T__ embodies the spirit of my Muse. She's got confident and sexual. I see tattoos on her forearms, little symbols. She makes no effort to conceal them. She's even proud of them. They represent her conquests, she tells me, of the men she's dominated and fucked. She relishes that this is upsetting to me. She shows me that she has more on her inner thighs. These symbols are inspired by Julia's in The Magicians.
As she shows me this, I see that she has two sets of penis and balls, on each side of her pussy. They're a bit small, and flaccid. She laughs when she sees my shocked expression. She explains that some men she has dominated so much that she kept their penises. I'm facing by the one on the left side of her pelvis, and she has me suck it. I don't resist at all. I have wanted to suck cock, and I welcome the opportunity to experiment with it. However, I'm disappointed that is so small in my mouth, like a child's. I don't tell her this.
This erotic dream has haunted me all day. I have some improvements and embellishments that heighten the effect tremendously.
First, the dicks are not small. They're grafted into her, and fully potent. The one I'm interested in is actually mine. She humiliates me by having me suck my own dick, which belongs entirely to her now. I'm wearing a maid outfit, and I realize that she really does own it: it's no longer on my body, and I no longer feel any of its sensation. She also fucks me with it.
After humiliating me like this a few times she makes me suck and fuck her other dicks too. Think of the possibilities: sucking one cock and jerking off another, both attached to her otherwise ultra feminine body. She can absorb these penises back into her body at will, and make them appear whenever she likes, too. It's my job now to serve her, and watch her enslave other men, and steal their dicks. I am doomed to never feel what it's like to own one ever again. And she never gives me the satisfaction of touching her female parts anymore, either.
Showing posts with label slavery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label slavery. Show all posts
Story in the Works
I have a new story in the works. It's been a very long time coming. It's been fun and exciting coming up with the outline, to the point where it's all I can think about, even when I'm making love to my wife. It creeps into my mind when we fool around, and I fantasize about the juicy bits so much that it keeps me hard and ready to go at any time.
The story is about two life-long rivals, constantly competing with each other over money, power, sports, women, and anything else you can think of. One finally gets the upper hand, and utterly destroys the other, taking possession of everything he has, including his woman. Thus defeated, the loser is forced to become his rival and ex-wife's sissy maid slave.
There's nothing particularly revolutionary going on there, but it's awfully fun to write! I'll post some juicy bits as a teaser when I'm further along. It's going to take some time, though, since I can't safely work on it very often, so please, be patient.
The story is about two life-long rivals, constantly competing with each other over money, power, sports, women, and anything else you can think of. One finally gets the upper hand, and utterly destroys the other, taking possession of everything he has, including his woman. Thus defeated, the loser is forced to become his rival and ex-wife's sissy maid slave.
There's nothing particularly revolutionary going on there, but it's awfully fun to write! I'll post some juicy bits as a teaser when I'm further along. It's going to take some time, though, since I can't safely work on it very often, so please, be patient.
Diary: the Lost Fantasy of Domination
I have written many sordid fantasies in my notebook. Contrary to practice (and security), I have refrained from tearing them up afterwards. Another small step towards more freely admitting my fetish.
So here I sit again, at another person's computer, eagerly awaiting my own, so that I can put whatever I want on it. I have read just about everything interesting on Dragscape. One was about a dominant bitch who turned her submissive husband into a girl, up to the point where he sucked off her boyfriends to get them hard enough to get into her, looking completely female. She forced him to start hormone replacement after months of making him wear only women's clothes. God, that turns me on: gradually becoming female at the whim of a beautiful woman. And it all starts with the clothes. . .
When I put on something girlish, I imagine myself being molded into a female shape by the shapely contours of my clothes. Above all, I imagine my dick obliterated into a lovely, soft, curvaceous cunt under those tantalizing silks. It's what I crave most desperately, coupled with the thought that it's disgusting, that it's unnatural, perverted, treasonous, effeminate. Yes, I know that wearing this will make me girlish. But I don't care! It feels so good! And why does it feel so good? Because it makes me feel so feminine!
