Why Wear Panties?

My Wife's New Nightie

It's been difficult lately to find the time to feed my femininity. My wife and I had a romantic weekend at a hotel, and I had bought her a new nightie for the occasion, but unfortunately, she was on her period. I still got to have some fun rubbing up against her while imagining myself in her outfit.


In the following days, I struggled a bit with some pent-up arousal. One night, just after turning in for the night, I remembered that there was a load of laundry spinning in the dryer which needed to be taken out, lest it get all wrinkled. My wife was already asleep, and I was somewhat restless, so I went to take care of it. The dryer was still running when I got to it, with only a few minutes to go. I didn't want to go back to bed for the short time that was left on the timer, and I didn't want to just stand there, either. What could I possibly occupy myself with?

I suppose I could have just stopped the dryer, and the clothes would already have been dry. Instead, I snuck over to my stash, slipped out of my pajama pants, and put on the panties of my favorite bikini.

As I luxuriated in the glorious girlishness of my panties, I remembered a notion I had not long ago about keeping a pair of panties in my work bag so I could wear them at the office. Since I was already fiddling with my stash, and T__ was asleep, this seemed like a perfect opportunity to smuggle out my favorite satin panties. The dryer stopped, and I sadly slipped off the bikini, and returned it to its hiding place. I emptied the dryer, and trudged back to bed, but not before hiding the satin panties in my work bag.

My Satin Panties

The next day, as soon as I got to the office, I rushed to the men's room and discreetly changed into my satin panties. They felt wonderfully soft and tight around my tush every time I moved or got up for some coffee. But as the day wore on, I knew that I wouldn't get any reasonable opportunity to cum. Sadly, I changed back out of my panties in the afternoon, and my arousal went unfulfilled.

Amazing Panties by Axami

That was a couple of days ago. Today I had a bit of time to catch up. I didn't get to wear anything, unfortunately, but I did get to cum. I came fantasizing about wearing panties, and a bustier, and stockings, and lovely high heels. Inside my panties I had a soft, delicate, wet and slippery pussy, just aching to have a hard cock thrust into it.

That's the basis of my fantasies: imagining that I have a vagina. The rest, including the clothes, is secondary, but it helps the fantasy along. It makes me think that wearing enough bikinis and lingerie will eventually turn me into a woman. It hasn't happened yet, but it certainly has made me more feminine. That's what turns me on about shemale porn starlets and convincing crossdressers: it's possible to achieve womanhood with enough practice.

Fiction: Forbidden Knowledge

When I was a boy, I learned to think of everything to do with women to be forbidden.  I feared it, as did all of my peers.  It was improper for boys to ever see girls' underwear.  There were very strict social norms against boys having anything at all to do with feminine things.  This makes sense: as a child, you're still trying to form a sense of identity, and gender is one of the most immediately comprehensible aspects of it.  It's like a lifebuoy that we cling to, to assure us of who we are.

So imagine what it must have been like to have to wear girls' tights for a school play, so our kindergarten teacher could have us all dressed like flowers.  Now, suddenly, it was ok for boys to wear girl clothes.  But deep down, I knew that it was subversive.  It was even comical, but not so embarrassing since all the boys had to do it.  

I, for one, had tasted the forbidden fruit, and I wanted more.  It planted a seed in my head which in a few years' time, when puberty started to hit, would grow like a weed.

It is forbidden for men to wear women's clothes.  Those who do are cast out of polite company.  It's simply unacceptable, deviant, and perverse.  But why?

First, it was pantyhose.  They seemed innocent enough, since I had already effectively worn some in kindergarten.  But this time, it was more serious.  I wanted to.  And when I did, it felt so good.  I learned about how it feels to have sheer nylons on my legs.  This knowledge is forbidden to boys and men.

From there, my thirst for knowledge only expanded.  I knew full well that it was perverse, and at that young age, at the beginning of puberty, sexual matters are secret; so I did this entirely out of sight.  Nobody would ever know.  I felt guilty about it, too.  But I always wanted more.  Then I fantasized about wearing other forbidden things.  There was far more forbidden knowledge to be learned, and I needed to gain some experience in order to fully appreciate it.  I developed an elaborate fantasy about how I'd have to wear pantyhose hundreds of times before I would be permitted to wear leotards, and those thousands of times before I could wear a bathing suit, and so on.  This was partly a way to rationalize that I did not have access to these things, and would have to leave it to some distant, unimaginable future.

Soon enough, I did try on a leotard.  But before that even happened, I borrowed my mother's swimsuit.  Now I was in trouble.  There was no turning back, and I knew it.  I was deeply ashamed, but that didn't stop my intense cravings.  I would look at pictures of sexy girls, and imagine wearing their bikinis.  Now I was actually stealing things from people, and keeping it hidden in my room.  Just about every day, I would masturbate in something girlie.  Meanwhile, I was slowly becoming a man.

By now, my desire for lingerie was overpowering, yet it remained always out of my reach.  Eventually, I did steal some panties, and wore them often.  I was gaining lots of knowledge and experience.  I could put on a bikini in the dark under my bedsheets.  But it was seldom good enough.

I was so confused.  Sometimes, I would wonder if I were actually a girl, and whether my parents and doctors had made some terrible mistake and made me a boy.  But I knew this wasn't so.  At the same time, I was shyly obsessed with images of girls in lingerie and swimwear.  I fantasized all the time that they would force me to become like them.

By early adulthood, I had been with girls, and secretly worn their underwear.  I started buying myself things, like lingerie and swimwear.  I had accumulated quite a collection.  I had learned more and more, to the point where I had become a sort of expert in feminine undergarments.  I fantasized about ordering lingerie online.  I made laundry lists for myself.

One girlfriend actually bought herself some lingerie and left it in my room, since she was afraid of what her mother would think.  I wore it at least 10 times more than she did.  When she and her family went away on vacation, and I was given the responsibility to water their plants, I took the opportunity to try on just about everything she owned.  No man should know so much about women's clothes.  Especially not what it feels like to wear them.

