Interactivity Thwarted, Again

A few nights ago, my wife and I were watching TV when Lauren Conrad's joke about her favorite position being "CEO." It totally went over T__'s head, and I pretended that I knew exactly what it was and that I'd show her forthwith. We eventually ended up in the bedroom, where I directed her to put on a form-fitting black nightie and a pair of sexy 3-inch heels. She was already wearing my favorite panties, which are black microfiber with lace accents in strategic places.
we heard about

She rarely dresses up like this for our lovemaking anymore, for various reasons. I only remember her wearing shoes in the bedroom once before, several years ago, and then only for a very brief moment. She knows I love it when she wears lingerie, but it makes her self-conscious, so she only does it on special occasions.

Because of the name of the "position" and my presumed knowledge of what it entails, there was a slight subtext of a domination, although I left it entirely ambiguous as to who would be on top, as it were. She asked if my telling her what to do made me the CEO, or whether her wearing fancy shoes made her the CEO.

As she stood by the bed all dolled up, I couldn't help but think of the times I'd worn those panties and that nightie (the shoes in question unfortunately are far too small for my feet.) As I pulled her down on top of me, she kicked off her shoes, and I soon stripped off her lingerie and took her missionary style, the way she likes it best.

As I fucked her, she asked when she would get to be CEO. "You mean you want me to wear the nightie and the fancy shoes?" I replied, as if I were joking and not praying that she'd go along with it.

"No!" she protested, appalled, "I want to wear the nightie!"

Thus, I will continue to wear lingerie -- hers and my own -- in secret, for the foreseeable future.

Fiction: Getting Interested

I always thought of myself as a good judge of women's looks.  That means that I know what looks good on a woman.  I know what I want to see women wearing.  Now, I can't say that I ever took an active interest in women's fashions, but I know what I like.  Doesn't that sound subversive?  It's as if I can't really be a man if I know anything about women's clothes.  Anyone who knows that much about women's clothes must be effeminate.  It's either too much a female thing for a guy to be preoccupied about, or its likely to rub off on a guy and make him effeminate.

My girl was always very shy, very unwilling to take a chance on something too flashy or revealing.  I liked to shop with her and subtly point out the things I wanted her to wear.  It would have been too strange for me to actively push her to wear something I wanted to see her in.  Like I said, it would appear effeminate of me to take such a keen interest in women's fashions.  My manhood would inevitably come into doubt.  Still, I, and I'm sure most men, know what they want to see.  It made perfect sense to me to have an interest.

As we wandered through the stores, I would picture her in everything, and get inwardly excited at the thought of her wearing certain outfits.  I struggled through the lingerie stores, let me tell you.  I came to appreciate the subtleties of lace and spaghetti straps that show off shoulders, and the softness of silk and satin, how certain shapes set off certain of the more delectable portions of the female anatomy.  Everything was so delicate, accented the delicacy of my woman.  The clothes themselves take on a life of their own, a sexuality of their own.  A nightgown or a brassiere turned me on by itself, exuding a femininity that, combined with my girl's body, would be irresistible.

Naturally, I loved to feel this femininity in my hands, against my body, exploring it and caressing it lovingly.  Every man needs to feel this.  I wanted to surround myself with her, drown in her, submerge myself entirely within her girlhood.  That's what men do.  That's how we get off.  

With that in mind, somehow I got it in my head that by holding her nightie while I slept, it would comfort me, make me closer to her when she wasn't there.  It did.  But I would lose my grip in my sleep, and thereby lose it.  So I had to drape it over myself.  The easiest and most logical way to accomplish that would be to wear it.
Women do this all the time.  Nobody questions their sexuality.

It was such a wonderful substitute.  It made me horny, even.  It was like I was surrounded by womanhood.  I couldn't help but gratify myself in it.  I even brought it into our lovemaking.  After we were done, I would take her nightie and caress it, not letting her have it back.  I told her all about how it made me feel.  She was a little repulsed at first, but she agreed to let me sleep in her nighty every now and then.  She's so lucky: she gets to be surrounded by girl stuff all the time.  I only get these rare moments to slake my thirst.  

