It’s such a release to wear your clothes, to turn myself into a sexy, gorgeous girl, like you. It makes me feel so unbearably sexy when I pretend to be a girl. It feels so naughty. I should definitely not be doing it. But it’s so much fun! I love the way silk and satin feel on my skin. More than that, I love the way your clothes are themselves innately feminine. I love the way my wearing them obliterates any pretense I ever had of being masculine.
I long to wipe my manhood away, and reveal myself for the woman that I am. I long to transform myself into a girl, and do everything that real girls do with complete impunity.
It starts when I make fun of homosexuals. I laugh at them and denigrate them. But my girl, she takes offence. She says that my making fun of them is proof that I’m not comfortable with my own sexuality, and that the fact that I laugh at gays only betrays the fact that I am secretly like them, or at the very least that I secretly want to be gay. She goes on with this ad nauseum. I joke with her that she’s a lesbian, and would love to have pussy. When she objects, I call her a hypocrite for being afraid of her own homosexuality. So we make a bet: she says she’ll see me take a cock in the ass and in the mouth voluntarily in no more than 90 days; I say she won’t, but I’ll have her eating carpet by that time. If I win, I get to have a threesome with her and another girl of my choice; if she wins, she gets to have a threesome with me and another guy. In either case, the more numerous gender must perform lewd homosexual acts for the entertainment of the lone member of the opposite sex.
90 days is a very short time to completely transform any man, and especially me. I ask her how she expects to do it (we stipulated at the time of the bet that there would be no force allowed, nor any psychological shanghaiing such as hypnosis, nor any surreptitious feeding of hormones or mind control drugs; it would all have to be done through conscious actions; she would have to win me over with convincing arguments) and she tells me that all she has to do is plant a seed in my head, and I’ll begin my slow but inevitable transformation immediately. She also mentions that I won’t even know what the seed is until it starts to eat away at my façade of manhood.
She tells me that the only way I can avoid becoming a flaming faggot in 90 days is by wearing her underwear.
I laugh at this blatant contradiction. More likely I would begin my hopeless spiral into gayness only if I did as she said.
"So then," she says triumphantly, "you admit that it’s possible that you’re going to become a total raging cocksucker."
"Never," I reply.
"Then why are you afraid of wearing panties and a bra?"
"That would be gay. Besides, that’s just your trick to get me to fall into your trap. I will not make myself the least bit feminine for any reason."
With that the seed is planted. I try to imagine how wearing women’s underwear could possibly save me from becoming a fag, but I just don’t see it. Confident in my manhood, I start to imagine the ways I could convince girlie to develop a taste for pussy. Visions of girls making out together dance in my head.
I am pretty confident at this point. I am so confident that I laugh some more about the idea that my wearing women’s underwear could somehow undermine my manhood. I figure that I could probably do it and come out unscathed. Nothing can change what I am.
She starts to taunt me when we make love. She tells me to imagine what it’s like for a girl when she gets to have a big fat dick slide inside her. She tells me to picture what a girl tastes when she has a mouthful of cock. Meanwhile, I proselytize about the wonders of femininity, about how incredibly sexy women are, and how she knows it. I convince her that she looks at fashion magazines because she knows how pretty girls are, and she wants to taste one. This gets me hotter than hell. I love thinking about her fucking another girl. Girls everywhere. Nothing but girl. Girrrrrl girl girl woman girl girl girl girlie girl.
Somehow, my appreciation of girls becomes tainted with the graphic detail my girlie gave when describing how it feels to have cock inside her. I begin to imagine being a girl. Not fucking or anything, just being. Being sexy and girlish and curvy and effeminate. I know what makes girls sexy, and I can feel it all over myself. By day 30 I’m worried sick about losing the bet. I can’t stop thinking about how sexy it must feel to be a girl. Every time becomes more intense. Soon I start fantasizing about actually wearing her panties. The idea makes me incredibly horny. I figure, it’s gotta be worth a shot. Maybe she wasn’t kidding, and wearing her panties will save me from these nasty thoughts.
The moment I put them on, as my knees quiver and buckle while I collapse in a sexual heap of girl-mad femininity, I realize that it was a trick, that I had now lost all hope of ever winning the bet. Worse, this realization filled me with unbridled ecstasy. While I wore those panties and that bra, I rejoiced in the fantasy that they would turn me momentarily into a complete perfect female, and that I could start fucking and sucking dicks forthwith. I pictured myself as a girl, with a big fat cock in my pussy, in my mouth, and luxuriating in every second of it. I could feel the bra shaping my chest into a pair of full, perky tits; I felt the panties mould my butt into a cute little round girlie’s ass, and suck in my waist, and wither away my precious cock into a delicate, delicious cunt. And when I came I turned livid with shame and put it all away never to be spoken of or thought about again.