Take that fantasy about the war of the sexes, in which I, the masculine hero, get captured and embrace my conversion as vehemently as I opposed it. I fight the women because I am a man, and I don't want to be anything else. But when they introduce me to femininity, I embrace it even more fanatically than they do. I know when they first expose me to their clothes that I will indubitably become female sooner or later. And it feels so good that I anticipate each step, to the point where I actually crave femininity.
I've somehow forgotten about the whole domination fetish that once possessed me so. I used to fantasize that some cruel woman forced me to wear her underwear, and that I would become her servant. Somehow, the innocence of that fantasy is lost. There is something gone. I remember my Baroness figurine bending G.I. Joes to her will. I remember disassembling the figurines and reassembling the men with her body parts, and getting all turned on by it. They would discover what it feels like to be female, and they would become her slaves, and join Cobra. A total reversal.
So here I sit again, at another person's computer, eagerly awaiting my own, so that I can put whatever I want on it. I have read just about everything interesting on Dragscape. One was about a dominant bitch who turned her submissive husband into a girl, up to the point where he sucked off her boyfriends to get them hard enough to get into her, looking completely female. She forced him to start hormone replacement after months of making him wear only women's clothes. God, that turns me on: gradually becoming female at the whim of a beautiful woman. And it all starts with the clothes. . .
When I put on something girlish, I imagine myself being molded into a female shape by the shapely contours of my clothes. Above all, I imagine my dick obliterated into a lovely, soft, curvaceous cunt under those tantalizing silks. It's what I crave most desperately, coupled with the thought that it's disgusting, that it's unnatural, perverted, treasonous, effeminate. Yes, I know that wearing this will make me girlish. But I don't care! It feels so good! And why does it feel so good? Because it makes me feel so feminine!
Take that fantasy about the war of the sexes, in which I, the masculine hero, get captured and embrace my conversion as vehemently as I opposed it. I fight the women because I am a man, and I don't want to be anything else. But when they introduce me to femininity, I embrace it even more fanatically than they do. I know when they first expose me to their clothes that I will indubitably become female sooner or later. And it feels so good that I anticipate each step, to the point where I actually crave femininity.
I've somehow forgotten about the whole domination fetish that once possessed me so. I used to fantasize that some cruel woman forced me to wear her underwear, and that I would become her servant. Somehow, the innocence of that fantasy is lost. There is something gone. I remember my Baroness figurine bending G.I. Joes to her will. I remember disassembling the figurines and reassembling the men with her body parts, and getting all turned on by it. They would discover what it feels like to be female, and they would become her slaves, and join Cobra. A total reversal.
Fiction: Genie
One day, as I walked along the beach at sunset, melancholy, depressed about my lack of luck in love, a strange looking bottle caught my eye as it glistened in the fading sunlight. I picked it up, cleaned it with my sweater, and nearly shit myself as a massive djinn billowed out of the bottle.
"You have released me from my prison of a thousand years. I grant you anything you wish for," said the djinn.
Unable to pass up such a wicked deal, I instantly wished for infinite wishes. The djinn was reluctant, but he had to accept. Oh, well. That's his problem.
Amazed with the possibilities, the infinite possibilities, I sat there dumbstruck. Then I wished myself a few trillion dollars, and a harem of beautiful women. That's when my good fortune began.
My women were all ugly. So I wished for new women. I had to give specific details, and I found myself completely unable to sufficiently describe a woman adequately enough so that she would appear to me as perfectly as she had in my imagination. So I began to pick and choose from the real women in the world. I started with the [girl I met at a live music show who models skin care products]. And I added the blonde from music class and the hippie girl from school. I had them all at once. I didn't give a damn what any present girlfriend thought, although I made sure to wish for her eternal happiness with men, out of a sense of combined guilt and respect.
But this grew tiresome. Mostly, the girls just didn't connect as well as I could have hoped. I wished for them to, but it wasn't the same.
Then I got the idea.
"Djinn," I asked, "I wish for my ultimate sexual fantasy to be fulfilled immediately, whatever that may be; and to make sure that there is no mistake, I wish that you might have a perfectly clear idea of exactly what my fantasy is."