Relationships with women lasted long, but not forever.  I would start feeling guilty about wearing their underthings while their backs were turned.  I found myself focusing on my fantasies instead of finding new girlfriends.  Wearing lingerie and swimwear was so satisfying that I hardly needed any fulfillment from any woman.  I moved into my own place, and played with my outfits in secret, alone, just about every night.

I developed fantasies of becoming a girl.  I wrote all sorts of them down.  I read other people's fantasies, too.  I learned a lot about men who want to become women.  I bought a bustier, and a patent leather halter mini-dress.  I owned about 5 swimsuits.

I moved away to a different city, and began to spend lots of my extra cash on women's clothes.  I became obsessed with shoes.  I had decided that I knew enough about wearing girls' clothes that I could wear only them when I was home alone.  I would sleep in nightgowns.  I would wear skirts and corsets and stockings and pumps while cooking dinner, watching TV, or vacuuming.  My little French Maid's outfit was particularly fun for doing chores.  This is when I felt ultra-feminine.  I still wanted more.

I started wearing only women's underwear, all the time.  I wore them to work under my boy clothes.  In winter, I would wear a bra, which nobody could see because of my thick outer layers.  I threw away all my boy underwear in a moment of passion.

Soon I started keeping my legs shaven.  Then my chest.  It made the girl clothes feel so much sexier.

Then I found out about a certain questionable drinking establishment where men were encouraged to dress like women.  They provided change rooms and lockers, so you could travel there as a man, and conceal your true colours from the outside world.  Now I saw how much more I had to learn.  Some of my fellow patrons were gorgeous.  I was terribly manly looking.  I had some competition.

As I improved my womanly looks, I learned to spurn the advances of men.  For God's sake, I'm not gay!  Sure, I fantasized often and guiltily about furthering my forbidden knowledge, but apparently I wasn't ready yet.  I longed for the taste of cock, which only women know.  Everything I learned about women made me want to know more.  But after years of happily pushing the limits, I had finally found a new and significant barrier.

People knew now that I was a transvestite.  I stopped caring.  I would wear androgynous clothes to work.  Sometimes I'd have a bit of makeup on.  It was difficult for a while, but I got used to it.  I hardly needed my male wardrobe anymore.

Determined to learn my lesson, I practiced with some dildoes.  I had misgivings about putting them in my ass at first, because most women don't do that, but I figured I'd hardly be feminine if I couldn't have a penis inside me.

Around this time, as I whimsically looked into how I could get a sex change, I discovered that some doctors make a distinction among transsexuals: those who genuinely are women trapped in men's bodies, and men who love to make themselves feminine.  The distinction is remarkably clear.  The former have always been outwardly feminine, and have no trouble pretending to be girls.  The latter are actually very masculine, typically engineers, policemen, soldiers, or other masculine professions, and struggle to come off as women.  Furthermore, the former want to be women so they can have sex with straight men.  They are thoroughly homosexual.  The latter are interested in women only, although they fantasize about sex with men, there is never any emotional connection.  These doctors further posit that the latter should never be allowed to have sex changes, because they really are men through and through.

Recognizing myself as being firmly in the latter camp, I began to doubt my fetishes for stockings and panties and corsets and swimsuits and fellatio.  But I couldn't prevent them.  I envied those who were allowed to become girls.

Unable to resist, I finally sucked my first cock at my favourite bar.  It was a terrible fiasco, as these first attempts always were.  After almost vomiting at the end of it, semen all over my face and skirt, I vowed never to do it again, and stayed away for weeks.  But in retrospect, I became aroused at the thought that I had sucked dick, like a girl.  I had gained another piece of forbidden knowledge.  It comforted me to think that this practically made me a girl now.

They say that practice makes perfect, and I began to meet with a certain man to improve my technique.  I think I became quite skilled.  It was almost too easy to have him teach me how to take a cock in the ass.  By now I wanted to be as gay as possible, because it made me feel so feminine.  When he pounded my ass and came inside it, I could only think of how feminine I was.

Now I became serious.  I had sexy piercings on my belly button, my nipple, and my tongue.  I was ready to learn the final forbidden lesson: what it feels like to have a penis in my own vagina.  The thought excited me to no end.  I was nervous when I made the first appointment.  Lucky for me, the doctor didn't believe in this hogwash about autogynophiles.  I would begin to live as a girl full-time, without exceptions, and take hormones after a year.  A year after that, I would have the surgery and have a small piece of my small intestine cut out and my sensitive parts attached to it, to make it look and feel like a pussy.

It was hard to come out to my family, but eventually, they accepted it.  Work was sensitive, but at least they were prepared for it.  It felt good to be dressed like a girl all the time.  I had a few sexual adventures, too.  I was overjoyed to start taking the hormones, until taking so many pills became a drag.  I had waited so long to fill in my brassieres, and finally, it was happening.

My mind began to change.  I was much more emotional.  I thought about stopping, but I persevered.  After all these years of gaining feminine knowledge forbidden to men, I was finally really beginning to feel like a girl.

I still knew, though, that I was an autogynophile.  Deep down I knew that I am fundamentally attracted to women, not men.  Yet the thought of my own vagina was far too tempting.  I needed this last bit of forbidden knowledge.

At last, the surgery was done, and I became a woman.  It was months of visits and bandages and stitches and ointments before I could use my new body.  In spite of decades of preparation and longing, nothing could adequately prepare me for the reality of it.  I was aroused by the knowledge that I now had a pussy, but at first I couldn't even touch it.  My arousal felt so strangely displaced.  It hurt at first, terribly, because of the surgery around such sensitive parts.  But eventually, it healed, and I learned to find my clitoris.  It felt like somone had exposed the head of my penis to a nuclear blast.  Later, I discovered that deep inside my new vagina are the nerves that were once on the shaft of my penis.  It took days of desperate experimentation, but I eventually discovered a truly feminine orgasm.

