Fresh as a...

...Daisy.

That's my name, as of a couple days ago.

For thirty years, I've thought of myself as a guy who likes wearing women's clothes. Having a feminine name never felt useful or necessary. I thought about it from time to time, but no particular name ever felt right. As much as I fantasized about becoming a woman, having a proper girl name was somehow inconceivable. I called myself Swim Tran online, to describe my interests, but without any pretense of being feminine.

Ever since my wife discovered my secret, I've had to curb my cross-dressing habit. Even before then, I had started realizing that the thrill has become more about becoming a woman than merely wearing women's clothes. While bikinis and lingerie and heels certainly help me feel more feminine, they're more an accessory to the fantasy than the goal of it.

With my fantasy time greatly reduced, but with the worst of my secret now out, I have felt much more free to embrace my feminine tendencies. I'm not hiding my interests like I used to. I'm posting on cross-dressing forums, while I used to avoid them for fear of discovery. This has brought on a level of introspection that I've somehow missed all these years.

All the other sissies online have girl names. Why don't I? Up until a few weeks ago, I was happy being a guy in a bikini, and nothing more. Or so I thought. I was convinced that because I hadn't found a feminine name for myself, it simply wasn't that important to me. I reflected on names I had considered before, and again found them somehow a poor fit.

Angelique. Bethany. Isabelle. Lovely names, each, but not for me.

Rebecca. Robyn. Bobbie. All based on my own name, but not for me.

Bronwyn? Siobhan? Isolde? I'm not Irish. Cute, exotic, but not for me.

Nora. Anna. Emma. Ella. Bella. Fiona. Tina. Not for me. Nothing for me.

Some ridiculous names that are hideously unfashionable: Bertha. Matilda. Mildred. Not for me.

I kept going back to my own heritage, and my strategy for naming my own children. I like having an element of French, but having it work in English as well. What would my mom have named me had I been a girl? She told me once: Melissa, I think. What does it say about it that I don't even remember for sure? Not for me.

Girls from my school days: Chantal (ugh, never liked that one.) Karine. Constance. Kimberly. Natalie. Not for me.

Girls I had crushes on our dated: Jean-Marie. Vanessa. Kim. Brigitte. Nikki. Not for me.

Some classic names: Catherine, Katie, Kitty, Cathy. Elizabeth, Beth, Lizzie. Victoria. Hmmm, I pondered that one for a while. Valerie. I considered that for months. But in the end, not for me.

Nothing stuck. It just felt like I was picking at random. Even though I like a lot of these names, I just can't attach them to myself. They're somehow not meaningful enough. Which is weird because I didn't choose my given name, and it has no special meaning to my parents, so why should I expect anything different from my girl name?

On the drive to work the other day, I thought of Marguerite. It's good: French, works in English as Margaret, kind of, but even better is the translated English version oh my god DAISY!

Instantly, somehow, my mind opened up like a blooming flower. I AM DAISY! I always have been! Suddenly, I could discern my taste in feminine clothes as having a coherence to it that could only come from a girl named Daisy. It evokes everything that my feminine soul aspires to. It's simple and pretty. It's unequivocally feminine. It's somewhat uncommon, yet completely unpretentious. It's sexy, in a girl-next-door kind of way, and sweet, and charming.

Daisy!

I'm updating my online presence now with my newly discovered name. It's liberating! I'm not just a guy who wears women's swimsuits anymore. I'm a woman called Daisy, and I like certain styles of clothes, certain styles of art, music...

It's like my feminine self has finally broken free from the prison I've kept her in all my life. She has always been part of me. At last, I acknowledge her, by name: her name is Daisy.

MY name is DAISY!

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

Fiction: The Truth

The TRUTH about crossdressing

Everybody knows that it's not cool for boys to wear women's clothes.  We learn this at a very early age.  When we are children, we don't understand gender at all, why or how boys and girls differ.  We learn that there is no mixing of the two, and we segregate ourselves by gender.  Boys play with boys, and girls play with girls.  Those who do otherwise are mistrusted.  They are automatically questionable.  And we're all perfectly happy with this: boys don't want to be girls, and girls don't want to be boys.  This is when we establish our sexual identity.

Now, when all of this is firmly engrained in our psyches, we come to accept some fundamental truths.  Primarily, boys are forbidden from doing anything that identifies them with women; and most importantly, boys do not under any circumstances wear girls' clothes.  We do permit the opposite, but only because something about femininity makes it unquestionable. 

This simple truth proves that femininity is dominant.  Masculinity, in spite of its emphasis on strength, size, and power, is hopelessly subordinate to its opposite.  A woman who wears pants is still a woman; a man who wears a dress is not much of a man.  Yet we pretend that men are dominant. 

The TRUTH is that any man voluntarily wearing any article of women's clothing becomes irreversibly feminized.  The degree to which this occurs is directly proportional to the degree of femininity of the article of clothing, and how close it is to the genitals.  Lingerie has much more effect than, say, pink sweat pants.  Everyone, especially men, innately knows this, but suspects that it isn't true.

Given that no self-respecting man would willingly sacrifice his sexual identity, how do men become transsexuals?

The answer is simple: men worship femininity; it is most natural to want to become that which one desires most.  Therefore, men think that they can experiment with wearing women's clothes, but only at their peril.  Those who dare are inevitably tainted.

I know this, because I have experienced it.