Then the djinn replied, "These wishes test the limits of my power. You must choose now whether you want to keep this fantasy as reality or return to an entirely mundane way of life of before. They are your only two choices."
"So, let me get this straight," I said. "I have a choice of either living my ultimate sexual fantasy forever, or returning to my normal life forever. Tough choice."
"Do not choose too quickly. No one fully understands the extent of their fantasies until they truly live them out. . ."
"I choose to live my fantasy forever," I immediately answered, perhaps too rashly. But I think it must have been the best decision I ever made, even though I had my necessary doubts for a long time afterwards.
The djinn laughed and said, "as you wish," and snapped his fingers. He disappeared in a puff of smoke, and I looked forward to being swept away by beautiful maidens who would fuck my ever-potent immortal dick forever until the end of time.
But it didn't happen. I stood on the sidewalk where the thought had struck me to wish for this and waited for things to happen instantly. But nothing came. I began to wonder if the djinn had somehow tricked me.
Just then, an explosion rocked me off my feet. I was knocked out cold. When I woke up, it was in a dark room, all alone.
I felt fine. I was uninjured. But I had to wait for hours for anything to happen.
It was then that I noticed that I was naked, and in a small cell. A huge beast of a man came to my door, unlocked it, and dragged me out. I was powerless, and surrounded by big burly guards. They threw me into a room, where a beautiful woman sat upon a sort of throne, attended by plenty of other beautiful girls, scantily clad. I was made to kneel in front of her. So much for my fantasy, I thought.
"You have been chosen," she announced to me, "to further the causes of women. You will soon be indoctrinated in our ways." She waved a hand, and the room cleared, and we were alone together.
She came off her throne, and sashayed over to me. She was wearing fishnet stockings, a tight little skirt, and a tight little blouse, accentuating her tits, her ass, and her legs. She was blonde. It was the Noxzema girl, the hippie girl, the music girl, all the beautiful girls wrapped up in one. My eyes virtually popped out of my head. "Do you like girls?" she asked. I could only stare in amazement. My dick was flaccid with embarrassment.
"Well, you don't seem to be very excited. But I know that you are. You have to do me a favour. You see, I need some people to help me in my little cause. And you're a prime candidate. I know you like girls. I know you want to fuck me. But I have to change all that. You don't have to understand why. There's nothing you can do about it. You've been chosen. You will do everything I tell you to, not because I tell you to, but because you will desperately need to to fulfill your own petty desires. Any questions?"
I stammered. This was pretty much what I had told all the girls in my harem when I wished for them and got them. Except for having to change anything. I started to get a huge boner.
"Since, you're speechless, let's get started." She shoved her genitals in my face, and let me undress her, bit by bit. I worshipped her every curve, every little feature. We fucked like animals for a long, long time. It was the best sex I had ever had. It is still the best sex I have ever had. I will never forget it. I thought that my existence would hereafter be slavery to this beautiful woman forever. And I could never get out of it. And I feared that my decision had been too hasty. As much as I enjoyed fucking this goddess, I didn't want to be her slave forever. But it was only just beginning.
We did it all. She blew me. I ate her out. We had 69. I tit fucked her. I fucked her up the ass. She fucked me up the ass with a dildo. I dressed up in her clothes. We added one of her girls into the mix. We tossed her and added another man in. I was shocked to discover how far I would go to please us both. For the first time ever, I had a sexual encounter with a man, albeit she was the focus of my attention. I actually sucked him off for her. Throughout the entire time, I must have come a hundred times, and instantly reloaded. It was fantastic.
I was quite surprised when, after she had finished with me, she turfed me, naked as I was, and exhausted from so much incredible gratification, onto the street. I was alone and helpless. I hated her for treating me like that, and vowed to either forget about her, or if I ever saw her again, to kill her. I was completely disillusioned about my djinn.
I went home to my palace, and fucked the girls in my harem as I had before. But they were so very bland compared to the goddess. I thought of her in her little panties and bra as I had my way with my harem girls. The picture jsut wouldn't go away.
I hoped to forget. But I just couldn't get that picture out of my mind. I found myself thinking about those panties. How I had worn them myself, how much fun I had with her. I tried to recreate the experience I had with her with my harem girls.