This drastic reconfiguration of my cock, which had foolishly led itself to its own demise, was incredibly disturbing.  I cursed myself for mutilating my most precious body part.  I wanted to fuck girls with my dick again.  I realized that I could never do it again.  I cried a lot those days.

Armed with my new girlhood, and desperate to truly experience it, I trolled my old haunts for some action.  But none of my old boyfriends were interested anymore.  They were gay men, and fucking girls -- even formerly male ones -- did not at all appeal to them.  It took many depressing months of trying before I finally got one.  He was ugly and disgusting, but I needed to feel a penis inside me.  I hardly even took notice of him as he fucked me.  All I could think of was how incredibly sexy and feminine I felt and looked.  Now it was simply a matter of trying different positions.  Somehow, it was still never enough.  It dawned on me that I must be a lesbian.

At last I knew the price of my forbidden knowledge.  In the end, I am a man, no matter what my crotch looks like.  I am insatiably attracted to women.  I betrayed my gender, my identity, for a sympathetic fantasy about the object of my desire.  I was punished the moment I learned my first lesson when I was a young boy.  I was cursed with an insatiable desire to know everything that was forbidden to me from the beginning.  I should have been humiliated enough to stop long ago, at many different stages.  But instead I took it to this irreversible end.

And just the very thought of it makes me unfathomably horny.

Diary: Stages

The stages:

1. awareness: subject becomes aware that some men wear women's clothing for a sexual kick
   
   • - understands that it's not just for fags
2. awakening: subject understands the erotic appeal
   
   • understands the inherent femininity of women's underwear, skirts, bathing suits, etc.
   • feels a slight flush of curiosity about bondage scenarios with forced feminization, and what it would do to a man
3. experimentation: subject is curious enough to try for himself
   
   • tries on some fetish (stockings, underwear, bathing suit, whatever) either by "force" (visit to a dominatrix) or out of boredom, and fulfills himself sexually with it
     
4. humiliation: subject begins to worry that his experiments are destroying his manhood
   
   • as experimentation repeats, and becomes a habit, our subject denies himself as much as possible
   • rationalizes by saying he likes the feel of tight silk against his crotch, that it has nothing to do with panties being feminine
5. escalation: subject tries on skankier and skankier clothes, as his humiliation drives his desire (this may require more explanation)
   
   • prolonged privation leads to exponentially increased desire: the longer he goes without wearing panties (or whatever), the more extreme his fantasies become.
     This is absolutely key: his fantasies from the beginning are about becoming feminine, but he's hardly even aware of it.  It drives his first fantasies, but doesn't fully enter his consciousness, because he's rationalizing it.  As he denies himself, the fantasies, unfulfilled, have more time to develop, and creep more into his conscious mind.  When he eventually gives in to his irrational desires, mere panties aren't good enough: in his fantasies, he's becoming completely female, and so he wants his reality to come closer to his overwhelming fantasy.  He gets himself a bra, and is shocked at how it magnifies his climax.  It also magnifies his shame, and leads him to deny himself again.  This in turn leads to even more outrageous fantasies, which he eventually fulfills by wearing something even more feminine.  Before he knows it, he's wearing lingerie, stockings, heels, makeup, etc. and hating himself more and more for it.
   • "I'm not gay"
   • subject is in denial about his secret cocksucking fantasies
   • subject invariably feels deep shame when he comes, and when not under the grip of his fantasies, wants to abandon them (which makes them so much more potent)
     
6. capitulation: subject accepts and understands that he now wants to be a girl (still privately)
   
   • accepts that he dresses up because he wants to be feminine
   • unabashedly fantasizes about sucking cock
7. exhibition: subject comes out of closet
   
   • everything was hidden up to now.
   • wears at least something feminine at all times
   • strives to go out in drag, hoping to pass
   • parties at gay bars, trolling for cock
   • gets fucked by men
8. transformation: subject strives to physically become a woman through surgery, hormones, etc.
   
• ultimate fulfillment: growing boobs, having vaginoplasty, feeling a cock pump giz into neovagina

Fantasy: Litérature Vérité

The fantasy had taken hold, and wouldn't let go.  It was the usual scenarios, all mixed together.  I was refining the back story over and over again, getting more and more excited as I circled around the denouement, coming closer and closer each time, from different angles. 

I was captured by a bunch of evil girls who were forcing me to wear a bikini... or a one-piece swimsuit... or they had captured me long ago, and forced me to wear all kinds of other things, trying to feminize me, but I was resisting... Yes... but by now, I knew that I was close to my breaking point... No, I was well past my breaking point, and they had me right where they wanted: begging them to wear a one-piece bathing suit... Yes, I beg them, but they refuse... I've worn so much other stuff by now, over the course of my captivity, that I've even begun to turn girlish, but they never let me wear a bathing suit... Yes, and I absolutely must wear it, I'm obsessed with it... They know that I'm not ready for it, that it will utterly destroy what's left of my manhood, and they want to drag this on forever... Or maybe they know that it will set back my feminization, while I want desperately, but secretly, to accelerate it... yes, it's a trick: they want me to prove just how badly I want to be a girl, so they contrive to have me steal it...

My fantasy settles on the one-piece swimsuit.  I shake loose of my reverie just enough to consciously reach my secret spot, between my bed and the wall, for my stash of girlie things.  I rummage around, and pause after touching each item, trying to guess in the dark what I'm fondling, each time considering for a moment whether or not I'd rather wear that instead, and alter my fantasy accordingly.

Hmmm, my black bustier... lingerie is always fun, but I really can't get that image of Heidi Klum in her swimsuit out of my mind.  I want to feel like that... How about my pink string bikini?  That's pretty fun.  But not as fun, oddly enough, as my silver bikini... oh, how I love the bra on that one... but no, the fantasy is about a one-piece.  Yeah, that's right... I don't like these little cotton panties... ah, here it is!