I began to truly admire her then.  I envied her.  She could look so incredibly good, she could wear such wonderfully sexy, delicate, beautiful clothing, and feel great about it and herself.  I worshiped her womanhood.  To the point of wanting to emulate her.

She began to dominate in our lovemaking, as I held her in such high esteem.  At first, I would half-jokingly beg her to touch her underwear.  Then she would make me wear it.  At length, it escalated to the point where where she would choose lingerie for ME to wear, and not the other way around.  We frolicked together in her undergarments, celebrating femininity.

Every time I wore her clothes, I dreamed of them shaping me like her.  I wanted to become like her.  I wanted to be a woman, pretty and delicate and sexy.  

Fiction: A First Time

The idea came to me so subtly that I didn't even notice it at first.  I don't even think that I can adequately retrace the path my mind took to get to it.  But I will try.

There are times when I get horny for no good reason.  I just have a general feeling of arousal, brought on by nothing.  It's not a feeling of desire, but an acknowledgment of a potential for it.  Are there not times when you're aroused, but not particularly horny?  This is the opposite: horny, but not yet aroused.  This particular moment, I happened to be looking at a page 3 girl wearing a one-piece swimsuit.  She wasn't even all that pretty, but she looked very nice in that tight little outfit.  It just so happened that my girl at the time had one very similar, if not identical, to it.  And I knew where she kept it.

Seeing the page 3 girl made me think of my girl in her swimsuit, and how I had seen her out of that same swimsuit and made love to her.  I thought of all her delicious curves, and how they stood out so much in that swimsuit.  Unfortunately, I was alone in the apartment, and she wouldn't be back for quite a while, so I couldn't yank her into bed and fuck her on the spot.  I would have liked her to model it for me, too, just because I had it on my mind and felt a little playful.

It would have been strange to ask her, in the middle of the day, to put on a swimsuit so that I could ogle her and bang her.  If she were here, that is.  I don't think she would have quite understood.  I had asked her to wear lingerie before, and a bikini or something for a day at the beach, but not like this.  Every man loves to see his woman wearing something sexy, and I'm no exception.  Somehow, it got into my mind that I had to see at least the swimsuit, even if she weren't in it.  Perhaps the thought went even deeper, and I didn't consciously admit it to myself at that time.  I felt a little kinky about it, and got that much hornier.

I resisted for a few hours, but, like I said, I had that potential, and I couldn't let it go to waste.  I had all day with nothing to do.  Why not indulge in a little fantasy?  I couldn't resist.  So I went straight to her dresser to peek at her swimsuit.

It was easy to find among all her dainty feminine things.  It was so bright and colourful.  It excited me to touch her panties, and especially that swimsuit.  I fondled it a bit and closed the drawer, feeling a bit foolish.  I relished the soft silkiness of the material as I imagined her in it, soft and curvaceous.  What was I doing?  I mustered up some discipline and left it.

I grew restless for the twenty minutes I managed to keep away from her dresser.  I couldn't stop fantasizing about it, about her, about the page 3 girl, about what I would do about it all.  I needed to touch the swimsuit again.  I needed to examine it closely, admire it and picture it on my girl.  Or so I thought to myself.  By then I had started to realize that I didn't even care about my girl at this moment, just her swimsuit.  There is something inherently feminine about women's underwear and swimwear.  Something about the way it accentuates female shapes makes it ultra-feminine.  It's delicate and pretty by itself.  And there's also something forbidden about it.  No man should be so intimate with women's clothing.  It's something so personal, so sexual, so intimate that no-one but the most extraordinary man should be worthy to know it.  And here I came, uninitiated, defiling this altar of womanhood.  I suppose it's overdramatic to put it that way, but that's how I felt.  I was being naughty.  And I was taking a risk of being overpowered by something feminine.