I discovered this by accident, as we all do.  I was in my late teens, and furiously obsessed with girls.  I masturbated all the time, fantasizing about their skin, their shape, their curves, their hair, their underwear.  But I was shy, and no girl would want to talk to me.  I contented myself with watching them from a distance, masturbating whenever I had a moment of privacy. 

I worked at a public swimming pool during the summer, specifically so I could ogle the girls in their fantastic tight form-fitting swimsuits.  It would have been unbearable if it weren't so fascinating.  Every now and then, some absent-minded hottie would forget her swimsuit in a locker, and we'd hold it in the lost and found until she returned to claim it.  Most of the time, they returned almost immediately, but every now and then something would remain forever.

I was so obsessed with femininity, and so curious about it, that I impulsively stole a one-piece swimsuit that had been in the lost and found box for the entire summer.  I was drawn to it because I remembered the girl who had worn it, and I couldn't get a vivid picture of her glorious body in it out of my mind.  I wanted desperately to touch it, because it had touched her.  For weeks I did not dare, but I found myself deliberately brushing my hands against it whenever anyone came to claim anything else.  Finally, I could no longer resist, and I furtively stuffed it into my bag when nobody was looking.  All I wanted was to feel it in my hands, and worship her body from afar.

This became a key to my masturbation.  I was in possession of something feminine, for the first time in my life, and it was completely at my mercy.  I felt weak in its presence.  It made me sweat and shake with nervousness.  It was like trying to talk with a girl, only it couldn't reject or ignore me.  I could fondle it whenever I wished.  Inevitably, that was very frequent; and every time I did, I also masturbated.

But unfortunately, there was far more to it.  It was so much more than a talisman of womanhood.  I knew that my worship was abnormal.  Why else was I so careful to avoid detection when I claimed it?  I hid it in my bedroom, rather than leave it out in the open.  I had a secret which I did not want to share with anyone.  Why?

I was afraid of the stigma of being a boy who owned a girl's swimsuit.  It had little to do with the fact that I had stolen it: it was more to do with an implicit betrayal of my gender.  Somehow, worshipping women in this way was unacceptable, and I knew it all along.  I should have been talking to girls, trying to seduce them, exploring their bodies in person.  Instead, I was fondling the things that they wear, and pretending that it was a worthwhile substitute.  But it goes even deeper than that.  My fascination with feminine things was evidence of a lack of manhood.  That's the true reason why I concealed my habit.  The guilt and shame I felt when I thought of my hidden treasure only made my desire stronger.

At first I had planned to only borrow it.  But soon after I took it home and jerked off with one hand as I fondled it with the other, I had already gotten it dirty with my effluvium.  I could never return it in that state, so I happily decided to keep it.  No-one would notice that it was missing, I rationalized.  I could do as I pleased with it, so long as no-one ever discovered my secret.  Having already defiled it, I succumbed to the fantasy I had been masturbating to: feeling that soft material, and what belongs within it, against my insatiable cock.  I wrapped my penis in it and rubbed myself very quickly to the most fantastic orgasm I had ever felt as I imagined rubbing against Her body, encased in this glorious piece of stretchy cloth. 

Thus rewarded, I repeated it time and time again, her delicious curves in my mind every time.  I knew that this wasn't even close to the real thing, and it frustrated me.  I was, as I said, well aware of the shamefulness of my actions.  As often as I succumbed to these bouts of self-abuse, I hated myself for being so shy, and for having such an incriminating possession as this.  I had no confidence that I could change my lot, so I continued.  In a way, I knew that if anyone discovered my secret, they would question my manhood.  What could I possibly be doing with a girl's bathing suit?  Worse, I found myself fantasizing about touching other articles of girls' clothes with my dick.  I desperately wanted to touch lace and silk and fishnet and leather.  I longed to compare the sensation of these things on my penis. 

Somehow, a seed began to grow in my head.  The swimsuit, hidden underneath my dresser, taunted me, questioned my manhood.  My awareness of it, combined with my utter lack of success with girls, constantly reminded me of how gay it was that I owned a girl's swimsuit.  Unfortunately, this only made me desire it more: it was my secret, and it gave me such pleasure, that I didn't even care if I were gay, as long as I had my swimsuit.  It's not like I wore it or anything.  All I did was rub my penis against it.

I began to worry as I rubbed it against myself that I was rubbing away my manhood every time my penis made contact with women's clothes.  The pleasure trumped any worry, and even fed off of it.  I began to stretch it over my crotch, in an attempt to get maximum coverage over my private parts.  It occurred to me then that this must be what it feels like to wear it.  The thought struck me as terribly dangerous, and I came all over myself, my bedsheets, and my girlie swimsuit.

I could no longer rationalize having it in my possession.  It was terrifyingly gay of me to own such a thing, and I knew it.  I kept thinking to myself that I might as well be wearing it.  The thought possessed me.  I was now fatally curious.  I tried to fight the impulse, for days.  Somehow, I became desperate to feel the swimsuit stretched not only over my crotch, but over my entire body. 

I knew what I would be risking.  As a child, I would have thought that it would immediately turn me into a girl, the moment I put it on.  That deep-seated certainty led me to be careful.  I balked several times, and settled for mere rubbing.  I reasoned that by inverting it, at least I would still be touching the outside, which I would be doing anyway if I were humping a girl.  I also thought that by keeping on my own underwear, I would be protecting myself from any adverse affects of wearing it.  At least I would still feel the spandex on my torso.