I pull it out as quietly as possible, and put it down under the sheets beside me.  I strip out of my shorts, thinking for a moment of keeping my shirt on.  There's always something sexy about having girlie stuff on under my boy clothes, like it's an admission that I might look like a man on the outside, but on the inside, I'm utterly feminine.  But even stronger is the idea of abandoning all connection to male attire, and succumbing completely to women's.  I pull off my shirt, and remain naked for no longer than it takes to figure out where the front of my bathing suit is.  I'm such a sissy that I can expertly get dressed in women's underthings in the dark.  The suit slides into place, and I slip my arms into the straps.  I adjust the suit so that it sits right on my body.  I tweak my nipple briefly, fantasizing about the cups of my swimsuit being properly filled.  I let the mist of my imagination thicken back around me, and delve headlong back into my fantasy.

I'm still reworking the back story, although now I'm at the climax.  I'm wearing a one-piece suit, and it's outrageously feminine, and I'm resisting letting it overtake me too fast.  I'm on my stomach now, gently humping my balled-up shorts, savouring every long stroke.  As I fondle my hips and my waist, I imagine myself standing up, in my fantasy scenario, wearing a swimsuit, looking every bit as feminine as Heidi Klum, fondling myself exactly as I am in my bed.  The soft, tight, feminine fabric rubs and stretches on my enormous cock.  In my mind, my cock shrinks away to nothingness, as I fully and wilfully succumb to irresistible womanhood.  My captors catch me red-handed, and I show them how proud I am of defying them.  No, wait... the fantasy shifts again... I am not caught, but I am secretly far more effeminated than they know.  I am in a store full of women's swimwear and lingerie, and I strut around in my new body, scouting out what I'm going to wear next.  What could I possibly wear that could top this in feminine sexiness?  My mind drifts to lingerie, and I imagine myself selecting a nice pair of lacy bikini panties and a matching bra, trying them on...

My cock rubs vigorously against my balled-up shorts.  It's ecstasy.  I'm wearing a women's one-piece swimsuit, very high-cut and tight, and I become conscious that I'm already looking forward to wearing something even sexier.  I'm such a fucking sissy!  I love it!  This realization amplifies my pleasure tenfold.  I'm longing for sexy lingerie that I don't even possess!  My massive erect penis, awash in extraordinary pleasure, is somehow blotted out in my mind, replaced by a soft, fleshy cunt.  Flashes of fucking cross my mind, and I am the girl!  I rub harder and harder, treading dangerously close to the point of no return.  I don't want to come!  I want this to go on forever!  I imagine myself a slutty little bitch, fucking and sucking cock, and loving every second of it!  Every time I come close to coming, I slow down, break the rhythm just enough, and continue.

At last, I can no longer resist the lure of such massive pleasure, and I pass the point of no return.  I do this consciously, and my fantasy dissolves a bit as I prepare for the imminent mess.  The pleasure is phenomenal.  It takes my breath away.  My hand darts into the suit through one of the leg holes, and I cup it next to my dick's head, and pump a huge quantity of semen into it, to the point of overflowing.  My legs shake with the intensity of it.  The remaining mist of fantasy quickly disperses, and I find myself short of breath on my stomach, wearing a smelly blue girlie swimsuit, with a huge mess of giz in my hand, afraid to move for fear of spilling it all over my bedsheets.  I have to be careful as I roll onto my back, and keep the swimsuit from touching the goo on my belly.

I reach for the nearby box of kleenex with my left hand.  This is very tricky.  Over time, it's inevitable: a growing yellowish stain grows on the belly of my swimsuit.  I used to come right into it, heedless of the mess I made.  But now I realize that I need to be more discreet, and more respectful of these wonderful items of clothing.  They are like magical relics, which I must be careful to avoid defiling with my disgusting manhood.  They are pristine vessels of femininity.  Meanwhile, I carefully slide out of my swimsuit, after wiping as much away as I could from my right hand and belly.  At some point I have no choice but to allow the swimsuit to touch a bit of semen.  I clean the rest of the mess, put my shorts back on, and tuck the object of my sin back into its hiding place, a little bit ashamed and disgusted with myself, yet luxuriating in afterglow, the fantasy fulfilled as best as I can.

If I really spent some time developing my fantasy, I sometimes find myself fantasizing about how girlish and sissy I've been, and find myself doing it all over again, usually with some other article of clothing, only with not nearly as much pleasure.  Then I fall asleep exhausted.

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.

Fantasy: Bad Influence

I meet a girl, the most gorgeous, sexiest woman I've ever seen.  It turns out that she's actually a shemale!  We dated for months until she finally let me touch her crotch.  I'm thoroughly amazed.  I'm too nice a guy to be disgusted.  She knew I would be shocked, because she knows how incredibly feminine she is.  I've made out with her dozens of times.  I've sucked her nipples.  She has sucked my cock, and swallowed my semen.  Now that I've got her willing, and since 95% of her is stunningly gorgeously female, I decide to pretend that she's not a man.  I fuck her in the ass first.  But she wants more.  She makes me reach around and rub her big fat cock.  I pretend it's my own.  Before I know it, we're doing it missionary style, and her cock rubs against my belly.  She flips me around, so that she's sitting on top of me.  I caress her beautiful boobs, and her perfectly proportioned waist.  I fondle the belly-button ring.  She moves up and shoves her cock in my face!  I'm so turned on by her body that I comply, thinking, my god, this is the first time I've ever had a cock in my mouth!  She comes in my mouth, and I spit it out – not out of disgust, but out of surprise.  All this time, of course, my penis has been untouched.  It is desperate for some action.  I am still captivated by her figure, and her breasts.  And her semen all over my face.  I slide her back down off my chest to my crotch, and fuck her again for a bit.  My hand is on her cock.  She asks me if I'm grossed out by her penis.  I tell her, truthfully, that it sorta turns me on, even though I love her femininity above all else.  She asks me if she can fuck me, and not understanding, I say yes.  She turns me over roughly, and I clue in.  I interrupt her, and she begins to pout, but I don't stop her – I reposition myself so I can see her behind me by looking in the closet mirror.  I beg her to fuck me.  All I can see is her titties bouncing up and down and the look of ecstasy on her face.  It hurts at first, but it's such a turn-on that I get used to it, and start to enjoy it.  A lot.  I have her stop for a second and turn 90 degrees so I can see from a different angle.  Now I can see her cock ramming me in the ass, and it feels even better.  She reaches around and jerks me off half-heartedly, concentrating on her own pleasure.  I come hard when I feel her pumping her semen inside me, savouring the thought that I am her bitch, even as her beautiful, slender, feminine fingers caress my dick.  I feel so naughty about losing my virginity that it turns me on, but we're both so tired and spent that we can no longer continue.  She cuddles up against me, her cock against my thigh, and we both fall asleep.