The problem is that I wanted to be overpowered.  That's what sex is all about.  I had already succumbed, even before I stood with the bathing suit dangling in my hand, holding it in front of myself, smelling it, exploring its composition and shape.  It had to be feminine: it was so unlike anything I or any other man had ever worn.  The crotch looked so sensual.  I could imagine what my girl put against it when she wore it.  It was like I was exploring a woman.  I caressed it with my fingers, rubbed my face in it.  I was fixated by it, aroused by it.  It was so tight and stretchy.  I pictured my girl getting into it, and out of it, and gallivanting around in it.  So tight, so girlish!  Then the idea struck me full on, and scared the shit out of me.  I think I must have blushed.

Again, I stuffed it back where I found it and vowed not to think of it again.  I had gotten too naughty, and I was getting far too excited about it.  I had to control myself.  I took a cold shower to take my mind off of it.
Somehow, water doesn't really make one forget about bathing suits.  I was getting dressed when the thought came to me full force again.  I certainly blushed again.  I tried to avoid going back to her dresser, but it was so close to mine.  Water and bathing suits go together quite well, I hear. 

I had managed enough control to put on pants and a shirt, but I not to avoid the swimsuit.  I took it right out of the dresser again, and fondled it some more.  I wanted to see it stretch with the shape of a lithe female body.  I filled the cups with my fists, but they had the wrong shape.  I needed to fill in the butt, the crotch, the waist, the belly, and the shoulders under the straps.  I rubbed it against my chest as I lifted up my shirt.  So soft!  I needed more.  I rubbed it against my crotch, but through my pants.  Not enough!

I flopped onto the bed, stepping out of my pants.  I tore off my shirt.  I sat in only my underwear, the bathing suit beside me.  I rubbed it against my crotch, but still that wasn't enough.  I knew what I had to do, but couldn't dare.  I jerked myself just thinking about it.  I couldn't believe what I was thinking, much less that it aroused me so much.  It was so naughty, not for defiling the feminine altar, but for defiling my own manhood, and willingly.  The thought of betraying my gender this way aroused me enormously.  But I still couldn't go all the way with it.

I finally decided to take the plunge.  My hands trembled as I seized the bathing suit in front of me, and grabbing it by the waist, sure to have the front facing away from me.  I'd seen my girl do it before.  I didn't dare take off my underwear, for fear of what would happen if I went too far too fast.  Something inside me wanted to, not for the rush of risking the consequences, but specifically to suffer them.  

I stepped into the leg holes, and pulled the bathing suit up slowly and sensuously to my crotch.  I yanked it up as high as it would go, but didn't put my arms through the shoulder straps.  It was so tight against my body that I almost creamed right then and there.  And I was still wearing my underwear underneath, to protect me from the femininity.  It was bad enough that I was doing this already, but what if I liked it?  I would surely do it more and more, until I wear it all the time!  And God help me if there wasn't a part of me that screamed YES!  YES!  WEAR IT ALL THE TIME!  I fondled myself like this for a while, overjoyed to finally have a body to fondle under that swimsuit.  I reveled in its tightness, its smoothness, its girlishness.  I wanted to be female at that moment, and I admitted it freely, but guiltily to myself.  I was wearing my girl's swimsuit for the thrill of feeling feminine.

It had to go further.  I had tasted this half-worn swimsuit over my underwear, just fondling the shoulder straps, teasing myself about actually sliding all the way into it.  I was teasing myself about becoming feminine.  I wanted to be a girl now.  I had to experience wearing a woman's swimsuit like only a woman can.  I slid on the straps, just to test my commitment, and kept it on like that for a few minutes.  Even that was exhilarating.  I knew it would be difficult for me to slide the swimsuit off, but I had to to remove my underwear.  I had kept it as a last shred of manhood, the last layer protecting me against becoming completely engulfed in femininity.  Now I flung it off and welcomed girlishness wholeheartedly, recklessly, ecstatically.  I strapped myself in, and swung my hips effeminately.  