When I slid it on, inverted, over my gitch, I had to stop before I could get the shoulder straps in place.  I was so shocked by the softness and tightness of it on my body that I knew that I had already given up any pretense at manhood.  Even without the shoulder straps, I was already wearing a woman's swimsuit!  I could no longer pretend that my secret was an innocent stage of boyhood, or showing curiosity in feminine things -- a normal impulse for a man who is interested in women.  No, I was now guilty of performing acts of femininity.  I had already gone too far.  My hands shook as I pulled it off again, without having so much as touched myself.

I nearly wept with shame.  Simultaneously, I shook with anticipation.  An intense feeling of warmth and slitheriness came over me.  I had an intense desire to move my hips in a feminine way.  I had worn a girl's bathing suit!  I was a transvestite!  There was no turning back!  I might as well go ahead now anyway.  I picked it up again, and de-inverted it.  I slid off my gitch, and pulled it onto my naked body.  My hips gyrated as it stretched over my crotch.  I did not hesitate to put my arms through the shoulder straps and pull it all into place.

Immediately, my mind was flooded with images of beautiful girls, including the previous owner of my swimsuit.  I was like them, now!  If the myths of my childhood were true, I would become female within a few minutes.  The idea filled me with such unfathomable horniness that I nearly came.  I felt the spandex on my waist, and the elastic of the leg holes, so much higher than anything I had ever imagined.  Nobody would ever have to know about my secret!  I wear girls' swimwear!  And I absolutely LOVE it!

I didn't even want to touch my penis, because I knew that I would come almost immediately, and end this phenomenal pleasure.  My mind wandered to fantasies of wearing a bikini, or even lingerie.  How gay would that be?  How unbelievably sexy would that be?  I wanted my swimsuit to be even more feminine than it already was.  Now that I knew what femininity was like, I didn't much care for my manhood anymore.  I was now a certifiable transvestite sissy, and there was nothing that I could -- or would even want to -- do about it.

As I frolicked in my girlie swimsuit, and wished most intensely to lose my penis altogether in favour of a nice soft unobtrusive pussy, I understood the truth most vividly: what I knew as a child about boys wearing girls' clothes might not be true in a physical sense, but is certainly true psychologically.  I was now a girl in spirit, if not in body, and I would always be tainted with this experience.

Imagine my embarassment when, the very day after my wonderful epiphany, the true owner of my swimsuit returned, asking if anyone had seen her swimsuit, which she last wore two months before at this very swimming pool.  My co-worker (a girl) poked around the box for it, convinced that she had indeed seen it in the lost and found box.  I was mortified.  The girl was even prettier than before.  I was so gay that I had stolen this girl's bathing suit, and worn it.  She looked at me funny when she saw me blush.  Somehow, she knew.

Fiction: Baby Steps

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

It all goes in baby steps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diary: If You Can't Beat 'Em...

I think I only do this when I’m lonely.  I feel bad about myself, so I give up and turn myself into a girl.  It’s a symptom of a more general lack of self-confidence.  If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

As always, I’m talking about utter feminine abandon.  Not even a tiny shred of masculinity remains.  More feminine than a real woman.  

It’s always the mental part that intrigues me.  So many aspects of it turn me on.  I like the idea of deception, of being tricked into becoming a girl; or rather, being tricked or forced into making that initial discovery, which makes everything else inevitable.  There must be a conscious decision to fully embrace femininity, and do it so gladly that masculinity becomes embarrassing.  There must be a moment when a man decides, after pondering for a minute, an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year, or a decade, that he likes the idea of turning into a girl, and pursues it as fully as he can for at least as long as he can keep from coming.  While the deception might lead to the birth of the idea, it is this moment of abandon that makes it so exciting.

The hero must realize, no matter how briefly, that yes, it would be very sexy to put on women’s underwear, because it will surely and irrevocably corrupt his manhood and turn him into a beautiful, sexy, gorgeous girl.  He must realize that he wants, at that moment, nothing more than to become absolutely female, even if it means casting aside his masculinity forever.

That’s the one flaw in so many of the stories I’ve read.  Our man becomes a woman by treachery and deceit.  Or by force.  Or by hypnosis.  Even though it’s exciting, the real beauty of the idea is that of wanting to.  I certainly don’t need any hypnosis to want to turn myself into a girl.  Why should my hero?

All it takes is the seed of the idea for my man to start that steady ascent to womanhood.  Once it crosses his mind, it consumes him, and he becomes female.  

Diary: Addictions vs. Fetishes

The author of The Artist’s Way talks about letting all your thoughts flow freely.  Suppressing thoughts is anathema.  It further adds that artists should pursue luxuries.  Artists should not deny themselves the things they enjoy.  On the other hand, it also mentions destructive habits – mostly addictions – as something to be avoided.  She cites watching TV, hanging out with leeching friends, and anything that gets in the way of creative impulses. 

This leads me to wonder about addictions.  Many artists use substances or behaviour to fuel their creativity.  They come to depend on their addictions for their creative output.  Cameron would look at it the other way, and say that the withdrawal pangs inhibit creativity that would otherwise flow as freely as at any other time.

The whole process seems geared towards removing inhibitions, to discover the true self, and allow it to thrive.

But what about fetishes?  Are they addictions or expressions of self?

On one hand, a fetish is very much like an addiction: it is an urgent physical need that requires fulfillment.  It is an affliction that can get in the way of clear thinking, and distract the artist from his duties.  It can possess him to the point where it is all he can think about.  On the other hand, it is an expression of the deepest, most secret inner desires.  What is a fetish but the fulfillment of repressed, hidden tastes?  Is it not therefore a clear manifestation of the inner child?