I had routinely had several at a time, so that was nothing new. And I had sucked every part of their bodies, and had every part of mine sucked in turn by each of them. So I experimented with their panties, too, and restored some of the drama, some of the chemistry. Only the harem girls laughed irreverently, secretly, at my little experiment. They didn't appreciate true femininity. They didn't know how to please me like that goddess did. I continued to do it, and continued to titillate myself, in spite of their derision. I'm sure they like it anyway. I sure as Hell did.
But I couldn't get away from it. The panties were my only link to the goddess. Sure, they weren't hers, but still, the fact that I wore any at all made me think of her. I needed to relive that moment. I desperately needed to wear women's underwear to satisfy myself. It slowly became a necessary staple in my sexual encounters with my harem girls. Soon I couldn't do without them. I would buy new lingerie for them with the view in mind of slipping into it myself after stripping it off of them.
It got to be so bad that I couldn't come without girls' clothes on me. I needed to wear panties to come. It sure was ironic: here I was asserting my manhood with the harem girls by wearing their underwear. Eventually, I stopped touching them, because I could get more satisfacton from just prancing around in their panties and brassieres and teddies and garter belts than by fucking them. I was completely transformed: I thought of the goddess, and of my pleasure in recreating the experience of that fantastic encounter. I stopped having the girls come to me, strip, and give me their clothes; I asked them to bring it to me first. I asked to try things on with them. Of course, this was still always in our private sexual encounters. Nothing was ever said about this outside of the proverbial bedroom. I never ventured out of the bedroom to get women's clothes on. Up to that point, anyway. I just felt the need to wear girls' stuff so strongly that I eventually started stealing into the girls' wardrobes to steal a peek at their panties. And then to touch them. And then to wear them, while they weren't around.
I started wearing girls' panties under my clothes. It made me feel so sexy, so connected to that mysterious goddess. My girls would never miss their panties, considering how much underwear they had to choose from. Still, I was careful never to be caught by them wearing it before they gave it to me. For a while at least. Then I started meeting them, and stripping down to my panties and bra. We were virtually mirror images of each other.
Even that wasn't enough. I still felt too distant from the goddess. I started thinking about how great it felt to be feminine. I realized that the goddess wasn't the center of my sexual thoughts anymore. I was just using her as an excuse to justify my wearing women's underwear. I began to realize that this must be leading up to my ultimate sexual fantasy. It was just too incredibly tantalizing to give up. On a whim, I shaved my legs.
Pretty soon, I was completely femininely attired under my clothes: under my shirt and pants, I had some kind of lingerie covering a hairless body. My hair was long. Being feminine made me feel incredible. I saw less and less of the harem girls. I relished taking off my suit at the end of the day, and finding my femininely attired body underneath. I wore girls' panties all the time.
Now I was thinking that this is the height of my eternal fantasy. But little did I know how much more there was to come.
I didn't expect one day as I went on my daily walk to spot the woman who had introduced me to such unearthly delights. I ran after her, and I accosted her. How I wished I still had the power of wishes, so that I could subjugate her and keep her forever in my harem! But that would not be the case. Instead, I had to go the old fashioned way. I had to talk to her.
She recognized me instantly. She gave me a wink, and we flirted over a cup of coffee. She invited me back to her place, and I accepted.
Once inside, she said, "so, by now, you must have found yourself making choices you never thought possible." I asked her what she meant, knowing full well what she meant, but too guilty to admit it. She stepped towards me, and tore off my shirt, revealing my flowery, lacy bra.
"Ha! I knew it! Well done. Go home. I'm glad to see you're doing what I want."
I was hurt. Again. I couldn't believe that she was turfing me again. I pleaded with her to keep me along, to have another fling just for old times' sake. She laughed, and pushed me to the door.
"But wait," I pleaded. "Can I at least have something to remember you by?"
"I suppose," she answered, and she disappeared into her bedroom. She came back and handed me a bikini. I was enthralled, and looked forward to slipping into it later. Satisfied (amazingly) I left. And did I ever wear that bikini!