We talk about these confusing events in the morning.  It turns out that she, as a young boy, had decided long ago that she would rather be a girl.  She has tried very hard ever since her mid-teens to make herself as feminine as possible.  I am amazed by the overwhelming magnitude of her success.  She looks like a supermodel in a bikini, and in lingerie.  She has the whole world fooled.

Still, I have misgivings about the situation.  I make them clear.  I don't want to be a homosexual.  She promises me that she will have surgery correcting that last little problem as soon as she can afford it (she's been saving for years).  But when she starts getting dressed, I become incredibly aroused.  I snap the elastic on her panties as I admire her cute little girly ass.  Before we know it, we're fucking again.  I am very confused about my feelings about her penis.  Part of me wishes very much that she had a pussy, like other girls; but part of me is very intrigued about how a boy can turn himself into a female sex goddess; and of course there's that last little part of me that's terribly excited about tasting cock and feeling it in my ass.

We stay together, and we have mind-blowing sex.  What turns me on so much about her is her transfermation.  I grill her about what she was like before she was a girl.  She talks reluctantly about her unhappy boyhood, and the dificulties of asserting her femininity through puberty.  It turns me on so much to think that this perfect piece of female ass that other guys ogle at and are envious of actually is a man.  I try to imagine what it must feel like to wear the things she wears.  I ask her, and she gushes about it.  How liberating it is.  How sexy it feels. 

I ask her what would happen to me if I ever wore women's clothes.  She says probably nothing.  Anyway, she says, she likes me all butchy and manly, so she doesn't care for it.  How manly can I be, I ask, if I'm sucking and fucking cock on a regular basis.  She blushes, and says nothing.

I start to envy her her wardrobe.  I think to myself, that could be me in those fishnet stockings, fuck-me boots, and little black dress.  I start trying things on, just for fun.  I try to include her, but she doesn't like playing dress-up with me.  So it becomes my secret.  I get my own panties and bikinis and lingerie.  Eventually, she finds out.  We slowly break up over it. 

Now I realize how fucked I am.  I realize that I'm still incredibly attracted to pussy, but that I really love the idea of Andrea.  I love the thought that I can become just as feminine as her.  Nothing turns me on more than that.  I date some women, and steal their underwear every now and then.  It never lasts long, because they either find out about my fetish, or I feel trapped when I can't make myself girly.  So Andrea comes back into my life.

She is just as disappointed in my girlish habits as any normal woman, but she can't be disgusted, because she does it herself.  I am still incredibly aroused by her, but she can't even use her decrepit dick anymore, because of all the hormones.  I am not in love with her anymore, either, so we get along.  I meet her sister, who guided her through her own effemination.  Together, they teach me.  This is how I learn that I can become ultra-feminine too, by taking on a female persona, and wearing nothing but female sexwear at all times.

It's difficult at first, but practice makes perfect.  The first few weeks are all about discovery.  I wear the skankiest clothes, and I do so in public.  At first, I'm hideous, but with a lot of work, can look pretty feminine.  I start hanging around in gay areas, because those are the only places where I can feel safe.  I start meeting other men, and can't resist the taste of cock.  I am now in Andrea's place.

A few years later, I am even more feminine.  My tits are bursting out of my bra, and I can't get enough cock.  But the best part is that my own penis is completely gone: I have a pussy!  And it's all natural!  I've transformed my body not with chemicals or surgery, but with sheer willpower!  And I love my new body!

Fiction: The Ultimate Fantasy

At last, the ultimate fantasy.

First, a listing of the most important moments in my feminine life, in chronological order, for possible use in this ultimate fantasy:

1. 5 years old: Wearing girls’ white pantyhose for a Kindergarten pantomime, and asking Mom and Dad that night if I could wear them to bed.
2. Around 10: borrowing Mom’s pantyhose for the first time (and wearing it over my underwear)
3. Around 12: stealing Mom’s newer bathing suit, and daring to put it on without wearing my underwear underneath, because I couldn't resist (I tried so hard!) recklessly abandoning myself to the raw femininity
4. Around 14: stealing a friend's sister's bikini bottom, and wearing it almost every night. It was by far the sexiest thing I'd ever worn to that point, and I regretted not having the matching bra
5. Around 15: Mom finding my stash of her clothes under my bed (but thankfully not finding that white bathing suit from number 3)
6. Around 19: after years and years of shame, I start my journal and admit to myself that I love girlifying myself more than anything in the whole wide world
7. Just before Xmas, 1995 (21): buying a lingerie outfit consisting of a white satin teddy, white fishnet stockings, and a garter belt, and shaving my legs to better appreciate it

This story has potential richness beyond anything I’ve ever conceived before, and it’s born from the current evolution of my fantasy.