I remember the moment I came to terms with my own fetish, which I had been fighting unsuccessfully since childhood.  I must have been almost twenty.  I had spent the last several months trying desperately to purge myself of what I considered my unfortunate and deplorable habit.  I had disposed of all the objects of my fetish.  While it felt at the time like I was taking charge of an addiction, and working towards conquering it, I had become desperate to fulfill my fantasies again.  I had just barely started trying to write, to unblock myself.  The computer I used was in the family room, where everyone watched television.  I tried to concentrate, but realized that there was something I needed to release. 

My mother had recently returned from a trip to somewhere sunny.  She had had to buy a new bathing suit there to replace the ones that I had stolen to fulfill my fetish.  She left it hanging in the laundry room for a few days, where it tempted me like a carrot on a stick.  I glared at it every time I passed by the laundry room, eager to steal away with it, but resisting with every ounce of my willpower.  How I tortured myself! 

I found myself slogging away at the computer, trying hopelessly to describe the general despair that I felt in those days, trying to make some sense of it in some creative, poetic way.  I had no idea what was bothering me so much, so I tried my hand at writing something – anything – to clear my head.  Only a sheet of drywall separated me from the object of my desire.  I couldn’t think of anything else.  I realized that I was completely alone: everyone else had gone to bed.  I could easily sneak into the laundry room, snag the bathing suit, and scurry off to my bedroom where I could enjoy it in private.  Again, I found myself fighting my intense desire to wear women’s clothing.  Something had to break.

So I did.  I had made up my mind.  Possessed by desire, I couldn’t contain the words anymore.  At first I let myself write it as a dare, just to see how it would feel.  It wasn’t even a sentence of its own: I finished an abortive sentence about my own poor state of mind with the words: “because I love to wear women’s clothes.”  I read it back to myself and immediately deleted it, looking over my shoulder and peeking out the door to reassure myself that no one was around.  It was exhilarating.  I tried it again, this time in its own sentence: “I love wearing girls’ swimsuits.”  I left it there for a while longer, blushing with excitement. 

I had discovered what was blocking my creativity.  I found a story to write, and I couldn’t stop myself.  I wrote about how I had been tortured with this affliction since I was very young, and how I had tried so many times to stop myself from acting out my fantasies of dressing up in girls’ clothes, but always returned.  No matter what I did, I could never stop fantasizing about being turned into a girl by wearing sexy bathing suits and lingerie.  I frequently stole things from my mother or my friend’s sister to satisfy my cravings.  I always experimented with great trepidation, both frightened and eager to take my fantasy to the next level.  I started when I was five years old.  Every time I pleasured myself over my fantasy – particularly when I enacted it with real clothes – I felt the deepest shame, and vowed to never do it again.  My story told of all the incidents I could think of when something significant happened in the development of my fantasy.  This would be the most significant moment of all.

As I wrote, I recognized, accepted, and celebrated my fantasies.  I could no longer deny my feminine impulses.  From that moment on, I promised myself that I would never feel shame again about my dirty little secret.  I would not admit it to anyone but myself; but I swore to run off to my room with that pink and purple flowery one-piece swimsuit, make myself as feminine as possible with it, and feel not a whit of shame about it.  I swore that I would wear it again and again, as often as I saw fit, because it felt so incredibly good.  There would no longer be any point in berating myself over something that is an intrinsic part of me.  Instead, I would congratulate myself for having discovered something so intensely fun.  Over the last ten years, I have added hundreds of pages of transsexual fantasy to that same document. 

Now, the problem: admitting this to myself was a giant step in becoming comfortable with myself.  However, every time I write, it degenerates into a masturbatory fantasy that I never reread or edit.  It serves to send me to bed with some distinct fantasy in mind, and that’s all.  It’s an addiction that I have immense trouble overcoming, and that seems to get in the way of my more serious literary ambitions.

Now that I write this, I see the answer (or at least I think I do): That’s what I should be writing about.  I shouldn't be ashamed of my masturbatory fantasies.  I should develop them instead of relegating them to some notion that they’re not good enough.  There are plenty of places to submit them to.  I know that I can write better than many of the hacks who submit stories to fantasy sites.  So this is where my muse is leading me.

Fiction: Why Do You Look At Pictures Of Sexy Girls?

This journal has been very difficult to keep over the last several months.  I can't even begin to write extensively about this without getting so caught up in the fantasy that I end up not writing anything.  Here's another futile attempt to tell the same old story.

My girlfriend caught me looking at pictures of Imogen Bailey.  She was devastated.  Imogen Bailey is probably the most incredibly gorgeous woman on the planet.  Jenny, whose self-confidence was low to begin with, in spite of her own considerable beauty, took this as a betrayal.

"I try so hard to be beautiful for you, and yet you still look at other girls!"

"You are beautiful!"

"So why are you looking at her?"

"She's beautiful too."

"Is she more beautiful than me?"

Great.  A dangerously loaded question.  My hesitation alone gives Jenny's argument momentum.

"See?  You think she's more beautiful than me!"

"That's not true," I lie.

"So, I ask you again, why are you looking at still pictures of her when you can look at me, a real, living, breathing woman, standing right here?"

"You're being irrational."

"Answer my question!"

"I'm sorry, but she's a beautiful woman.  You can't expect me to stop looking at other women just because we're living together."

