be fine.  If she finds out, I'm toast.

Only a true girl would wear panties like this all day long!  They feel so nice under my regular yucky boy pants.  Nobody knows!  Tee-hee!  Only I know what a wretched little t-gurl I've become.

A month later.  Busted.  She cried for days.  She got amorous and started undressing me, and found her own panties in my pants.  What could I say?  There's no conceivable explanation.  So now she knows.  I don't know what will come of it.  I have promised to stop.  I only hope that I can keep my promise.

Who would've thought that a one-piece bathing suit could feel so agonizingly feminine?  I love the way it sleeks out my waist, and covers my nipples.  This is a new favourite.  Too bad about that promise, eh?  This is so radically different from just plain old panties and bikini bottoms.  And it's so unmistakably feminine!

Another month.  I'm such a scoundrel.  But it's all I can think about!  Those swimsuits are a force to be reckoned with!  Anyway, we weren't getting along.  It's too bad she had to move on, but frankly, I think I'll be fine.

I'm dying for some action!  It's time for a wardrobe.  Let's go shopping.  First, some panties.  No problem.  They can just think I'm buying lingerie for my girl.  Which is exactly what I'm doing, in a way.  The bathing suits are going to be a bit trickier.  They'll just have to wait.

A week.  I now have women's underwear in my dresser, and it's all mine.  I bought it.  For myself.  And you know what?  I'm cool with that.  As long as word doesn't get around.  I wear them for comfort, not some sick fetish.

Funny that my days always culminate in me getting sexual gratification out of my “comfortable” underwear.  Swimsuits are comfortable too, and it's time to get one.

A week.  I'll admit, it is pretty cracked.  There was no way to appear normal in a bathing suit store full of girls, shopping for a one-piece woman's bathing suit.  I was nervous, I was sweating.  They know.  They can tell.  So maybe I do have a bit of a fetish.  At least I don't know them, and they don't know me.

I miss her bikini bottom.  It was so snug and cozy.  I guess I'll just have to imagine it...

Three weeks.  Imagine their surprise when the weird guy came looking for bikinis.  Now they know for sure.  They were giggling at me this time.  They have no doubt now.  Fuck them!  At least I know what pleases me!  It took so long, too, to pick out a bra.  I have to at least pretend that I'm buying for a girl, even if they don't believe me.  It's too bad I had to get one, because God knows I'll never go so far as to wear one.  It's strictly for down there.

Now that I have my hard-earned bikini bottom on, I feel sorta half-naked.  The bra is just kinda sitting there.  I was going to throw it away.  I mean, I don't have any boobies to cover, so why bother?  Only girls need to wear those.  I tremble as I put it on.  With great difficulty.  Now, there can no longer be any pretense.  I am wearing a bra.  It matches my bikini bottom.  I'm full-on wearing a female outfit.  I am doing it because I want to feel feminine.  And good Goddess, does it ever feel feminine!  I explode with girlishness now.  I am hooked.  I give up.  This is what I want. 

Three hours.  I don't want to take it off.  I like it.  A lot.  I can't believe that I'm wearing a full bikini!  And it turns me on, even after coming three times!  This is truly amazing.  I admit it.  I love to wear women's clothes.  I love feeling feminine.  But seriously, it has to remain a secret.  I'll have to enjoy this alone. 

How could I have worn panties so long without one of these bras?  Oh my god, this is so fucking female!!  What other delights have I deprived myself of?

A week.  I just now found myself compelled to buy tops to match my panties.  I am now a consumer of brassieres.  This is completely out of control.  What if somebody saw me?

What a binge!  It'll take me days to try on all these pretty tops!  Bras, bodices, corsets, bustiers, teddies!  I'm in heaven!

A day later.  I now officially have more articles of female undergarments than male.  What a ridiculous situation.  It's not like I even really wear the gitch anymore.  I should at least hold on to it in case of emergency.

Now I have no choice but to wear panties every single day, at all times.  It's so liberating to be rid of that ugly men's underwear!  Long live lingerie!

Two weeks later.  Well, now I've got more space in my dresser.  I can't possibly go much further.  What will I do if I ever have a girl over?

I couldn't possibly be without some article of femininity for any prolonged amount of time, could I?  That's why nightgowns are so important.  Now I can sleep in lingerie, wake up, and put on some panties that I'll wear all day.  I'm such a fag!