That’s when I knew that she wasn’t kidding after all. The experience of wearing her panties showed me just how close I am to becoming a flaming homosexual. I could never even think of doing it again for as long as I live.
Just to be sure, I repeated the experience with all kinds of lingerie, swimwear, and anything else I could think of. That ought to teach me.
By day 60, I could no longer pretend that I could win. This is when I realized that my pride wasn’t worth giving up the intense pleasure of being feminine. I couldn’t help but celebrate by buying my own lingerie and electrolyzing off all my unsightly body hair. I still kept up appearances for girlie’s sake, because I wanted to surprise her. I sucked my first dick on day 75. I got fucked in the ass the very next day.
I manage to surprise girlie on day 89 by contriving to have her walk in on me sucking and fucking dick simultaneously while wearing my own babydoll and fishnet stockings. From then on, we become like sisters, except we have a threesome with this gorgeous hunk of a guy to seal the bet.
Showing posts with label lesbians. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lesbians. Show all posts
Fiction: Metamorphosis or Who's Putting All These Panties In My Dresser?
Andy woke up, like every other morning, at 7:30, in his apartment where he lives alone. But he prepares to get dressed, and he discovers a pair of women's underwear in his underwear drawer. He has no idea how it got there. It's a very sexy pair of panties: frilly and silky and very feminine. But he can't account for it at all. He's never seen it before in his life. He has no girlfriend. He does his own laundry. How could it have gotten there? He hides it under his regular underwear, in hopes that no one finds it.
Weeks pass. Andy has forgotten about the underwear. He wakes up again, as per his routine, and discovers that his own underwear is missing. It has been replaced with women's underwear. Not one scrap of men's underwear remains. He has no idea what to do. He can't very well go around wearing that. He decides to go without underwear for today, and to buy some later. He takes the panties out of his drawer and throws them in the trash. Then he reconsiders, and stuffs them under his dresser. Out of sight, out of mind.
Weeks pass. Andy can't forget about the underwear. Once was bad enough, but the loss of all his underwear was eerie. He couldn't account for it. It was very strange. But life goes on. He goes to his dresser again, and lo and behold, his underwear is gone again. Only this time, there is nothing to replace it. Angrily, he slams the drawer, and puts his pants on. Again, he buys more underwear that evening to replace the mysteriously disappearing underwear.
A week passes. Andy keeps a wary eye about his apartment. He makes sure that all his doors are locked, all his windows are locked, and checks to make sure that his underwear is still there every night. He opens his dresser drawer, and is shocked to see that his underwear is gone again. He buys more that evening, at a different store, to avoid suspicion, and sets up a video camera to record to survey his dresser all day and all night.
The next day, he wakes up to find his underwear drawer empty again. He feverishly checks his video tape, and finds nothing. He can't afford to keep buying underwear. He puts on his pants, and vows to live underwearless.
A week passes. Andy has a rash around his balls. He needs the underwear to insulate his crotch. He can't walk around without underwear anymore. He has no choice. He pulls the women's panties out from under the dresser (surprised to find them still there), picks the least feminine of the bunch (a difficult choice), and puts them on. To his surprise, they are quite comfortable. He feels silly wearing them, but realizes that nobody has to know. Nobody will know. He shoves the rest of the panties (at least 10 pairs) back under the dresser.
Every day, Andy wears women's underwear. But he realizes that he can't wash them without looking suspicious, because he frequents a laundromat. So he drives across town, and makes sure to go when it's the least busy. He is very discreet about his panties.
Weeks pass. Andy has developed a routine for putting on women's underwear in the morning. His rash is gone. He still keeps them under the dresser. Now he wakes up to discover that he has a brassiere in his dresser, and no undershirts. He picks it up angrily, and stuffs it under the dresser. He pulls out a pair of girl's panties at the same time and puts them on. He wears no undershirt today. Or the next day, or the next. The bra sits under his dresser collecting dust.
A week passes. Andy can't stop thinking about his predicament. And about his panties. He used to sleep with his underwear on, but stopped that practice when his own underwear disappeared. After a short while, he was so comfortable in his panties that he kept them on at night, too.
A few weeks pass. Andy notices that his sexual practices begin to change. He no longer masturbates in the shower, but he rubs his penis against his bedsheets, to his immense pleasure. He does this naked, with the panties in his hands, fantasizing about a girl wearing them.
A week passes. Andy gets hornier and hornier. He starts to realize that taking off his panties to masturbate seems anti-climactic. He keeps them on, and imagines his dream girl wearing them instead of him. He experiences the orgasm of his life. He quickly removes the panties and begins sleeping naked again.