Big mistake.

"Then maybe we shouldn't be living together."

I have dug myself even deeper into the hole.  This will not be easy.

"Jenny, you know that I love you, and that I wouldn't ever dream of being with another girl.  You know that you don't need to compete with other women."

"So are you attracted to Imogen Bailey?"

"I'd be lying if I said otherwise.  But that doesn't mean I don't find you outrageously beautiful too."

"I sure hope so.  I've been trying so hard to look like her, just to please you."

"Honey, I love you exactly as you are.  You don't need to try to look like anyone else."

"Well, if you look at Imogen Bailey so much, then I need to draw your attention away from her and back to me."

"You don't need to.  I am all yours."

"So why do you need to look at her?"

Again, my hesitation kills me.  I just don't know how to answer this diplomatically and truthfully at the same time.

"Tell me!"

"I look at her because she looks like you, not the other way around."  Another lie.

"I'm sick of this.  Obviously, I've got it all wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"You're so evasive about this.  I've tried so hard to be Imogen Bailey for you, and it hasn't mattered.  Maybe you look at her for other reasons."

"Like what?"

"Oh, let me guess: you're interested in her political views."

"What?"

"No?  Of course not, she has none.  You are after all just looking at her pictures."

"Yes, we've established that."

"Fine then.  So you look at her because she's pretty and sexy.  Nothing else."

"What else do you want me to say?  If you know so well what she looks like, and if you're trying to look at her, then maybe I should be jealous, too."

"I don't look at her because she gets me off."

"Neither do I."  Oops.  Barefaced lie.

"Really?" she asks, skeptically.

"Really," I assure her.

"Then maybe you look at her for the same reasons I look at her."

"What's that?"

"You want to be just like her too."

"What?"

"Yes!  That's it!  You want to be blonde and curvaceous and have big tits and look dynamite in a bikini!"

"Now you're being silly."

"All right.  If that's not the reason, then you're looking at her because she gets you off, and if that's the truth, then I'm leaving you."

"You're serious!"

"Yes, I'm serious."  

She is serious.  Clearly, I must do her bidding or lose her.

"Please don't!"

"Why not?  Does she get you off?"

"Well..."

"Fine!  I'm out of here!"  She turns to go.  I can tell that she means it too.  I grab her arm and pull her back.
"Please, don't go!"

"OK.  Here are your options: if you look at pictures of Imogen Bailey to get yourself off, then I'm not your girlfriend anymore.  If you do it for the same reasons I do - because you want to look just like her, then I'll stay."

The trouble is that Jenny really does look like Imogen Bailey.  And she's a very smart, kind, and generous woman who shares my taste in music, movies, food, and books.  We are a wonderful match.  I love her deeply, with all my heart, and I can't allow her to leave me.  Curse that Imogen Bailey!  I cave.

"Jenny, don't go.  She doesn't get me off.  I swear it."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes."

"So you want to be just like her, as much as I do?"

"Yes."  I'll say anything to keep Jenny.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Say it!"

"I want to be just like Imogen Bailey, and that's why I look at pictures of her."

"How do I know you're not just telling me what I want to hear?"

Good ol' Jenny, always as sharp as a tack.

"You'll have to take my word for it."

"Well I don't believe you."

"What do you want from me?"

"Prove it!"

"How?"

"Prove to me that you want to be just like Imogen Bailey!"

"How can I do that?  I can't be like her."

"Don't you want to?"

"Yes.  I told you."

"Then you'll have to make an effort to look like her if you want me to believe you."

"What do you mean?"  I'm on my knees, begging her.  She's beaming down at me devilishly.

"Do you really mean it when you say that I look like her?"

"Yes, you really do look like her."

"So my efforts to look like her have worked?"

"I would say so, yes."

"So just follow my advice, and you'll do just fine."

With that, she brought me back to the computer, and quickly found my stash of Imogen Bailey photos.  She skipped past a few nude shots, and settled on one of her in a bikini.

"You want to look like that?" she asks.

"Yes," I reply, still playing the game.

"You know that I have a bikini just like that, because of this very photo?"

"You know, I did notice that."

"Good.  There's how you start."

"What do you mean?"

"Get yourself a bikini."

"What, like that one?"

"Sure.  If you like another one better, go for that one."

"This one is fine."

"I thought so too.  You can borrow mine if you like."  She disappears into the bedroom.  I can hear her rummaging around a bit.

"Wait a minute.  Why am I doing this?"  She asks.  "You're supposed to prove to me that you want to look like her.  Why don't you come here and pick it out yourself!"

Before I know it, I'm picking through her panty drawer for Imogen Bailey's bikini.  I feel awkward looking through her intimates, as if I'm doing something dirty.  I feel as though I'm discovering things in her dresser that no man should know about.

Having found the bikini, I take it out of Jenny's panty drawer, and present it to her, bra in one hand, panty in the other.

"What are you giving it to me for?  You're the one who wants to look like Imogen Bailey."

"What do you want me to do with it?  Wear it?"

"Of course.  How else are you going to look like her?  I doubt she'd ever wear your kind of briefs.

Reluctantly, I disrobe, under her triumphant gaze.  I tremble as I pull on the panties.  The soft spandex caresses my member so gently that it instantly and involuntarily becomes erect.  Jenny giggles at me.  "The bra, too," she says.