Three months.  This is getting ridiculous.  Fags are hitting on me now.  They never have before.  It can't be a coincidence.  I'm getting carried away when I think about what my underwear looks like.  And maybe the bra shows, after all.  Too bad I don't have any guy underwear anymore, to go back to. 

This body hair is so disgusting.  I want smooth silky girlie legs.  And belly.  And arms.  I can't shave this much, and it'll grow back all scratchy.  This Nair ought to do the trick.  Oh my Goddess!  I feel so naked!  I can't believe I've done this!  This is so feminine!  I have girls' legs now!

A month.  This is getting really scary.  Now I can't even change in front of other men at the gym.  How can I possibly explain the lack of body hair?  I know that bodybuilders do it, but I'm no bodybuilder.  I'll enjoy it while I can, but it'll have to grow back.

Wow, do bare legs every look good in stockings!  I can't believe I didn't try this sooner!  It was so gross with all that hair in there before.  Now my legs look positively female.  Oh Goddess!  I can finally wear that garter belt and not be embarrassed!

A day.  Great.  Now I've worn just about everything that can be found in a lingerie shop.  I'm clean of body hair.  People can tell.  But God know I'll never admit what I'm doing!

What's the point of wearing stockings without some pretty heels?  Sandals would show off my toes.  But that's so feminine!  Do I dare?  This saleslady is looking at me funny.  Hasn't she ever seen a man browsing women's shoes?  She looks a bit uneasy and embarrassed when she asks me if I'd like to try some on.  She does not tell me that they're women's shoes.  I make up some lie about dressing up for some masquerade, but I can tell she doesn't believe me.  But it's ok.  At least I know they'll fit me.  It doesn't bother me if a few key salespeople know!  I need to keep my wardrobe up to date, after all!

Two weeks.  How humiliating!  Everyone in the shoe store now knows what I'm doing.  Not only have I bought the skankiest strappy sandals and fuck-me boots in the store, but I tried them on!  And they even commented on the stockings I had on under my jeans!  I must keep this private!  Good thing I can't even walk in heels!

I look and feel like a dominatrix in the FMB's, and a club skank or even a hooker in the strappies!  Who knew that footwear could be so sexy?  I am so overwhelmingly feminine now!  There is absolutely no turning back now!  What more can I possibly do?!?

Three days.  I'm clomping around in the mall in women's fuck-me boots, just barely covered up by my jeans.  Everybody can see the three-inch heels, and the pointy toe.  I get funny looks from lots of people.  But I also have a huge boner, so I don't care.  It's not like I'm too obvious.

The saleslady wouldn't let me use the change room to try on the clothes I'd picked out.  She said it would be improper.  I can't believe I asked her to!  I wasn't thinking, I was too excited.  The little black dress will be so stunning on me, as will the blouse and miniskirt.  It's ok, I'm sure they'll fit me anyway.  If not, I'll just exchange them!

A week.  So I've now worn it all.  My makeup skills are getting pretty acceptable.  Nobody says anything about the cut of my jeans or shirts, even though they are for girls.  I am officially a total transvestite.  I haven't had the balls to go out in a dress or skirt, but I've come pretty close.  At least I do this because I love girls.  Hard to explain how this is all a result of extreme heterosexuality.

There is something about Andrew that makes my legs quiver.  I've only ever fantasized about this before.  In public I still can't help but stare at other girls, and get jealous about what they're wearing.  I'm not even wearing a dress, and I think he likes that.  He's so flaming gay!  But there's something erotic about him, about the way he carries himself. 

Two months.  What the hell is happening to me?  I can't stop thinking about Andrew!  It feels just like it felt when I met my ex-girlfriend!  I have a crush on a man!  I can't let it continue.  I have to avoid him.

I melted in his arms when he kissed me.  I knew what he really wanted.  I clutched at his cock.  Oh, how I've longed to have another man's cock in my hand!

A week.  I'm excited about what's happening.  Here I sit, wearing a little miniskirt and a halter top and strappy sandals, wondering how I became a fag.  I think of little more than cock now.  I fantasize about it rubbing against my butt cheeks, about how it must taste.  I want to rub cock all over my ultra-feminine body.  In a way, I wish I really did have a pussy; in another way, I'm extremely turned on by the idea that I'm a flaming faggot who wants a cock rammed up his tight little asshole.  How did I become so gay!  Why do I love it so much!