But it wasn't enough. I had to have more. I needed to be more feminine. On a whim, I started looking into taking female hormones, to give me tits and a waist, and remove my hair, and change my voice. After a long time of deliberating, I took the plunge. I started turning myself into a girl. After only a few years of constant masturbating in women's clothes, I began to notice significant improvements to my figure. I was looking good. I started wearing skirts and blouses. My harem women were both appalled and amused. My guards and servants were shocked. I was beginning to flaunt my femininity. I wore makeup, pantihose, heels, the whole works. I had made myself into a complete transsexual. All I needed was a cunt, and I would be female. I often wondered at this point if this was my ultimate sexual fantasy. But it wasn't over yet.
To try to feel more feminine, that is, to continue in the way that I thought I had to go to fulfill my fantasy, I started to pick up men. I started having sex with men. They fucked me up my girlish ass, and I sucked their dicks. Those who found out that I was actually still a boy either didn't care, or ran away. I didn't care who knew. But I found that I didn't quite enjoy it. I still longed for femininity. I still wanted to caress tits (not my own) and eat pussy. Pussy was still tops on my mind, and it wouldn't go away. I was stuck.
Then it all came to fruition. As I strutted my girly butt down the street, she made herself visible to me again. She took me back, and told me, "yes, now I can see that you're almost ready." I followed her home again, and she led me into a large chamber. In it were the beautiful servant maidens I had seen before, when I was brought to her naked. Each and every one of them had a dick. They welcomed me to the fold, and I stripped down with them. These were men, too.
Now my fantasy came to its conclusion. I found myself cuddling up to one of the "girls," and admiring her beautiful, lithe girl's body, and rubbing my silken-covered cock against hers. I was rubbing up against the most beautiful women on earth, and they were all men. The feeling of silk on silk, of lace on silk, of satin on lace, etc. etc. etc. gave me the most pleasurable experience since the one with my goddess. Then I understood that I was to attend on her always, just like the rest of the girls.
So my ultimate fantasy had come true: I got to fuck my goddess, and her servant girls, some of whom were actually transsexuals.
Then djinn reappeared to me, and asked me if I ws still happy with my choice. And although I was reduced to a sex object, always fucking, always ready to come, always hard, and immortal, I had to say, YES, I want to be like this forever. So here I am, wearing girls' clothing only, and rubbing up against another girl's dick, while eating out the goddess. Forever.
"You have released me from my prison of a thousand years. I grant you anything you wish for," said the djinn.
Unable to pass up such a wicked deal, I instantly wished for infinite wishes. The djinn was reluctant, but he had to accept. Oh, well. That's his problem.
Amazed with the possibilities, the infinite possibilities, I sat there dumbstruck. Then I wished myself a few trillion dollars, and a harem of beautiful women. That's when my good fortune began.
My women were all ugly. So I wished for new women. I had to give specific details, and I found myself completely unable to sufficiently describe a woman adequately enough so that she would appear to me as perfectly as she had in my imagination. So I began to pick and choose from the real women in the world. I started with the [girl I met at a live music show who models skin care products]. And I added the blonde from music class and the hippie girl from school. I had them all at once. I didn't give a damn what any present girlfriend thought, although I made sure to wish for her eternal happiness with men, out of a sense of combined guilt and respect.
But this grew tiresome. Mostly, the girls just didn't connect as well as I could have hoped. I wished for them to, but it wasn't the same.
Then I got the idea.
"Djinn," I asked, "I wish for my ultimate sexual fantasy to be fulfilled immediately, whatever that may be; and to make sure that there is no mistake, I wish that you might have a perfectly clear idea of exactly what my fantasy is."
Then the djinn replied, "These wishes test the limits of my power. You must choose now whether you want to keep this fantasy as reality or return to an entirely mundane way of life of before. They are your only two choices."
"So, let me get this straight," I said. "I have a choice of either living my ultimate sexual fantasy forever, or returning to my normal life forever. Tough choice."
"Do not choose too quickly. No one fully understands the extent of their fantasies until they truly live them out. . ."