It’s about a boy who discovers his feminine side much like I did. The twist: he actually is some sort of hermaphrodite, and every time he thinks like a girl (that is, every time he wears women’s clothes for a sexual kick) his female hormones kick in. This results in an extremely gradual girlification process. By early puberty, a vaginal opening begins to appear, little by little, and fade away after a rest. He knows that his habit is turning him into a girl, and he’s both horribly afraid and ecstatic. He can’t resist, try as he might. Eventually, his testicles begin to disappear into his ever growing hole when he indulges, and his penis actually shrinks; his chest swells ever so slightly. Some of the cumulative effects aren’t subsiding: his hole doesn’t fully close anymore after he’s done; he becomes concerned about the fat distribution on his body, his loss of body hair. He also begins to cultivate his hair for when he does indulge, guiltily, so that he feels more like a girl. By the end of high school, he becomes female when he fulfills his fantasies of wearing girls’ swimwear and lingerie: his balls get sucked right up into his vaginal opening, and his penis recedes until it becomes practically a clitoris; his waist actually shrinks, his hips expand, his voice goes up an octave, some of his body hair falls out, and he grows sensitive boobs. He becomes extremely feminine, and absolutely loves it. Of course, this is problematic: he tries hard to maintain his image as a boy, but he can’t be naked in front of other boys, for fear that they might see his growing cunt and shrinking penis. He can’t have sex with girls, whom he adores. He avoids medical checkups. All the things that happened to me happen to him, only he gets to actually become a girl when he fantasizes. As he becomes an adult, he reaches a point where he must choose his gender. He endures all sorts of mishaps from remaining female longer than expected. Eventually, of course, he realizes that his sexual fun is always as a girl, so he experiments with going all out. He’s ugly at first, so he gives up. He tries several times, and gives up each time. But the improvements are never fully reverting back to manhood. He becomes innately more female every day, because he so desperately loves to indulge his fantasy. It’s like he’s taking hormone treatments. Eventually, he has sex with a man while he’s a girl, and can’t get enough.

Fiction: Losing In Style

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.

Fiction: la fameuse histoire d'André

Excuse-moi si mon récit est un peu long.  Ça commence avec cette fameuse histoire d’André. 

Depuis que je le connaissais, André n’a jamais montré une prédilection si étrange que celle qu’il m’expliquait ce jour là.  J’ai toujours cru que je le connaissais mieux que tout autre, mais me voilà surpris.  Cependant, qui connaît vraiment les fantaisies les plus intimes – les plus gênantes – de ses proches?  Sûrement, je n’ai jamais dit un seul mot à propos de mes propres fantaisies les plus sauvages, alors comment reprocher la même discrétion chez André?

En tout cas, ceci n’est pas arrivé tout d’un coup.  Ce n’était quand même pas moins surprenant de découvrir son secret, manifesté si innocemment ces premiers jours.  À qui aurait pu nuire ses petits caprices, quand ils le rendaient si content?  S’il n’y avait pas sa jolie amie derrière cela, j’aurais été peut-être inquiet, mais au moins il prétendait qu’il accordait tout simplement ses désirs à elle. 

Comme vous savez déjà, c’est devenu bien plus sérieux maintenant.  Je crains même que le récit de ses expériences m’ont déjà corrompu, et que je finirai comme lui.  Je veux bien espérer que non, mais vous verrez vous même une fois que j’aurai fini mon histoire, que ce pauvre diable s’est trouvé une liberté enviable.

Bon.  Je commence au début. 

Personne ne savait rien de cette affaire avant quatre ou cinq mois après qu’il s’établisse comme couple avec Brigitte.  Ils étaient si contents ensemble, qu’ils nous rendions tous malades.  C’est à dire, tout notre petit groupe d’amis.  Nous étions contents pour lui, mais en même temps, nous ne sommes plus adolescents.  Nous avions tous appris de ne jamais se laisser emporter si profondément par une femme.  Elles aussi ont appris la même leçon.  À notre âge, on a épuisé nos naïves attentes sur l’amour.

Enfin, après quelques semaines de ne l’avoir vu qu’avec elle, sans moyen d’y en parler d’homme à homme, il me révèle tout une soirée que nous étions seuls à jaser.  Toujours content, avec un air rêveur, il me raconte comment bien il s’entend avec elle, que tout va incroyablement bien,  et qu’il ne peut pas s’imaginer sans elle.  Je lui demande des détails que seulement des amis proches comme nous peuvent discuter, c’est à dire, comment elle est au lit.  C’est là qu’il a montré la seule indication de doute à propos de cette affaire.  Je crains lui avoir mal conseillé. 

Comment, me demandait-il, roulant le fond de son verre contre le comptoir sans me regarder des yeux, agirais-tu si ta blonde voulait que tu portes ses culottes? 

J’ai ri.  Cette question m’a tellement éblouit, il faut l’admettre, que je ne pouvais pas contenir ma réaction.  Comment, je lui dis, c’est pas toi qui porte les pantalons dans cette relation-là?

–Arrête-donc, me dit-il.  Comme tu vois, elle commande beaucoup de mon attention, mais c’est toujours moi qui suis en charge.

–Mais comment ça ce fait qu’elle veut que tu portes ses culottes?

–Eh bien, c’est seulement pour jouer.  Tu devrais voir comment sa lui plaît!

—Comme ça, tu les portes, ses culottes?

—Tu ferais pas la même chose, à ma place?

Je ne savais pas quoi répondre.  Voilà une question philosophique que, en général, les hommes se posent constamment.  On se demande toujours comment loin on irait pour plaire à nos femmes.  Il y a toujours des limites.  C’est seulement in situ qu’on fait l’épreuve, tant qu’à y penser d’avance.  C’est seulement là que l’on découvre ou finit notre amour, et ou commence notre fiereté.  Pour André, c’était, comme toujours, un cas singulier que nul autre homme n’aurait pu résoudre sans énorme difficulté.

—Je suppose, lui dis-je enfin, que ça dépend combien je l’aime, et combien son petit caprice me dégoûte.

—Je l’admets, j’ai trouvé cela bien curieux quand elle me l’a demandé la première fois.  Nous étions empassionnés, et dans l’ardeur du moment, je l’ai obéi.  Sa passion après ça c’est redoublée.  Je ne l’avais jamais vue si sauvage, si folle de désir.