I have never come so much in my entire life.  My little prick is so sore from it that it hurts to pee.  I came twice with his cock in my mouth.  I didn't know how to swallow, but what came out of my mouth I spread on his cock and his chest and lapped it all up.  I came again when he merely touched my butt cheek with his knob.  I came again when he got in all the way, even though it hurt.  Just the thought of having a penis inside me made me come, let alone actually having it there.  His pumping made me howl like a she-wolf, and come at least twice more.  Then when I felt him pumping his semen deep inside me, I came again.  We tried a few different positions, with always the same result.  He's exhausted now.  So am I, but I want more, can you believe it?  And I just know that as fun as this is, it would be even better if I were a girll, and taking him in my cunt.

We've been a couple for about a month now.  He barely satisfies me.  He's not happy about me taking the hormones, either.  He's not pleased about me growing boobs to fit into my many brassieres, and he's certainly not happy about the prospect of me having a pussy.  Tough luck!

Fiction: Captured in the Battle of the Sexes

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

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

(Here the fantasy splits into two scenarios)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The conversion:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fiction: Caught on the Front of the Battle of the Sexes

So many fantasies tonight…

It all started with a picture in my head of Milla Jovovich half naked crouched down with a frilly black garter on her thigh.  I have never seen such an image in my entire life, but I can imagine it.  That’s what I want to look like right now.  I’m imagining that I’m wearing that frilly black garter, and it’s the last straw: I can no longer pretend that I can go back to wearing men’s clothes ever again.  My thigh is bald and totally effeminate now.  I feel relieved about slipping into a little black dress, and going out as a woman in public for all to see, and being indistinguishable from any other hot young tart.  Plus I look like Milla Jovovich.  My transformation is complete.

Another thought: girl says, “What made you think no-one would know?”  She has caught me and confronted me, caught me wearing black panties, a bra, and – you guessed it – a frilly black garter on one of my thighs.  Or maybe she caught me rifling through her things, and is showing me what it’s like to wear them.  And I’m going along because it makes me feel like Milla Jovovich.


Finally, it’s the fantasy of the worldwide battle of the sexes.  I am the commander of the last bastion of masculinity on the front.  Female civilization is destroying manhood.  I have been instructed about the horrendous dangers of coming into contact with any feminine undergarment, unless it is being worn by a sexy female.  It is perfectly ok to fuck girls, as long as you don’t get tricked into wearing their clothes.  I have seen ultra-virile men turned into flaming transsexuals in a matter of weeks after they got cajoled into putting on a bra or some panties by a hunnie they just laid.  

I get seduced by a girl who looks just like Milla Jovovich.  I fuck her brains out one night – I fuck lots of girls here on the front.  I don’t know if they’re all trying to seduce the fighting men to turn them into girls, or if they’re just horny and want dicks inside them.  Anyway, I wake up alone in my barracks with a frilly black garter on my left thigh.  I groan in disbelief, knowing that I am corrupted, and that I will soon become a flaming transsexual.  I vow to fight it harder than any man ever fought.

I remember the worst case.  Johnson came to my barracks in the middle of the night, bawling his eyes out.  He said that he was sorry, and that he wasn’t a traitor, that he just wanted to fuck her.  But he had somehow found himself in a moment of playful passion, in spite of his training, wearing the girl’s bra for a laugh.  I told him to be strong, and to fight every instinct of girlhood he had.  For the next four or five days, his spirits were pretty high.  Just in case, we got him some whores and had him do the nastiest most degrading sex acts on them, as according to our training, it should get him back in the spirit of manhood.  But he started to fade somehow.  He began to look more and more nervous with each passing day.  By the end of twelve days, he was quaking like a leaf.  On day fourteen, he was seen running out of his quarters with a whore.  She was buck naked.  He was wearing her sleazy tarty lingerie and miniskirt and tight tube top and had his face all made up.  They had him parading on the front lines prancing around like a total sissy the next morning.  They made sure that we wouldn’t be able to get a decent shot at him to take him out.

Johnson was the worst case by far.  He voluntarily put on that girl’s bra, and lasted a quarter of the time that most men with his affliction do.  One guy held out for a year before he got caught masturbating in a one-piece women’s swimsuit.  He was taken out of his tent and shot as he was.  All reports confirm that he couldn’t possibly have gotten that swimsuit but the very same day, when he rode a cheap redheaded bitch like a bronco, and chased her off the camp naked.  It was her swimsuit.  He had been in remission for so long that we all figured he had long since recovered, and was simply taking advantage of the health benefits by fucking hookers every day.  It turns out his diary was filled with anxiety and fear, as he fought tooth and nail with his fantasies of being the girls he fucked every day.