I struggle to clasp it behind my back.  After a few minutes of struggle, through which Jenny giggled incessantly, I finally got it on properly.  There I stood, in front of my beautiful girlfriend, wearing her bikini, my hard cock straining against the tight panty.

"There!" she says.  "You don't look anything like Imogen Bailey, but you look at lot more like her than you did an hour ago.  How does it feel?"

I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.  The panty is high-cut, and exposes the side of my thigh all the way up to my hip.  The material is very soft to the touch.  I love the way it looks on Imogen and on Jenny.  I can't stop thinking of how sexy both of them look in it. The sensation of a tight band around my chest reminds me constantly that I'm wearing a bra.  The bra straps feel dainty against my broad shoulders.  

"I kinda like it," I reply, shyly, blushing, and trying very hard to convince myself that I am lying.

"Wow!  It shows, too.  Why don't you prance around a bit, like Imogen would."

I can't help but get into the act.  I'm swinging my hips, sashaying around the bedroom and running my hands against my breasts, my butt, my hips, my thighs, as femininely as I can.  It's getting me incredibly hot.  Jenny drops her jaw in amazement.  She's looking randy, too, and she starts to prance around with me, feeling me up now and again.  I am lost to the moment.  I am Imogen Bailey, I am Jenny.  And I feel sexy in a way that I never have before.  A little voice in my head warns me that I am not a woman, and that I'm jeopardizing my manhood by doing this.  The overwhelming sensations in my body scream in assent YES, I'M TURNING INTO A GIRL AND I LOVE IT!  I imagine the panty re-shaping my crotch into that of a woman.  I imagine my waist sucking in.  I imagine the bra filling with my own full breasts.  I welcome my imaginary metamorphosis not with open arms, but with greedy, grasping arms.

I have ejaculated all over myself, and all over the bed sheets.  I have come crashing back to earth.  Jenny has stripped to her underwear, and lies beside me in bed, flushed.  She has her hand in her panties.  I am flushed with shame, aghast at my actions.  She says nothing until she finishes coming.  

"Geez, Rob.  You must really love me.  You're still wearing my bikini," she breathes.

Disgusted, I clean up and get myself out of her bikini.

"You know," she says, "I think you'll make a great Imogen." 

"Are you happy now?"

"Yes!"

"Good."

"I hope you don't think this is over."

"Why not?"

"I still don't believe you really want to be Imogen."

I say nothing, stewing in my shame.

"I'm satisfied for now," she says, "but you've still got a lot of work to do."


Thankfully, my plentiful stock of Imogen Bailey photos remained on my hard drive, forgotten in the frenzy described above.  Jenny would normally have had me delete them all, but this time, she forgot.  Or perhaps she felt she humiliated me enough, and didn't need to punish me further.  Better still, I had no shortage of other gorgeous women on my hard drive.  I went back to them the very next day, just to spite Jenny.

I am furious.  How dare she mock my masculinity?  She showed no respect to my manhood.  She turned me - ever so briefly - into a prancing faggot.  It was bad enough that she made me wear items of her clothing; even worse that it was one of her sexiest, skimpiest outfits; worst of all, and I shudder to think of it, she made me enjoy it.  I nearly faint with shame when I face the intolerable truth of it.  How can she ever take my manhood seriously again?  Hell, how can I?

These photos take on an entirely new meaning for me.  I cannot allow her to ruin this for me.  I linger on the picture that triggered all this madness.  I wore that same bikini!  I still have trouble believing it, let alone comprehending the consequences.  I used to jerk off to this photo.  Now it reminds me of my humiliation.  Maybe that's why Jenny didn't remember to delete it.  My heart sinks with humiliation.  

I need to relieve some tension.  I need vengeance.  I am stroking my cock, admiring Imogen's firm, round breasts, her glorious waves of golden hair, her sleek, slender thighs, and the way they converge in that soft, delicate pocket of thin, scanty spandex such as I wore only last night.  Oh how I love the way she poses, so sensuous, so eager!  How her tight little bikini focuses her femininity (I know how that feels).  I can just imagine sliding my hand along her round little ass, snapping her panty waist (as Jenny did mine).  

You enjoyed it, didn't you!  You loved every second of it!  You dressed up like a girl, and you liked it!

My conscience's accusations, as much as I attempt to deny them, drive the intense pleasure in my massively erect dick.  I know that I can't continue to stroke, because I am still, paradoxically, undermining my manhood.  I want to be just like Imogen Bailey!  I want to be soft and curvaceous and blonde and slinky and scantily clad gorgeously femi- 

No!  I must control myself.  This is absurd.  I want to fuck her.  I want to throw her roughly onto my bed, hold down her arms, and force myself into her, as she gasps for breath.  I want to grab hold of her ass as I pump my love juice into her.  

Amazingly, I lose my groove.  I am no longer pumping.  I am failing.

Unacceptable!  I cannot allow Jenny's mind games to prevent me from masturbating with sexy pictures of other women.  I must come, if only to establish control again.  I know just the thing to turn myself on again, I think slyly to myself.  I can imagine myself as Imogen Bailey, wearing that sexy lit- 

I am losing control again!  But I'm also going to come!  If I come, I win because I defy Jenny; but I also lose because I surrender my manhood . . . and what could be better?  I think to myself lasciviously, Doesn't it feel wonderful being feminine?  Oh God!  Does it ever!  Wouldn't it be wonderful if Jenny caught me right now and made me wear her bikini again!  Or maybe her lingerie!  