A few days pass. Andy is extremely horny. He needs to masturbate. He can't do it in the shower anymore. He rubs up against his bedsheets imagining that he's wearing his panties. He feels guilty when he's finished, but nonetheless glad to have felt so good.
A few more days pass. Andy feels an overwhelming desire to wear those panties again to masturbate in. He curbs his desire for as long as he can, then he yanks them out from under the dresser, slips into them, and writhes in extraordinary pleasure. He finishes, and stuffs them guiltily back under the dresser.
A month passes. Andy loves to masturbate with his panties. He starts thinking about the effect that they have on him, and it worries him severely. He can't stop himself from doing it. He goes to pull his panties out from under the dresser, and finds the bra instead. he looks at it closely, and begins to tremble. he gets a pair of panties, and puts them on, and the bra. They just so happen to match. He has the orgasm of his life.
A few months pass. Andy loves to wear his panties all the time. He still keeps them under his dresser, and is careful at the laundromat. He starts growing his hair. He feels it looks sexier. It makes him feel better. Some mornings, he feels kinky, and wears a bra to work, as well as the panties. He is certain that no one has noticed yet.
A month passes. Andy transplants his panties and bra to his underwear drawer. The next day, more bras appear in his underwear drawer. His heart jumps, he almost blacks out with anticipation. He welcomes his new brassieres, and wears a different one each day.
A month passes. Andy is content to have women's underwear on under his normal clothes. He wakes up one morning to find a miniskirt in his closet. He wears it that evening, in private, to see what it's like. He likes the feel of it, tight on his body. He likes the way it airs out his crotch. He does not like how it exposes his ugly leg hair. It makes him feel silly. He masturbates in it, and puts it back where he found it.
Several months pass. Andy finds new clothes replacing his old clothes quite often. Shirts become blouses, t-shirts become tight tops, and pants become skirts, and suits become dresses. He can't wear them in public. People start to ask him why he wears the same suit all the time. He begins to shave his body to feel more feminine in his skirts and blouses and sexy tight tops. Even his jeans have been replaced with feminine cuts.
A week passes. Andy discovers that he has not a scrap of male clothing left in his wardrobe. He blushes, and puts on a dress, and goes to work, hoping that no one notices. He comes home unemployed.
The next day, he goes to the local store, wearing tight, form-fitting jeans (women's jeans), a pretty, smooth, skin tight top that accentuates his fake tits, and a pair of women's shoes. He styles his hair androgynously. It is quite long now. He goes to the store to buy some lipstick and eyeliner. He finds a way to take hormones to make his body become more female. He has no choice now but to become female. He does all this with a bit of reluctance, but with nerve-shaking anticipation. He is proud to now walk around the city, dressed entirely as a woman, acting like a woman. And he still has no idea how this happened to him. And he loves every minute of it. He buys lingerie now, and bathing suits, bikinis, shops in women's clothing stores, uses the ladies' room. He grows tits, and a waist, and his voice raises an octave. But he still has a penis. He hates his penis. It is a vestige of his former self which he wishes to eradicate. . . if only it weren't so pleasurable to masturbate with a silky teddy and a garter belt on! But he still loves girls. he still wants girls. He gets a sex change and becomes a perfect lesbian.
Weeks pass. Andy has forgotten about the underwear. He wakes up again, as per his routine, and discovers that his own underwear is missing. It has been replaced with women's underwear. Not one scrap of men's underwear remains. He has no idea what to do. He can't very well go around wearing that. He decides to go without underwear for today, and to buy some later. He takes the panties out of his drawer and throws them in the trash. Then he reconsiders, and stuffs them under his dresser. Out of sight, out of mind.
Weeks pass. Andy can't forget about the underwear. Once was bad enough, but the loss of all his underwear was eerie. He couldn't account for it. It was very strange. But life goes on. He goes to his dresser again, and lo and behold, his underwear is gone again. Only this time, there is nothing to replace it. Angrily, he slams the drawer, and puts his pants on. Again, he buys more underwear that evening to replace the mysteriously disappearing underwear.
A week passes. Andy keeps a wary eye about his apartment. He makes sure that all his doors are locked, all his windows are locked, and checks to make sure that his underwear is still there every night. He opens his dresser drawer, and is shocked to see that his underwear is gone again. He buys more that evening, at a different store, to avoid suspicion, and sets up a video camera to record to survey his dresser all day and all night.
The next day, he wakes up to find his underwear drawer empty again. He feverishly checks his video tape, and finds nothing. He can't afford to keep buying underwear. He puts on his pants, and vows to live underwearless.
A week passes. Andy has a rash around his balls. He needs the underwear to insulate his crotch. He can't walk around without underwear anymore. He has no choice. He pulls the women's panties out from under the dresser (surprised to find them still there), picks the least feminine of the bunch (a difficult choice), and puts them on. To his surprise, they are quite comfortable. He feels silly wearing them, but realizes that nobody has to know. Nobody will know. He shoves the rest of the panties (at least 10 pairs) back under the dresser.