There are some survivors, but they’re not fit for the front.  There is not one single case of any cure having worked for anyone who ever wore women’s clothes.  I vowed to be the first.

As the commander of the last battalion of men on the front, I had to maintain my manhood at all costs.  If I gave in, and if any of the men found out about my potential defeat, then all would be lost.  I would have to keep it secret, even as I fight against whatever pernicious mind control had affected so many of my men. 

I gripped the garter and just as I moved to tear it off, I hesitated.  I would have to find a way to dispose of it completely.  Burn it.  Bury it.  Swallow it.  I could not keep it with my gear, because of the mandatory inspections that were meant to weed out any transvestitism among the troops.  If I buried it, the upturned earth would be a dead giveaway.  If I burnt it, the smoke and flames would surely attract suspicion.  I could never swallow it without making myself horribly ill.  So how would I dispose of it?  I fingered the elastic on my thigh as I considered this.

Suddenly realizing what my hand was doing, I angrily slid it off my leg and flung it down onto the bed in front of me.  I stared at it for a long time.  I pondered how the lace and satin alone made it incredibly feminine, and how the bunched up satin made it look so frilly and delicate and girlish.  How could something so unfathomably feminine gotten onto my muscular, macho, virile leg and not wither against my undeniable masculinity?  I pictured it on my thigh again.  I didn’t feel the least bit feminine.  I was sure that I would survive it.

Then, my thoughts became clouded with a most insidious idea.  My problem was that I had to dispose of the garter somehow, as its existence compromised my manhood in the eyes of my troops.  If I was unaffected by it, I could hide it on myself, as no-one would ever check my own clothes; if I had been affected by it, I might as well wear it since I would be turning into a flaming faggot sissy eventually anyway.  Either way, I had found a solution to my problem: I would wear the garter under my uniform.  I liked the idea of putting it on again.  I enjoyed the thrill of challenging my manhood.  

Of course, that was bullshit, and I knew it.  I found myself fantastically excited about the prospect of wearing the garter again.  Worse, I was increasingly aroused about the prospect of my capitulation.  I giggled at the thought that I could wear a frilly sexy girlish garter all day and no-one would be the wiser.  I imagined how sexy it must feel for my leg to be bald, and wearing silk and lace panties and a brassiere to match under a little black cocktail dress.  I thought about Johnson’s fourteen-day record, and how I, the most virile of men, would shatter it by 13 days, 23 hours, and 55 minutes.

I jolted myself back to my senses.  I had to resist!  I could not allow myself to cave in!  I reached for the garter and was about to throw it into the fire when the alarm sounded warning of an attack.  I got dressed as quickly as I could and rushed out of my quarters to engage the enemy.

We were hopelessly outnumbered, and we were caught totally by surprise.  We fought hard for maybe 2 hours before we were overrun and captured.

I saw that all my men were led into semi-private areas where they were being seduced into wearing women’s underwear.  They were all trained to resist to the death.  I was led to a completely private dressing room filled with lingerie and sexy dresses and swimwear.  Milla was there waiting for me.

She stripped off my uniform.  “Did you honestly think that we wouldn’t know?” she asked, pointing at the garter on my left leg.  I blushed.  

“As you know, all our captives are shown the ways of women’s clothes.  I’m going to leave you here by yourself for an hour.  How you emerge will decide the fate of all masculinity the world over.”
She slunk out of the room, leaving me there alone.

I couldn’t resist my overpowering urge to try on some lingerie.  I desperately needed to get some panties on.  But then I got distracted by the bikinis.  Knowing that I had only an hour, I flung off my panties and got myself into a gorgeous little string bikini, and pranced around for a few minutes in absolute bliss.  Then I tried on some one-piece swimsuits just for the experience.  

Suddenly I realized what I would be subjecting my men to.  Either they were suffering the same glorious discovery as I was, or they were staunchly resisting with every ounce of manhood they had.  If I emerged from here in an hour wearing any article of women’s clothing, I would thereby destroy everything I held dear.  If I came out naked and proudly masculine, the men back home could take some of my courage and fight on.  But I had an entire hour!  I could do both!  I could make myself as girlish as I could for 59 minutes, and strip down again just in time…

Of course, if all my men are being effeminated anyway, I might as well enjoy myself.  Besides, why would I want the fight to continue?  I couldn’t consider this a defeat in any way, as I was so overwhelmingly overjoyed to be turned into a girl.