I couldn't believe how wonderfully it made me feel!  I had never worn anything that caressed my crotch and my hips quite the way this bathing suit did.  It was so high-cut, so tight, so smooth, so sexy.  I celebrated my new-found womanhood with vigour.  I couldn't help but begin to imagine what it would feel like to try a bikini, a garter belt, panties, a bra, pantihose, skirts, dresses, makeup. . .  Thoughts of lingerie filled my head, and to think that I had such items so close at hand, in my girl's dresser!  This rush was far better than any sex I had ever had.  

I creamed the swimsuit so badly that I panicked.  I didn't know what to do.  If my girl found out, it would be over, and I would be so humiliated.  I felt deep shame.  I had gone way too far.  But it felt so incredibly good!  I vowed, nonetheless, to never do it again.  I washed the swimsuit by hand, and placed it carefully back where it belonged.  The sight of silk and satin in her dresser now had a whole new meaning for me.

Fiction: How I Tricked My Wife Into Transforming Me Into a Woman

Counterpoint to the story about the woman who gradually surreptitiously transformed her husband into a woman:

Susan had no idea that I had fantasized about wearing her underwear.  I was getting sick and tired of wearing her things behind her back.  I had begun to lose interest in her: wearing her clothes gave me a much more powerful rush than fucking her.  She's very beautiful, don't get me wrong.  I just got caught up in her lingerie, and discovering an exciting new facet of myself.

The trick was to break it to her slowly.  I had to try to convince her that I would make a better girlfriend than husband.  I'm amazed that she stuck with me all this time.  I'm amazed, too, that she fell for it.  I guess we really were meant for each other. . .

It started with the shaving.  I didn't want to move too fast, because I didn't want to scare her away.  I knew that I had her when she suggested to me that a smooth, hairless man is sexy.  I had wanted for a long time to know what it feels like to have smooth legs, and to wear stockings on them.  I pretended to hesitate, but I couldn't wait to do it.

Then she pulled the old laundry trick on me to get me into her panties.  Again, I had to take it slow, and pretend that I didn't want to.  It's not like I hadn't worn them before.  Only now I got to wear them all the time.  I even bought my own eventually.  I felt so free, finally cavorting in women's underwear all day, every day!  Now when we fucked, I secretly pretended we were lesbians.  

I began to notice a strange taste in my breakfast orange juice.  She thinks I didn't know about the hormones.  At first I was shocked and angry.  I thought about confronting her.  I thought that this was going too far already.  The trouble is that the idea of slowly and biologically becoming female aroused me like nothing else.  I had to make a choice: continue along this crazy transsexual route, or end it right here.  

Pretty soon, I was taking sewing lessons, and doing Jazzercize.  I was becoming female.  I noticed my tits growing, and my nipples becoming sensitive.  Susan had no idea that I was right in on her program.  She caught me one day tanning myself in a bikini bottom.  I gave her some cockamammy excuse that I felt more comfortable in it anyway, because of the panties.  Which was true, come to think of it, but to a much greater extent than I let on.  I couldn't wait to cover my budding tits with the matching bras!  

Every step I took made me feel so wonderfully feminine!  I was so happy to wear a frilly, lacy, silky, satiny bra to match with my panties!  And Susan had no idea that I loved it so much.  She hoped that I would, but I was already way ahead of her.

Pretty soon, she let me be a girl, and I've loved every minute of it since.

Fiction: Discovery and Slow Surrender

The thought had, of course, crossed my mind before. It's not a huge stretch of the imagination. It's a bit of a joke, really. Masculinity is too fragile: the femininity of women's underwear must inevitably corrupt it. Women laugh and chide their men about how cute they would look in a bra. Then the men joke right back, playing along, intending to show how confident they are of their manhood. Both of them, however, fear what would happen if he actually did wear women's underwear. Subconsciously, both know how fragile masculinity is.