Every day, Andy wears women's underwear. But he realizes that he can't wash them without looking suspicious, because he frequents a laundromat. So he drives across town, and makes sure to go when it's the least busy. He is very discreet about his panties.
Weeks pass. Andy has developed a routine for putting on women's underwear in the morning. His rash is gone. He still keeps them under the dresser. Now he wakes up to discover that he has a brassiere in his dresser, and no undershirts. He picks it up angrily, and stuffs it under the dresser. He pulls out a pair of girl's panties at the same time and puts them on. He wears no undershirt today. Or the next day, or the next. The bra sits under his dresser collecting dust.
A week passes. Andy can't stop thinking about his predicament. And about his panties. He used to sleep with his underwear on, but stopped that practice when his own underwear disappeared. After a short while, he was so comfortable in his panties that he kept them on at night, too.
A few weeks pass. Andy notices that his sexual practices begin to change. He no longer masturbates in the shower, but he rubs his penis against his bedsheets, to his immense pleasure. He does this naked, with the panties in his hands, fantasizing about a girl wearing them.
A week passes. Andy gets hornier and hornier. He starts to realize that taking off his panties to masturbate seems anti-climactic. He keeps them on, and imagines his dream girl wearing them instead of him. He experiences the orgasm of his life. He quickly removes the panties and begins sleeping naked again.
A few days pass. Andy is extremely horny. He needs to masturbate. He can't do it in the shower anymore. He rubs up against his bedsheets imagining that he's wearing his panties. He feels guilty when he's finished, but nonetheless glad to have felt so good.
A few more days pass. Andy feels an overwhelming desire to wear those panties again to masturbate in. He curbs his desire for as long as he can, then he yanks them out from under the dresser, slips into them, and writhes in extraordinary pleasure. He finishes, and stuffs them guiltily back under the dresser.
A month passes. Andy loves to masturbate with his panties. He starts thinking about the effect that they have on him, and it worries him severely. He can't stop himself from doing it. He goes to pull his panties out from under the dresser, and finds the bra instead. he looks at it closely, and begins to tremble. he gets a pair of panties, and puts them on, and the bra. They just so happen to match. He has the orgasm of his life.
A few months pass. Andy loves to wear his panties all the time. He still keeps them under his dresser, and is careful at the laundromat. He starts growing his hair. He feels it looks sexier. It makes him feel better. Some mornings, he feels kinky, and wears a bra to work, as well as the panties. He is certain that no one has noticed yet.
A month passes. Andy transplants his panties and bra to his underwear drawer. The next day, more bras appear in his underwear drawer. His heart jumps, he almost blacks out with anticipation. He welcomes his new brassieres, and wears a different one each day.
A month passes. Andy is content to have women's underwear on under his normal clothes. He wakes up one morning to find a miniskirt in his closet. He wears it that evening, in private, to see what it's like. He likes the feel of it, tight on his body. He likes the way it airs out his crotch. He does not like how it exposes his ugly leg hair. It makes him feel silly. He masturbates in it, and puts it back where he found it.
Several months pass. Andy finds new clothes replacing his old clothes quite often. Shirts become blouses, t-shirts become tight tops, and pants become skirts, and suits become dresses. He can't wear them in public. People start to ask him why he wears the same suit all the time. He begins to shave his body to feel more feminine in his skirts and blouses and sexy tight tops. Even his jeans have been replaced with feminine cuts.
A week passes. Andy discovers that he has not a scrap of male clothing left in his wardrobe. He blushes, and puts on a dress, and goes to work, hoping that no one notices. He comes home unemployed.
The next day, he goes to the local store, wearing tight, form-fitting jeans (women's jeans), a pretty, smooth, skin tight top that accentuates his fake tits, and a pair of women's shoes. He styles his hair androgynously. It is quite long now. He goes to the store to buy some lipstick and eyeliner. He finds a way to take hormones to make his body become more female. He has no choice now but to become female. He does all this with a bit of reluctance, but with nerve-shaking anticipation. He is proud to now walk around the city, dressed entirely as a woman, acting like a woman. And he still has no idea how this happened to him. And he loves every minute of it. He buys lingerie now, and bathing suits, bikinis, shops in women's clothing stores, uses the ladies' room. He grows tits, and a waist, and his voice raises an octave. But he still has a penis. He hates his penis. It is a vestige of his former self which he wishes to eradicate. . . if only it weren't so pleasurable to masturbate with a silky teddy and a garter belt on! But he still loves girls. he still wants girls. He gets a sex change and becomes a perfect lesbian.