As I clean up, I rationalize my capitulation by convincing myself that this was an act of defiance.  I am ashamed, but I won't admit it.  I know that last night's incident has indeed adversely affected my masculinity.  But this won't happen again.  Ever.


"So, Imogen, are you ready for another show?"

I can feel the blood rush to my face.  My legs are weak.  My hands tremble.  "That's not funny, Jen."

"It's not meant to be, Imogen."  She spits the name, like venom.  "Put it on."

I reach into Jenny's panty drawer.  I know exactly where to find it now.  Oh God!  Look at all that pretty underwear!  Wouldn't that be- I must concentrate on controlling myself.  I cannot show pleasure again.  Oooh!  Silk!  I have the bra in one hand, the panty in the other.  Again.  "I don't understand why you insist -"


"You're the one who wants to be Imogen Bailey, aren't you?  Or did you lie to me?"

I've lain the bikini out on the bed.  I don't want to wear it.  I can't wait to put it on!  I'm hoping that if I concentrate enough, I can avoid succumbing to my overwhelming urge to feel feminine!  My delaying tactic is only making things worse: my erection grows ever larger as I anticipate the horror ecstasy to come.  I have to admit, it is an incredibly sexy bikini.  I have to put it on now - just to hide my boner, of course.  Of course.

I am trying incredibly hard to pretend that this annoys me.  Yet I caress my bikini-clad hips.  I want to show Jenny that this has gone far enough as I hook on my bra like an expert.  I want her to know that I don't really want to be Imogen Bailey, that I'm just doing this to please her and to keep her.  I'm playing coy just like a shy girl.  I pout to show my displeasure.  

"Oh, don't be sad, Imogen," she says, standing up now to caress my effeminated body.  "You look very pretty in your bikini."  She rubs my pulsating member through the spandex as she says this, and I practically collapse at her feet in a heap of sensuous femininity.  I'm a girl!  I'm a girl!  I'm wearing a bikini!  I'm a girl!

Like the first time, I prance and preen like a supermodel for my lovely Jenny.  Only this time, I'm consciously loving it.  What better way to convince her that I'm sincere?  She'll surely believe this act.  If only it were an act!

When it's all over, and I've cleaned up my mess, I know that I have lost again.  Jenny smiles smugly beside me in bed, having masturbated herself to orgasm with me.  Even as I strip off my bikini in disgust.  As I toss it across the room, I realize that I have seen Jenny do the same thing herself.  Even in my belated denial of femininity, I am flushed with girlishness.


In our time together, I have handled some of Jenny's laundry.  I have separated out her underwear from mine.  I have handled her silks.  I have bought her lingerie for special occasions.  I have seen her in her most intimate undergarments.  I always found her clothes to be inherently sexy.  I always felt a surge of intimacy at the realization that I have been allowed to see and touch  her almost sacred underthings.  Now I find myself yearning to explore that intimacy in far more detail than ever before.  

I am pawing through Jenny's underwear drawer.  Piled in with her bikini are myriads of matching and unmatched panties and brassieres, two garter belts, a one-piece swimsuit, sexy nightgowns and satin teddies.  Silk panties melt out of my hands like water.  I hold them up, one at a time, and admire the flowery lace patterns, and the beautiful trims.  All of these things are so ridiculously feminine.  Many of them even outshine the bikini I've actually worn.  

Jenny has not insisted for almost a week now.  I have had time to think about my actions.  All sorts of insignificant things trigger memories of my two incidents with this bikini.  Embarrassingly, these memories arouse me.  Clearly, my wearing it has tainted my manhood.  I find myself longing to wear it again.  Worse, I find myself fantasizing about even sexier garments.  Imagine how much more corrupted I would be if Jenny had forced me to wear her lingerie instead.  I shudder with anticipation.

I figure that I might as well prepare myself for the possibility by examining all the options.  Perhaps if I know beforehand what I might have to wear, I can lessen its impact.  Perhaps if I know beforehand what's available, I can pick something really sexy, like a garter belt and stockings, or a ni- 

Curse her!

I place everything gingerly back in its place, livid with shame, and go masturbate.


Tonight Jenny comes home with a present for me.  There is no special occasion.  She beams with a sinister joy.

"I bought you something at the mall!"

"What is it?"

"Open the bag and see!"  She practically bounces off the walls with excitement.  I open the bag.

All I see inside is what appears to be a bikini.

"I thought that since you want to be like Imogen Bailey, there's no sense in you borrowing my bikini all the time, so you might as well have your own!"

It's another bikini, all right.  It's a similar one from another of my pictures.  A floral pink.  Just my size, too, maybe a little smaller.

"I'm so glad you like it!" she gushes.  

I am, of course, ashen and trembling; I can hardly see anything except the sexy, skimpy, ultra-feminine bikini in my hands.  Oh my God!  I never imagined I'd get to wear this!

"We're gonna have so much fun tonight!" she says, rushing upstairs to get changed.  I follow her zombie-like, and tuck my new bikini into a corner of my own underwear drawer.

Dinner is interminable.  I can hardly eat a bite.  Jenny babbles on as if everything is normal.  We wash the dishes.  We put away the dishes.  We watch a bit of television.  I have my very own bikini waiting for me in my underwear drawer.  How am I supposed to react?  I realize that I haven't spoken a word since I opened the shopping bag.

At length, she cuddles up to me lasciviously and whispers into my ear, "Let's try on your new bikini."

"Okay," I answer, automatically.  She leads me up to the bedroom.