—Et puis ça c’est répété?

—Ça devient de plus en plus commun.  C’est vraiment une fille différente quand je le fais.

—L’as-tu déjà refusé?

—Comment je peux lui refuser?  C’est le meilleur sexe que j’aie jamais eu!

—Mais toi, ça te donne pas honte?  Christ!  T’es pas supposé de t’abaisser comme ça!

—Ça me dérange pas.

—Comment, ça te déranges pas!  Es-tu malade?

—Dis donc, pourquoi ça devrait me déranger?

—Bien, premièrement, tu t’esclaves à elle si tu accède à tout ce qu’elle te demande.

—C’est pas vrai.  Il y a bien des choses que je refuse.  C’est toujours moi qui porte les pantalons, comme tu disais.

—Mais tu t’enlèves ton autorité masculine en portant ses culottes.  En effet, ça ne sera pas longtemps avant que tu commences à porter des jupes si tu continues comme ça.

—Voyons donc!

—C’est sérieux!

—Me penses-tu vraiment si faible?  Je te dis que c’est toujours moi qui dirige, au lit ou ailleurs.

—Tu ne penses pas qu’elle fait seulement commencer de te controller?  On ne te voit plus souvent…

—Si tu pouvais seulement savoir comment éblouissant, comment spectaculaire est notre amour quand je porte ses culottes, tu comprendrais!

—Alors tu aimes ça!

André rougit.  Et puis? répond-t-il.

—Ha ha!  Tu aimes porter ses culottes!

—C’est seulement parce que ça la rend folle!  Ça me fait de telles associations dans ma tête, que je ne pourrais même pas commencer de t’expliquer.

—Bon, je fais juste te taquiner.

—Et toi, le ferais-tu?  Imagine-toi avec ta femme idéale, et que tout ce que tu devais faire pour la posséder entièrement du corps et de l’esprit, serait de porter ses culottes.  Ne le ferais-tu pas?

Et puis la question demeure là.  Est-ce aussi sérieux de porter des culottes de fille que je le pensais?  Surtout dans les circonstances décrites par André?  Pour un tel paradis, n’est-ce pas un sacrifice assez insignifiant?  Pourquoi c’est si honteux pour un homme de porter des culottes de fille?  Mon instinct me dit, me cri toujours que c’est une affreuse trahison de sa masculinité, mais pourquoi?  Et puis si on le fait pour gagner l’amour d’une femme, n’est-ce pas une excellente affirmation de sa masculinité?  Mais comment peut-on affirmer sa masculinité en s’habillant en femme?  Voilà le paradoxe.  Pour moi, c’était une situation impossible.

André alors disparut du bar pour plusieurs autres semaines, toujours avec sa précieuse Brigitte.  Leur relation ne s’étaignait pas du tout.  En même temps, je ne pouvais pas éviter de penser à son étrange position.  Notre joli paradoxe n’était jamais loin de mes pensées.  Quand je le voyais, il changeait de mesure à mesure, d’une façon que je ne pouvais pas expliquer, mais que je comprends complètement à cette heure. 

C’était la fin d’avril, et la saison de hockey s’était terminée à peine deux semaines avant.  Il était temps de s’abonner à la saison d’été, mais André n’y avait pas encore commit.  La première partie aurait lieu au début de mai, et il risquait de la manquer, alors je lui ai payé une petite visite.  De plus, je m’inquiétais de lui.  C’est un règlement suprême parmi les hommes que les femmes ne sont jamais acceptées comme excuse pour manquer une partie.  Comme il était si prit de Brigitte, j’avais peur qu’il perdait ses priorités.

Comme de raison, il n’était pas content de me voir, sachant que je lui gronderais pour avoir trahi son équipe.  Mais ce qui avait de pire, c’était qu’il répondit la porte en pantalons courts, ses jambes, antérieurement les plus poilues que j’ai jamais vues, rasées nues comme celles d’une femme. 

Il a vu immédiatement ce que je regardais, et me méfiait.

—Bon, je lui dis, c’est clair que tu ne veux plus jouer au hockey.

—C’est vrai.

—C’est Brigitte qui te fait raser les jambes?

—Pas tout à fait.  C’était mon idée.

—Mais pourquoi alors?

—J’aime mieux ça.

Cela me suffit pour ce sujet.  J’ai du pâlir comme un malade.  Je crois que ma visite l’a surprit, car il me semblait mal à l’aise.  Je croyais voir un soutien-gorge dessous sa chemise blanche.  Avant que je puisse me composer, Brigitte apparût à la porte, me saluant chaleureusement.  Elle me jasait aimablement de rien du tout, tout en remuant sa main sur les hanches d’André.  Elle passait son doigt le long de sa ceinture, exposant la dentelle féminine de ses culottes sur les flancs de son amant.  Elle n’a jamais perdu le train de la conversation, ni le contact de ses yeux avec les miens.  André ne l’arrêtait pas.  Brigitte me souhaitait bonne chance pour la saison de hockey, et je suis parti ébloui par cet étrange spectacle.

Même mes inquiètudes ne m’avaient pas préparées pour cela.  J’essayais d’imaginer comment il pourrait laisser Brigitte l’humilier devant moi.  Justement, le lendemain, il me visitais pour tout m’expliquer. 

—Alors ça va toujours plus loin, ton affaire?

—Je veux que tu me comprennes.

—André, comment peux-tu la laisser te contrôler comme ça?

—Ce n’est pas elle qui contrôle.  La vérité, c’est que j’adore porter ses vêtements.

—Quoi?

—Oui, tu m’entends bien!  J’adore porter ses vêtements!

—Ça te donne une joie sexuelle de te mêler dans ses affaires?

—À vrai dire, ce n’est pas strictement ses vêtements, mais n’importe quoi de féminin.

—Tu n’est pas sérieux!

—Absolument!

—Qu’est-ce qu’elle t’a fait, la maudite!