It came as a challenge at first. She dared me to put on her panties, and I did. No problem there. It was stupid. I felt ridiculous, but not even embarrassed. They didn't seem to fit quite right. They looked grotesque against my muscular ass and the bulge in front. Not a pretty picture at all. "See?" I said. "Nothing to it."

The trick is in not letting it get into your head.

As I said, this was a pointless exercise in courage. I showed off my machismo, my male fearlessness, by- ironically- wearing women's underwear. Clearly, she looks better in her panties than I do. In fact, she looks better in my underwear than I do. But that's because she's a girl, and I like the way she looks. As far as I could tell then, I passed with flying colours. The seed, however, had been planted.

I had practically forgotten about the incident, until it crept back into my thoughts a few weeks later. My mind drifted into an erotic fantasy as I worked. This happens to everyone. Only it abruptly stopped when I remembered that I wore __'s panties. For some reason, this suddenly brought me intense worry. I had, I imagined, compromised my virility. Thank God I hadn't liked it! I thought to myself.

As the day wore on, I agonized over my blunder. I worried that __ would think me less of a man. I tried to convince myself that I was being foolish. But it didn't work. The thought that there would be consequences to wearing women's underwear consumed me.

Eventually, __ assuaged my fears by fucking me passionately. She even initiated it all. She made me feel desirable as a man again. I forgot about it again for a little while. But it came back to me. Soon I became fascinated with __'s panty drawer. I considered myself fortunate that I hadn't worn a bra, too. Or a garter belt. Or that sexy little nightgown. Any of those would have made me doubt even more my manhood.

I had to prove to myself that I wasn't afraid, that I was still as manly as before. The only way to do that, I rationalized, would be to wear women's underwear again. I might even wear a bra and panties this time, just to prove it all the more forcefully.

I knew all along that I was lying to myself. In truth, I was curious. I wanted to experience __'s undies again.
I waited until I knew I could be alone for a long while, and stole into her dresser for a panty and bra set I had given her one Valentine's day. My heart pounded. My cock stiffened. I touched myself all over, overcome with horniness. I became frightened and took off __'s lingerie and put it back exactly as I had found it in her dresser. Oh my God! I liked it! My heart raced with both excitement and fear. I had compromised my manhood -- but worse, I loved it! I was still excited, but I couldn't bear the thought of wearing those panties again. I couldn't allow myself to capitulate. I had looked over the edge of the cliff, and survived. I couldn't go any closer. But it was so exhilarating! Naked, I came all over myself, fantasizing about the horrible, wonderful consequences of my gender-bending: that I would succumb to wearing all sorts of sexy girlie garments and eventually become a real girl! I never came so hard in all my life. I never felt such shame as when I cleaned it up. This would be the last time. I had momentarily lost my manhood, but now everything was alright as long as I didn't let it happen again.

How could I not agonize over this little discovery? The more I worried about my manhood's erosion, the more I fantasized about its inevitable result. My hands shook with anticipation as I rifled guiltily through __'s dresser for something horrifyingly effeminate to wear. I stumbled upon her one-piece swimsuit, and rapidly became fixated on it. There was no mistaking it for something a man would wear. My knees buckled as I thought of how it would squeeze my waist inwards and give me a gorgeous, feminine, hourglass figure. Still, I couldn't allow myself to feel this, no matter how badly I wanted to. I put it on over my own underwear, clinging desperately to my last shred of manhood. I had to resist. But there I stood, fondling myself, with a woman's bathing suit on me, on top of my underwear. If I don't let it touch my dick, it won't corrupt my manhood, I hoped. It was strange: feeling the spandex all over me except for my mundane, protected penis. It brought me momentarily to my senses. I took off the swimsuit in a pang of guilty sobriety, and put it back where I found it. I sighed with relief. That was close! Imagine how overcome with effeminacy I would have become had I dared to let it touch the essence of my manhood!