Diary: Lesbians
Okay, before I begin, I have to at least mention a newly elaborated fantasy closely related to this. I'm talking about LESBIANS.
Watching TV the other night, I was struck by a conclusion to an avant-garde Canadian comedy called The Newsroom. The hero, a sleazy news director at the CBC, wanted to hire a stupid pretty bimbo to run his errands for him. He gets the perfect one to work for him. She's very pretty, and extremely sexy. The sexual tension between them was quite subtle, but well done. There was also a lesbian, who was way over-qualified. He did not hire her. She threatened to sue. So he eventually hired them both.
In the end, he invited the bimbo out to have lunch, but she denied him. Why? Predictably, because she was in the process of discovering a new aspect of her life, an exciting new aspect. She had developed a sexual relationship with the lesbian. This was so incredibly shocking as to seem distasteful. What a stunning blow. That must be the most painful shock to the male ego imaginable. I was flabergasted.
But I was also acutely aroused. The thought of lesbians making love is incredibly arousing. I can just picture two perfect female bodies, in underwear, coming together coyly, and start shyly touching each other, at first innocently, then quite deliberately, then sensually, then sexually. And I get a thundering erection.
Now, just picture this from my perspective: I'm the one who desires both these exquisite female bodies. I'm the one who wants to fondle them both. I'm the one who wants to see two pairs of tits bouncing off of each other. I'm the one who wants to see two girls' bellies rubbing against each other. I want to be there too. I think I want to be one of the girls. I imagine being in the bimbo's place, exploring a new part of my sexuality, innocently, coyly, and discovering the intense pleasure of pussy. This is closely related to my fantasy of being female. I get the best possible scenario: I become female myself, and I get to have sex with girls, and I get to see two lesbians going at it. Is that what I really long for? I've often come to that exact point in my fantasies. But not always. . .
Anyway, the true reason for my adding to this.
I have thought of a story, after all these years of drivelling my fantasies at night. It's something like the metamorphosis, only the hero becomes a woman. I know I thought of it before, but never so explicitly. It's not exactly the same. It can happen in two ways: suddenly and completely, or slowly and gradually. I can't decide how to start.
Diary: Femininity Lessons
Here's something: I remember B__ asking me a couple of times if I had ever worn a brassiere, and she said that I'd look so cute in a bra. Imagine if I had indulged her. Aw, Hell, who cares. I would certainly regret it now.
Anyway, I want to talk about that feeling I get when I "womanize". I want to become female. I imagine myself as female; but that's not all. There has to be a woman present, an archetypal woman, a model for what I wish to become. And it doesn't end there. I have to completely abandon myself to the femininity. I have to gradually give in to the extreme pleasure overtaking me, by admitting that the pleasure comes from, and is a product of femininity, and of my admitting that I love femininity. Or rather, I gradually come to admit that my own femininity is overpoweringly pleasurable, and that I aspire to cultivate it to the extent where I am a woman completely. That's it, I think.
But then, there's this new discovery that the most intense experience possible is to cavort with another woman/women in a sort of fashion show, or a femininity lesson, of which I am the humble pupil. She teaches me to be a girl, yet remain a man by having only a penis left, and I start to make out with her as we both wear some sexy outfits. I'll just hang out with her, and do girlish things, aside from making out with her. No, I'll just make out with her, and be a girl like her, with her. I'll want her to touch me sensuously on my clean shaven thighs, and my shrunken waist, and my nipples. All I want is femininity. That's why men fantasize about lesbians: because they want to be women; they want to be the perfect sexual being, and that can only be conceived of as a woman, and they want to consume the ultimate sexual being, which is still female. Therefore, he fantasizes about two women making love. That's perfect. Only I want to be one of the beautiful women. God, I need lingerie. I'll hook it up soon, I promise.
Anyway, I want to talk about that feeling I get when I "womanize". I want to become female. I imagine myself as female; but that's not all. There has to be a woman present, an archetypal woman, a model for what I wish to become. And it doesn't end there. I have to completely abandon myself to the femininity. I have to gradually give in to the extreme pleasure overtaking me, by admitting that the pleasure comes from, and is a product of femininity, and of my admitting that I love femininity. Or rather, I gradually come to admit that my own femininity is overpoweringly pleasurable, and that I aspire to cultivate it to the extent where I am a woman completely. That's it, I think.
But then, there's this new discovery that the most intense experience possible is to cavort with another woman/women in a sort of fashion show, or a femininity lesson, of which I am the humble pupil. She teaches me to be a girl, yet remain a man by having only a penis left, and I start to make out with her as we both wear some sexy outfits. I'll just hang out with her, and do girlish things, aside from making out with her. No, I'll just make out with her, and be a girl like her, with her. I'll want her to touch me sensuously on my clean shaven thighs, and my shrunken waist, and my nipples. All I want is femininity. That's why men fantasize about lesbians: because they want to be women; they want to be the perfect sexual being, and that can only be conceived of as a woman, and they want to consume the ultimate sexual being, which is still female. Therefore, he fantasizes about two women making love. That's perfect. Only I want to be one of the beautiful women. God, I need lingerie. I'll hook it up soon, I promise.