When Milla knocked on the door, I found myself in a slinky black nylon dress, fishnet stockings, pumps, and a lacy little thong.  I smiled lewdly at her as she took my hand to lead me out the door.  I pulled her out of the way, and sashayed out the door like a supermodel, more confident in myself than ever before.  The rustle of the dress against my hips was exquisite.  I was completely effeminate.  Every last one of my men still wore his uniform.  They had all fully resisted.

I was the only one who gave in, and I gave in more than any man in the history of this conflict.  I had betrayed my gender.  They all looked at me with horror.

I laughed with great gusto at them.  “I am a girl now!  Fuck all you men!”

Demoralized, they all became playboy bunnies.

The girls had plans for me, though.  I had been such a smashing success (I even started taking hormones that very day) that they figured I would be a perfect agent back in my homeland.  They sent me back undercover as a man to bring them down from the inside.  The only way I could agree to it was if I got to keep an article of women’s clothing on at all times.  I couldn’t bear the thought of being away from my flowery dainty girlie things.

I wore a slinky little black garter under my clothes as I seduced the male government into total absolute submission.

Diary: Hollywood

I spent this evening in Hollywood, enthralled by the multitudes of gorgeous, sexy women.  Now I’m wearing the outfit I bought a few weeks ago: my vinyl mini-dress, matching lace garter belt and thong, and fishnet stockings.  I didn’t see anyone wearing anything like this, but I desperately need some femininity.

I did come across one of the most exquisitely beautiful women I’ve ever seen.  She was slightly oriental, young, and wearing a form-fitting backless red formal dress.  Her body was perfect, and she carried herself like a model.  The slit in her skirt only came up just above her knee, but it revealed a stunning pair of legs.  Exquisite.  I should hang around there more often.  There are many sleazy lingerie shops along Hollywood Boulevard that I might thoroughly enjoy.

I wish I could describe exactly what it is that femininity does to me.  I can’t even describe what it is.  The way women move, the way they carry themselves, has so much to it, and yet I can’t even put my finger on how it differs from men.  And why do I love it so much?  Maybe it’s a certain innate delicacy to their every gesture.  Their limp-wristed, butt-wiggling walk.  The way their feminine features, from their soft, smooth, hairless skin; their slender arms, shoulders, necks; their soft, rounded bottoms; the exquisitely slim curves of their waists; their round perfect breasts; all billowing out from them without their even knowing it. 

And here I am, wearing a fucking dress.

The appeal is so ridiculously strong.  I want to be even more feminine right now.  I want to make myself utterly female.  It’s not good enough that I’m wearing sexy lingerie and sex wear; no, I am fantasizing about wearing my corset bra.  I need that extra layer of womanhood.  I need something to accentuate my breasts, and taper down my soft, soft, slim, sexy waist.  I want to abandon myself to it.

There, that’s much better.

I love brassieres.  I love the way the part under the arms looks.  I love the way the straps (I’ve removed them from my corset bra because this outfit looks much better without them) accentuate the delicacy of female shoulders.  And of course, the titties.  

Considering how much I worship women, is it really any wonder that I can’t resist the urge to pretend to be one?  Given the chance to dress up like a girl, I can’t imagine how a normal man wouldn’t be overwhelmed with temptation.  I love how lingerie makes me feel so sexy.  I imagine myself as a girl.  I imagine myself recklessly, remorselessly, unhesitatingly abandoning my manhood.

The fantasy is this: I love a girl.  I want to be her.  I tell her as much when I make love to her.  Finally, I beg to wear her clothes.  I know she disapproves, but I beg her, and promise to do anything at all for her if only she lets me wear her panties.  And so she does, but I must serve her every whim.  She allows me the privilege of wearing her panties.  I become her slave bitch.  She insists that I forsake any pretense of manhood if I want to wear her clothes.  I have to get my own wardrobe, and dispose of all my male clothes.  I am no longer allowed to wear anything the least bit masculine.  Only lingerie, dresses and skirts, and high-heeled shoes.  I must completely abandon my manhood.  But I already want this, even though I’m afraid to go out in public that way.  Eventually my desires prove far stronger than my humility.  So she insists that I bring her men to replace me.  And I do.  And I get men of my own, too.  I become a complete transsexual.  And I love every second of it.