The very thought of giving up my manhood gripped me with intense, perverse delight. No sooner had I closed the dresser drawer than I doffed my underwear and wiggled into the same swimsuit, giddily confident about my new-found femininity. I gamboled around like a horny schoolgirl, rubbing myself all over, basking in the ecstasy of my new identity. I was so glad that I had done away with my feeble masculine protection. The realization that I was unprotected from such inescapable femininity filled me with great satisfaction. I came all over __'s bathing suit, relishing my girlhood.

Then, I was ashamed again. I had succumbed, and I wasn't excited about it anymore. I had failed to contain my urges. I secretly berated myself for months after that. __ never found out, because I washed the swimsuit before she came back.

It wasn't long until I caved in again. This was all part of my initiation. I had to renounce my manhood more and more often. Over a long period of time, I tried everything on. I knew that it was wrong, that it was abnormal, that it was dangerous, that it was eroding my manhood. I just didn't care. It was so much fun! Each time, I became possessed with the desire to feel feminine. I longed to feel something beautifully girlish on my body. I unleashed my pent-up womanhood by wrapping my body in lingerie. It was so. . . naughty. No heterosexual man, I reasoned, should ever be so familiar with women's underwear. I discovered things about women's underwear that most men would never be aware of. I no longer feared becoming effeminate: I hoped for it. I wanted to look as good in __'s underwear as she did. I wanted to be a girl.

Diary: Breakup

A__ and I are no more.  She never wanted the panties part of the lingerie I gave her, so it's still in my dresser, along with the stockings.  I have moved my other stuff into the same drawer now.  What the Hell's the difference?  It's all my underwear, isn't it?  I like the idea of having girls' clothes in my underwear drawer.
I have to fantasize about this again.  For weeks, the most intensely gratifyingly sexy deed I could think of involved fucking her, no kinks involved.  But I have to forget that if I want to move on.  So back to lingerie for me!

I've re-read much of this file.  There's a lot in there to turn me on.  I want to fantasize about it again, and get totally girlified once more.  I want to explore the possibilities of my fantasies again, in a systematic way.

Fiction: Wherein Nothing Happens

[transcribed from a notebook]

Sandra was the sweetest, most outrageously gorgeous woman I ever had the fortune to meet. Having a relationship with her felt like winning the lottery. I couldn't believe my luck, and I felt like I would and should do anything to keep her. It was she who planted that dirty little seed in my head. I still don't know if she had any idea what the result would be.

She looked like a fashion model. She was gorgeous even without makeup. She always wore revealing clothes, but always managed to look very classy nonetheless. There was nothing sleazy about her at all. But she was extremely femininie. She is one of those women who are so beautiful that you have to keep reminding yourself that she is human.

Even her underwear was gorgeous. It pains me now to think of her. I am consumed with envy at the merest thought of her. You'll understand if I avoid talking about how wonderful the sex was. Just imagine: getting hot and sweaty with the very epitome of womanhood. She could have just lain there motionless and I would have had an awesome time.

One time after a particularly intimate lovemaking session, she proposed a brief closet swap. I don't know if she had any idea what it would do to me. I held im my hand her gorgeous silk panties. I could only picture how astonishinly sexy she looked in them. It was like holding the very essence of her femininine sexuality in my hand. I was afraid of them. I oculdn't imagine applying that femininity to myself. She giggled at my hesitation. It was a big deal for me.

I could only imagine the consequences of wearing her panties, even for a moment. What if I liked it? Would it compromise my manhood? I contemplated it for days. Logically, it's ludicrous. Nothing can change the physical fact of my masculinity, but there's so much more to it than that. I could imagine it on me now, and it aroused me to no end. Already I knew I was in trouble.

Diary: Bad Things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fiction: The Ultimate Sexual Experience, Part 1

I've done it all by now.  I've had sex every kind of sexual experience you can think of.  I've had sex in every conceivable position, with every conceivable kind of woman.  I've done bondage, I've done S&M, I've done it anally, vaginally, orally.  You name it, and I've done it.  Many times.  What can I say?  I'm macho, and women love me.  I'm the very paragon of masculinity.