Fiction: Feminazi
The feminazi movement began innocently enough. As early as the nineteen fifties, women were liberating themselves from the oppressive yoke of a patriarchal society. They burned their brassieres in protest against constraining clothing. They began to work outside the home, to earn a living independently of men. They began to become self-sufficient. Gradually, however, the movement gained so much ground that in the Nineties, women were socially as important as men, especially to the younger generations. Women had come to a dead end in the road to equality: equality itself.
Here was the great rift between the feminists of the time. Many women felt that the movement was being hijacked by lesbians, who seemed to want to androgynize society entirely, and prevent women from being women. These Lesbianists were usually very masculine, and the more feminine elements felt pushed out of their natural functions as women. The True Feminists wanted to remain women, remain feminine; the lesbianists seemed to counter that impulse. The argument was that women are "feminine" only by the standards of men; they only become sexy in the eyes of men, thereby becoming their sex toys, and nothing more. Such an attitude on the part of men could only set the movement back, and the Lesbianists believed that only by denying men the sexual aspects of women would they gain equality. A truly equal society would have to be androgynous, to avoid sexual inbalance.
But the True women knew that being women meant being attractive to men, and at the same time being superior to them. They believed that they could use their sexual potency as an advantage over men. These women, still heterosexual, had to account for their sex drive. To the Lesbianists, this was blasphemy.
At around the same time, the fashion industry began to sexualize women to an astonishing degree. Women wore tight, mostly revealing clothing, while men wore baggy, unflattering clothes and nondescript suits. Women's bodies were being showcased, while men's bodies were being covered up. This was the first covert push. Even the Lesbianists had to appreciate this.
Men were certainly happy at this time. They could see all they would want, and women still had no idea what lurked beneath the baggy rags of men. Men slobbered all over women like lost puppies.
Behind the scenes, the two groups of women, who had, naturally, cornered the fashion industry, had planned it this way. Men were, in a way, subservient to their sexy women. But they still regarded women as sex objects, and besides that held most of the power. But women were creeping in slowly. The Lesbianists and True Women realized that their visions of a female dominated society were identical, in that men would be as women were in the middle ages: slaves to their powerful spouses. Only the women wanted to crush men even more brutally. The Lesbianists, at least, envisaged a society where men would be used only for breeding purposes. But the common dream of a feminine paradise was impossible with the opposition of the True Women.
The Lesbianists placed a mole within the True Women's ranks, one who could speak and entice like only a select few have ever been able to. She was able to charm the ranks of True Women to the point where she had repeated affairs with virtually all of the higher ranking members. She transformed them all into closet lesbians with her charming and irresistible sex appeal. Now, even the Ture Women were beginning to see that they could acheive better sexual experiences with other women than with men. They were all eventually exposed to one another, and had a lesbian orgy to celebrate. But they were a much larger and much more influential group than the left-leaning fringe group which opposed them. They would accept a peaceful agreement with the Lesbianists only if women were not only allowed, but encouraged, and even forced, to be as feminine as possible. Even women enjoy a sexy girl more than a fat semi-masculine cow. The whole idea of their ultra-feminism was that men are only huge hairy violent brutes, and that soft, smooth, beautiful, delicate women are better off by themselves. They slowly began to assimilate all women to their ways, by either charming heterosexual women into their beds and converting them, or else raping them and forcing them to accept their ways. They were very clandestine, and very successful. They operated with absolute secrecy. No one ever dared to disclose to an untrusted woman, and certainly not any man, the true agenda of Women. They had no need for preventive measures, because the converted were so unanimously and fanatically devoted to the cause.
By the time most women were converted, men began to notice that they were losing their grip on women. Women were becoming openly homosexual, and thumbed their noses at their former lovers. Men began to complain. Some raped and beat women to get their sexual pleasures, but they were all severely punished, usually by castration, as according to the new laws passed at the bidding of Women. Men were fearful of the consequences, because more often than not, during a rape investigation, any and all suspects of any connection to the injured lady were punished. These incidents were rare indeed.