She sits on the bed, waiting.  I lose no time in stripping down, and reaching into my drawer for my new bikini.  I don't think I should be doing this.  It truly is a gorgeous piece of work.  I can just imagine how erotically it will hug my hips.  I can't let her see me enjoying this!  It's not right!  I'm losing my manhood!

I step into the panties and slide them up to my crotch, savouring the touch of spandex against my cock.  I slowly strap on the bra, revelling in the realization that I am putting on a woman's bikini that happens to belong solely to me.  I have wantonly abandoned any pretense of hesitation or displeasure.  I close my eyes and slide my hand across my chest and cock, imagining myself metamorphosed into Imogen Bailey herself.  I'm effeminating myself in front of my girlfriend, and I just don't care!  Inspired, I sidle up to Jenny, who sits on the bed watching.

"Thank you so much," I whisper in her ear seductively, "I always wanted my own bikini."

My God!  I can't believe I just said that!

"You really like it?"

"Yeah," I reply, coyly.  "I love it!"

"That's so cool!"

She drags me onto the bed, where I strip her to her underwear, and we make out, comparing bras and panties and body parts.  It is the most sensuous lovemaking I have ever experienced, yet neither of us is fully naked.


Even after last night, I suspect that Jenny believes I'm still just playing the role.  I only wish I were.  When I woke up this morning, still wearing my bikini, it took every every ounce of my willpower to take it off and put it away.  I could think of nothing else all day.

It's one thing to wear it to please Jenny.  I can always fall back on the excuse that I'm doing it only for her, even though I know that's not true.  It's quite another thing to have an overpowering urge to wear it now, alone, to get off.  Am I insane?

It's so easy.  I have my very own bikini.  It amazes me when I look into my underwear drawer, and see this pink floral bra and panty among my butchy boxers and gitch.  I want more!  I want my underwear drawer to look much more like Jenny's, when I get in this kind of mood.  I want to be able to wear a matching black lace panty and bra.  I want to have elaborate silk and satin unmentionables.  

I just can't help myself.  I pick up where I left off this morning, and slip into my very own bikini.  By God, look at me!  I'm wearing an unmistakably feminine outfit, and it's turning me on!  I did it of my own volition!  And I'm fantasizing about doing it again and again, with all sorts of women's fashions!  I am a complete pantywaist!  I know that wearing this - especially unsupervised - is making me even more of a pantywaist!  This is turning me into an outright woman!  And I love it!

If only Jenny knew how much I really enjoy this.  I can't let her find out I'm doing this on my own.  I know she's only playing the game.  She doesn't really want me to turn myself into Imogen Bailey Oh my God!  Even though I'm fantasizing that my bikini is shaping my ass into a round, tight little girlie ass, and smoothing and sculpting my waist, and swelling my chest into a perfect pair of perky, round titties.

She must not know!


This is the third night since Jenny returned from her mother's.  We had sex the last two nights.  Frankly, it was a bit dull.  There was no mention of the new addition to my wardrobe.  I am desperate to get into something feminine - and watching Jenny lounge around the bedroom in her frilly little nighty does nothing to assuage my desire.

When she comes to bed, I leave a light on and cuddle up to her, fondling the waist of her panties and the spaghetti straps of her nightie.  "You look so incredibly sexy in that nightie," I whisper, imagining it on me instead of her.

"Thanks," she replies coyly.

"I love the way it caresses your tush."

"I kind of figured you'd like it."

"Do I ever!"

The last two nights have not included this kind of sexy pillow talk.  We tore our clothes off and fucked our brains out.  In fact, I never used to remember to compliment her on her lingerie.  I was more interested in what was underneath it.  The last time I said things like that, she repeated similar compliments to me.
We are making out.  I am not even attempting to remove her nighty.  I am imagining wearing it as I rub my naked chest against it.  What would it feel like to wear satin?  

"Do you mind if I slip into something more comfortable?" I ask.

Jenny grins.  "Please do, Imogen."  Busted.

I sheepishly get my bikini and put it on for her, in a reverse strip-tease.  I am openly staring at her nightie.  There's no hiding my desire.  I am wearing a bikini in front of my girlfriend, and fantasizing about wearing her sexy nightgown.  What is happening to me?

She pulls me into bed, and we fondle each other in sheer bliss for what seems like eternity.  

"So, you really like wearing bikinis, do you?"

"Uh-huh."

"Are you doing it just to please me?"

"Uh-unh."

"Why, then?"

"Because," I reply shyly, luxuriating in my femininity, "it makes me feel so sexy."

"Mmmmmm, and you are sexy!"

I can no longer even pretend to deny it to her anymore.  I feel somehow relieved.  Free at last!


(I dare to throw away the bikini in a moment of shame)

(When the ritual occurs, and the bikini is gone, she is furious.  I am eager to please, so I volunteer to wear some of her underwear, and to buy her (me) a replacement)

(I practically lose my mind in a swimwear store)

(I parade an inexact replica for her, without prompting)

(I experiment with all her clothes when she's not there)

(I experiment with all her clothes when she is there)

(I surprise her by wearing her panties all day)

(We shop together for my new under-wardrobe)

(We sleep in matching nightgowns)

(I shave away my body hair)

(I perfect a convincing feminine look with Jenny)

(I begin to take estrogen)

(I suck her new boyfriend's cock)

(I publicly take on a female identity)

(My new boyfriend fucks me)

(I become a real girl)