It was with the intent to debunk that I answered the ad in Now magazine about the ultimate sexual experience for men.  I had experienced it all.  I knew what the ultimate experience was, and I was prepared to transform whatever they were going to present me with and turn it over its head.  I would change their definition of great sex.

The deal was for me to invest a bit more time than usual.  I was promised the greatest sexual experience of my life, but the catch was time.  I had to spend 4 weeks, or 28 days, living in a certain house downtown.  I would have to promise to spend all of those days there.  I could not go to work, I could not go out with friends.  I had to stay in that house, or under the supervision of my sexual partenaire for the whole 28 days.  I would have to pay the sum of $2500 for my stay.  "What if I don't experience the greatest sex ever?  Is there a money-back guarantee?"  

"No."  

"So how do you expect me to believe this if you can't guarantee my money back if I'm not satisfied?"  

"Because you'll be satisfied."

How could I argue with that logic?  I signed up for it.  I could afford it easily.  I would go on an extended vacation as far as all of my acquaintances were concerned.  What could I lose?  I would at least fuck around for 28 days straight.  What could possibly go wrong?  

My first day and night there was pretty damned good, I must admit-even by my high standards.  It was a day-long orgy.  I have remarkable powers of regeneration, and even I was a bit sore at the end of it.  I was met at the door by a beautiful blonde bimbo.  She looked like Pamela Anderson.  She was wearing a sleazy minidress.  She looked like a high-class whore.  She took me up to my room, and showed me around a bit.  "You don't have to worry about anything here, Mr. M__.  We'll cook and clean for you and make sure that your every need is fulfilled.   Then we can begin the most delicious sexual experience of your life."  With that, she rubbed my crotch and kissed me passionately, and turned to leave.  I didn't let go of her hand.  "Why don't we start now?" I asked, yanking her back towards me.  She yelped as I started tearing off her clothes.  But she was responding quite nicely.  She was fucking me before I was even fucking her.  

Just as we were getting started, two more girls came gambolling in wearing lingerie.  They jumped right into it, and we had ourselves a mighty good time.  We all fucked each other real good.  The girls each took turns on me and on each other.  Too bad this was old hat to me.  Still very nice, of course, but not new.  

When it was done, and we were all out of breath and in the throes of afterglow, I asked them, "So is that all you have to offer?"

They all giggled.  "We haven't even started yet, Mr. M__."

An easy promise to make.  I would wait and see what would happen tomorrow.

The next day they paraded around the house in their underwear.  I never saw such a wonderful lingerie fashion show.  They were all incredibly beautiful women.  I fucked each of them again.  The one that looks like Danielle House I fucked three times.

The next few days went quite the same way.  When I was done with Pamela on the fourth day, I asked her what this supremely intense sexual experience was.  "You'll see when it happens," she said.  "But I want it now!" I replied.

"It's already started.  You're well on your way to it already, even if you don't realize it yet."

I took that with a grain of salt.  I figured that I would just fuck the shit out of these gorgeous nymphos and then split.  Sure, I had to pay in advance, but the sex was good enough to be worth what I paid.  It just wasn't nearly as mind-blowing as I thought it was supposed to be.  But then again, it was supposed to be a 28 day job, and I was only 4 days in.  There was still quite a ways to go.  At worst, I would get great sex from three fantastic women for an entire month.  At best, I might get the greatest sexual experience of my life after all.


They brought in the bondage and S&M gradually.  It was pretty good, too.  At first, I got to be in charge.  I could tell that they were humouring me.  But hey, they're whores, they're used to this kind of thing.  They do it all the time.  But pretty soon, I was getting bored of it.  I like to be dominated, too.  Even though I've done it before, many times.  Danielle and Pamela and Claudia took turns forcing me to make love to them in disgusting ways that I've done many times before.  I wondered if this was what they wanted me to think of as the ultimate sexual experience.  Maybe they wanted to take control of me and make a macho man their little love slave.  Well, I've been there, too.  I've been a love slave before, and it was pretty fun, too.  It was still my pleasure, wasn't it?