Other men began to campaign for changes to the way things are done. They were willing to give up political power in order to obtain sex. In large measure, men refused this, but Women made huge advances politically in this time. The fashion industry, however, had been recognized as a part of men's problems. It seemed that women became so sexily clad that they could no longer resist each other, and that men were so painfully ugly in their clothes that they became ignored by women. Documents have shown that the movement by men to change fashion to make them sexier, and more appealing to women, was planted by Female agents. Men began, despite the fashion industry, to wear tighter, more revealing clothing. Some enterprising males fashioned their own apparel to retain masculinity; but most of the men were forced to wear certain androgynous clothes, which had been designed for women. men began to wear halter tops, and tight bicycle shorts. They showed lots of flesh, and tight fitting garments were popular. Women did begin to notice them again, but only as perversions of their new sexualities. men would have to become much more feminine to attract women.
At last, the campaign for men to wear women's clothing was in full force, and it proved to be the undoing of men in the end. Women no longer had any interest in men, except as breeding tools. Desperate men resorted to sex changes, or at least dressing in drag for sex. They were indeed slaves to women in this way. They went to great lengths to become as feminine as possible. They shaved their bodies, grew their hair, and took estrogen pills. Women had by now managed to gain all of the political power, because even men now regarded each other as useless unless they could get a woman to have sex with them; and the only way to do that was to become as feminine as possible. Society as a whole began to view femininity as the noblest ideal, and men strove to become like women. Men began to wear skirts and blouses and makeup to acheive their ends. Ironically, it was all out of machismo that they forsook masculinity. They became women to be regarded as manly.
Eventually, that entire plan fell apart on them, when they realized what was happening. At least thirty percent of all men in the western world became transsexual. Men in high places began to look more and more like women, and were eventually replaced by them. In a short period of time, women had managed to seize control of government and establish a benign dictatorship. Politics was no longer useful. Women were absolute rulers of the West. Men, by constitutional law, had to obey the Women at all times. Men had in large part granted Women these powers. Men were forced into slavery to women: each woman was allowed to have one slave man to do the dirty work for her. Soon thereafter, masculinity was outlawed outright. Men could exist, but they had to be feminine. Independent men were outlaws.
Men had given up alll of their property, and so had to beg the women for lodging, food, and clothing. They were kept enthralled by feminine clothing. Mostly, they were made to pick out a feminine outfit, or the mistress would choose one for them, and they would revel in their artificial femininity by wearing lingerie. Many women would engage in psychological torture by forcing the men to dress up with them, and they would proceed to embrace, and the men would swoon and come all over themselves in this ultimate experience. They were being transformed into women by women, who alone knew about womanhood. The dream of a man was to become a girl in every way but genitally, and then breed with his mistress, whereupon he would be allowed (after successful fertilization) a full sex change. He would at last become a woman. He would, of course, be a lesbian, and unable to reproduce, so he remained a slave to his mistress, but he ranked higher in the social order than anyone with a penis.
Foreign governments were soon taken in as well, through the charm and propaganda of the women. Women everywhere began to rule. And now we have this glorious matriarchal system, where Women are the highest possible form of existence.
Here was the great rift between the feminists of the time. Many women felt that the movement was being hijacked by lesbians, who seemed to want to androgynize society entirely, and prevent women from being women. These Lesbianists were usually very masculine, and the more feminine elements felt pushed out of their natural functions as women. The True Feminists wanted to remain women, remain feminine; the lesbianists seemed to counter that impulse. The argument was that women are "feminine" only by the standards of men; they only become sexy in the eyes of men, thereby becoming their sex toys, and nothing more. Such an attitude on the part of men could only set the movement back, and the Lesbianists believed that only by denying men the sexual aspects of women would they gain equality. A truly equal society would have to be androgynous, to avoid sexual inbalance.
But the True women knew that being women meant being attractive to men, and at the same time being superior to them. They believed that they could use their sexual potency as an advantage over men. These women, still heterosexual, had to account for their sex drive. To the Lesbianists, this was blasphemy.
At around the same time, the fashion industry began to sexualize women to an astonishing degree. Women wore tight, mostly revealing clothing, while men wore baggy, unflattering clothes and nondescript suits. Women's bodies were being showcased, while men's bodies were being covered up. This was the first covert push. Even the Lesbianists had to appreciate this.
Men were certainly happy at this time. They could see all they would want, and women still had no idea what lurked beneath the baggy rags of men. Men slobbered all over women like lost puppies.
Behind the scenes, the two groups of women, who had, naturally, cornered the fashion industry, had planned it this way. Men were, in a way, subservient to their sexy women. But they still regarded women as sex objects, and besides that held most of the power. But women were creeping in slowly. The Lesbianists and True Women realized that their visions of a female dominated society were identical, in that men would be as women were in the middle ages: slaves to their powerful spouses. Only the women wanted to crush men even more brutally. The Lesbianists, at least, envisaged a society where men would be used only for breeding purposes. But the common dream of a feminine paradise was impossible with the opposition of the True Women.