—Rien du tout!  Elle m’a seulement introduit une idée, et c’est quelque chose qui m’est terriblement agréable. 

—Et les jambes rasées?

—Tiens, dit-il en levant sa chemise, ce n’est pas seulement mes jambes.  Je trouves que ça paraît tellement plus beau sans poils nulle part.

—Encore le soutien!

—Toujours un soutien!

—Seulement, je te prie de ne pas me montrer tes culottes…

—Elles vont si bien avec mon soutien!

—Assez, assez!  Maintenant, ce n’est plus seulement pour plaire à Brigitte?

—Non, c’est devenu mon caprice aussi.

—Tu ne trouves pas que c’est allé trop loin?

—Ça fait juste commencer!  C’est ça qui il y a de meilleur!

—Mais avant tu me disais que tu faisais ça parce que to bénéficiais de son extase.  Et maintenant, te voilà féminisé, sans même qu’elle soit là.  Qu’est-ce qui est arrivé?

—C’est bien simple : elle aimait tellement ça que c’était devenu un rituel chaque fois qu’on faisait l’amour.  Enfin, je me trouvais dans son garde robe à planifier ce que je porterais pour elle, quand j’ai réalisé que ça me plaisait autant qu’elle. 

—Mais qu’est-ce qui te plait là-dedans?  N’as tu pas peur de te corrompre la masculinité?  Quel sorte d’homme es-tu devenu?

—Dis-moi, Robert, comment je pourrais me corrompre avec les vêtements de ma bien-aimée?  J’adore tellement sa féminité, j’adore tellement ses vêtements, que ça me semble être le plus honnête acte d’amour de les porter pour l’imiter.

—Mais comment pourra-t-elle t’aimer si tu n’es plus masculin?

—Elle apprécie mon imitation.  N’oublie pas que c’est elle qui a initié tout cela.

—Alors c’est elle qui contrôle!

—Je m’en fous!  D’ailleurs, comme je t’ai dit hier, c’est moi qui a eu l’idée de me raser.  Même elle est surprise de ma dévotion pour elle.

—Comment loin veux-tu aller avec ça?

—Aussi loin que sa me plait.

—Qu’est-ce qui arrive si elle te lâche?

—Elle ne me lâchera jamais.

—Voyons!  Sûrement elle ne veut pas sortir avec un homme plus féminin qu’elle!

—On verra!

—À part de nous trois, qui sait?

—Personne.

—Le dirai vous aux autres?

André hésitait. 

—Je ne pense pas.

—Et si moi je leur dis?

—Non!  Dis rien!

—Mais alors pourquoi viens-tu ici me montrer cette maladie la si fièrement, si tu ne veux pas que tout le monde le sache?

—Tu es mon meilleur ami!  En plus, tu le savais déjà.

—Les autres ne soupçonnent rien?

—Je ne pense pas.

Même s’il ne pensait pas, tout le monde se demandait qu’est-ce que Brigitte lui faisait, et remarquait qu’il semblait si bizarre.  Pas deux mois après notre conversation, et il ne restait pas de doute.  Il s’habillait de plus en plus féminin, jusqu’au point qu’il sortait avec Brigitte en jolie robe d’été.  Ses cheveux avaient assez allongé qu’il les coiffait comme une femme.  Il ne cachait plus rien.  On me dit qu’ils sont allés à la plage ensemble, et portaient tous les deux le même maillot de bain.  C’est peut-être des bêtises, mais ça ne me semble pas impossible.

Malgré ses efforts pour l’imiter, Brigitte s’est tannée enfin de lui, et l’a lâché.  Mais André a prit cet échec avec grâce.  On pourrait même dire qu’il ne s’en faisais pas.  Il continuait de porter ses vêtements féminins, et continuait même de devenir une femme.

—Oh, que je me sens belle!  Disait-il.  Ou elle.  C’était devenu difficile à décider quel genre utiliser en parlant de lui.  Elle. 

Maintenant nous sommes tous habitués, et de plus, il est presque prêt pour entreprendre sa chirurgie finale.  C’est bien vrai qu’elle est belle.

—Cependant, cela n’explique pas votre propre état…

Ah, oui!  C’est vrai que c’était autre chose que je devais vous raconter.  Eh bien, ne voyez vous pas comment j’ai commencé moi-même? 

Eh bien, moi, je n’ai pas excuses.  Andrée avait commencé parce qu’elle croyait plaire à sa blonde.  Mais moi, je n’avais pas de blonde.  C’est encore pire pour moi.  C’est tout simplement qu’il m’a piqué la curiosité. 

J’étais possédé de cette fantaisie du moment ou il me l’ait racontée.  Mais moi, je n’avais pas de fille de qui empreunter les culottes.  Je l’entendais parler, je l’imaginais avec elle, je m’imaginais à sa place.  Je me demandais si c’était vraiment possible de s’endommager la masculinité en portant des culottes de fille.  Ah, que j’étais curieuse!  Je voulais me tester, je voulais prouver que je pourrais passer l’épreuve!  Je voulais me préparer pour le cas ou je serais à la place d’André.  Ce sont tous des mensonges.  Je voulais seulement découvrir mon propre féminin.  Il n’y a autre raison.

Alors j’ai commencé par m’acheter un ensemble de lingerie, en faisant semblant que c’était pour l’anniversaire de ma blonde imaginaire.  Et je l’ai porté.  Souvent.  Je m’haïssais.  Mais avec André qui découvrait tous les jours quelque chose de plus féminin, je ne pouvais pas m’empêcher.  Quand j’ai découvert qu’il se rasais, je ne pouvais plus le suivre sans m’exposer à tout le monde comme lui.  Je le voulais tellement, mais je n’avais pas son courage.  Je n’étais pas du tout jalouse quand j’ai entendu l’histoire de la plage.  Je possédais déjà mon propre maillot féminin, ainsi qu’un bikini, tous deux que je portais plus souvent même que des culottes.