It was Danielle who started going a little further than I had gone before.  She roused me out of bed in the morning of day eight and told me to get dressed right away.  I played along.  But my clothes were missing.  She had a cane in her hand, and she whipped me with it to get me to hurry.  She laughed as she saw my confusion.  "I suppose you want some help, do you?" giggled Pamela as she opened the door.  I stared at her blankly.  Danielle approached with the cane, threateningly.

"I'll tell you what, R__," began Pamela.  "I'll give you something to wear for now, but you'll owe me a little favour, OK?"  I agreed quickly, knowing what was coming.

She slid out of her panties and tossed them to me.  This is where I draw the line.  I put my foot down right then and there-but not in any way that they might have expected.

I practically jumped into those silky little panties, and I pranced around imitating them.  I totally hammed it up.  And I made it pretty clear, too.  This wasn't exactly my idea of mind-blowing sex.  I wanted to show them that I wouldn't take this seriously.  I imagine that it was pretty fun for them to see a macho man like me prancing around in women's lingerie, but I had to remind them who's boss.

They didn't react quite the way I expected them to.  I thought that they'd just laugh about it and let me take it off.  I mean, they could see that I didn't care.  Instead, they gave me a matching bra to wear, and dominated me all day.  

I had been forced to wear women's underwear before by my love mistress.  It didn't do all that much for me.  They forced me to do things to them.  Just like any old dominatrix.  I'm sure it wasn't hard for them to figure out how I didn't enjoy it.  I subtly reminded them that it's their job to please their customer.  Danielle seemed to feel genuinely sorry for me.  She came to kiss me to make me feel better.  She fondled me all over where her underwear was.  That is, she snapped my bra, and my panty elastic.  It was all very tender.  This was something that I had never experienced.  My dominatrix of old had always forced me to wear it to degrade me, and then tore it off me to make me masculine again before fucking me.  These girls were having fun with me as I wore their underwear.  

"How can you not enjoy this?" cajoled Pamela.

"Look!  Your panties look just like mine!" remarked Danielle.  And she wasn't kidding, either.  I think I blushed then.  I was turned on from looking at Danielle's body in her underwear.  I just wanted to touch all the girls in their underwear.  I wanted to fondle all of them, but not naked.  No, I wanted to feel their silks and satins, and how sexy they were underneath.  We all remained semi-nude like that all night.  In their underwear.
When I woke up, I stripped out of the panties and bra.  It had been a new experience, alright, but wasn't quite as mind-blowing as they had made it out to be. Bondage could be so weird sometimes.  But I would keep this little experience to myself.

Almost as soon as I was naked, Claudia opened the door, whip in hand, and told me to get dressed.  She had to whip me a few times before I put on the underwear again.  But this time, it was different: it wasn't like being dominated before.  Somehow, it was more degrading than ever.  They were laughing at me.  They were reminding me of the night before, and how much I enjoyed wearing their panties then.  They continued to snap my elastics.  I was humiliated.  

They made me do their laundry.  I was made to hand-wash all of their sexy lingerie.  They asked me to pick out the three outfits that I liked best, because they wanted to look good for me.  I was shaking.  I looked at each panty, each teddy, each garter belt, and examined them all.  I fondled the silk, the lace, the trim.  I was getting very horny thinking of each girl in each piece of lingerie.  The lingerie itself became very sexy.  It all looked so feminine.  I selected each girl's outfit very carefully.  

The whole time, they were caressing me and fondling me again.  But they were much more vigorous this time.  When I was done, they threw me down to the ground, spread my legs, and masturbated me in my girlie panties and bra...


Oops!  I just came!  Maybe I can continue this later. . .