The Lesbianists placed a mole within the True Women's ranks, one who could speak and entice like only a select few have ever been able to. She was able to charm the ranks of True Women to the point where she had repeated affairs with virtually all of the higher ranking members. She transformed them all into closet lesbians with her charming and irresistible sex appeal. Now, even the Ture Women were beginning to see that they could acheive better sexual experiences with other women than with men. They were all eventually exposed to one another, and had a lesbian orgy to celebrate. But they were a much larger and much more influential group than the left-leaning fringe group which opposed them. They would accept a peaceful agreement with the Lesbianists only if women were not only allowed, but encouraged, and even forced, to be as feminine as possible. Even women enjoy a sexy girl more than a fat semi-masculine cow. The whole idea of their ultra-feminism was that men are only huge hairy violent brutes, and that soft, smooth, beautiful, delicate women are better off by themselves. They slowly began to assimilate all women to their ways, by either charming heterosexual women into their beds and converting them, or else raping them and forcing them to accept their ways. They were very clandestine, and very successful. They operated with absolute secrecy. No one ever dared to disclose to an untrusted woman, and certainly not any man, the true agenda of Women. They had no need for preventive measures, because the converted were so unanimously and fanatically devoted to the cause.
By the time most women were converted, men began to notice that they were losing their grip on women. Women were becoming openly homosexual, and thumbed their noses at their former lovers. Men began to complain. Some raped and beat women to get their sexual pleasures, but they were all severely punished, usually by castration, as according to the new laws passed at the bidding of Women. Men were fearful of the consequences, because more often than not, during a rape investigation, any and all suspects of any connection to the injured lady were punished. These incidents were rare indeed.
Other men began to campaign for changes to the way things are done. They were willing to give up political power in order to obtain sex. In large measure, men refused this, but Women made huge advances politically in this time. The fashion industry, however, had been recognized as a part of men's problems. It seemed that women became so sexily clad that they could no longer resist each other, and that men were so painfully ugly in their clothes that they became ignored by women. Documents have shown that the movement by men to change fashion to make them sexier, and more appealing to women, was planted by Female agents. Men began, despite the fashion industry, to wear tighter, more revealing clothing. Some enterprising males fashioned their own apparel to retain masculinity; but most of the men were forced to wear certain androgynous clothes, which had been designed for women. men began to wear halter tops, and tight bicycle shorts. They showed lots of flesh, and tight fitting garments were popular. Women did begin to notice them again, but only as perversions of their new sexualities. men would have to become much more feminine to attract women.
At last, the campaign for men to wear women's clothing was in full force, and it proved to be the undoing of men in the end. Women no longer had any interest in men, except as breeding tools. Desperate men resorted to sex changes, or at least dressing in drag for sex. They were indeed slaves to women in this way. They went to great lengths to become as feminine as possible. They shaved their bodies, grew their hair, and took estrogen pills. Women had by now managed to gain all of the political power, because even men now regarded each other as useless unless they could get a woman to have sex with them; and the only way to do that was to become as feminine as possible. Society as a whole began to view femininity as the noblest ideal, and men strove to become like women. Men began to wear skirts and blouses and makeup to acheive their ends. Ironically, it was all out of machismo that they forsook masculinity. They became women to be regarded as manly.
Eventually, that entire plan fell apart on them, when they realized what was happening. At least thirty percent of all men in the western world became transsexual. Men in high places began to look more and more like women, and were eventually replaced by them. In a short period of time, women had managed to seize control of government and establish a benign dictatorship. Politics was no longer useful. Women were absolute rulers of the West. Men, by constitutional law, had to obey the Women at all times. Men had in large part granted Women these powers. Men were forced into slavery to women: each woman was allowed to have one slave man to do the dirty work for her. Soon thereafter, masculinity was outlawed outright. Men could exist, but they had to be feminine. Independent men were outlaws.
Men had given up alll of their property, and so had to beg the women for lodging, food, and clothing. They were kept enthralled by feminine clothing. Mostly, they were made to pick out a feminine outfit, or the mistress would choose one for them, and they would revel in their artificial femininity by wearing lingerie. Many women would engage in psychological torture by forcing the men to dress up with them, and they would proceed to embrace, and the men would swoon and come all over themselves in this ultimate experience. They were being transformed into women by women, who alone knew about womanhood. The dream of a man was to become a girl in every way but genitally, and then breed with his mistress, whereupon he would be allowed (after successful fertilization) a full sex change. He would at last become a woman. He would, of course, be a lesbian, and unable to reproduce, so he remained a slave to his mistress, but he ranked higher in the social order than anyone with a penis.
Foreign governments were soon taken in as well, through the charm and propaganda of the women. Women everywhere began to rule. And now we have this glorious matriarchal system, where Women are the highest possible form of existence.
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