"I choose to live my fantasy forever," I immediately answered, perhaps too rashly. But I think it must have been the best decision I ever made, even though I had my necessary doubts for a long time afterwards.
The djinn laughed and said, "as you wish," and snapped his fingers. He disappeared in a puff of smoke, and I looked forward to being swept away by beautiful maidens who would fuck my ever-potent immortal dick forever until the end of time.
But it didn't happen. I stood on the sidewalk where the thought had struck me to wish for this and waited for things to happen instantly. But nothing came. I began to wonder if the djinn had somehow tricked me.
Just then, an explosion rocked me off my feet. I was knocked out cold. When I woke up, it was in a dark room, all alone.
I felt fine. I was uninjured. But I had to wait for hours for anything to happen.
It was then that I noticed that I was naked, and in a small cell. A huge beast of a man came to my door, unlocked it, and dragged me out. I was powerless, and surrounded by big burly guards. They threw me into a room, where a beautiful woman sat upon a sort of throne, attended by plenty of other beautiful girls, scantily clad. I was made to kneel in front of her. So much for my fantasy, I thought.
"You have been chosen," she announced to me, "to further the causes of women. You will soon be indoctrinated in our ways." She waved a hand, and the room cleared, and we were alone together.
She came off her throne, and sashayed over to me. She was wearing fishnet stockings, a tight little skirt, and a tight little blouse, accentuating her tits, her ass, and her legs. She was blonde. It was the Noxzema girl, the hippie girl, the music girl, all the beautiful girls wrapped up in one. My eyes virtually popped out of my head. "Do you like girls?" she asked. I could only stare in amazement. My dick was flaccid with embarrassment.
"Well, you don't seem to be very excited. But I know that you are. You have to do me a favour. You see, I need some people to help me in my little cause. And you're a prime candidate. I know you like girls. I know you want to fuck me. But I have to change all that. You don't have to understand why. There's nothing you can do about it. You've been chosen. You will do everything I tell you to, not because I tell you to, but because you will desperately need to to fulfill your own petty desires. Any questions?"
I stammered. This was pretty much what I had told all the girls in my harem when I wished for them and got them. Except for having to change anything. I started to get a huge boner.
"Since, you're speechless, let's get started." She shoved her genitals in my face, and let me undress her, bit by bit. I worshipped her every curve, every little feature. We fucked like animals for a long, long time. It was the best sex I had ever had. It is still the best sex I have ever had. I will never forget it. I thought that my existence would hereafter be slavery to this beautiful woman forever. And I could never get out of it. And I feared that my decision had been too hasty. As much as I enjoyed fucking this goddess, I didn't want to be her slave forever. But it was only just beginning.
We did it all. She blew me. I ate her out. We had 69. I tit fucked her. I fucked her up the ass. She fucked me up the ass with a dildo. I dressed up in her clothes. We added one of her girls into the mix. We tossed her and added another man in. I was shocked to discover how far I would go to please us both. For the first time ever, I had a sexual encounter with a man, albeit she was the focus of my attention. I actually sucked him off for her. Throughout the entire time, I must have come a hundred times, and instantly reloaded. It was fantastic.
I was quite surprised when, after she had finished with me, she turfed me, naked as I was, and exhausted from so much incredible gratification, onto the street. I was alone and helpless. I hated her for treating me like that, and vowed to either forget about her, or if I ever saw her again, to kill her. I was completely disillusioned about my djinn.
I went home to my palace, and fucked the girls in my harem as I had before. But they were so very bland compared to the goddess. I thought of her in her little panties and bra as I had my way with my harem girls. The picture jsut wouldn't go away.
I hoped to forget. But I just couldn't get that picture out of my mind. I found myself thinking about those panties. How I had worn them myself, how much fun I had with her. I tried to recreate the experience I had with her with my harem girls.
I had routinely had several at a time, so that was nothing new. And I had sucked every part of their bodies, and had every part of mine sucked in turn by each of them. So I experimented with their panties, too, and restored some of the drama, some of the chemistry. Only the harem girls laughed irreverently, secretly, at my little experiment. They didn't appreciate true femininity. They didn't know how to please me like that goddess did. I continued to do it, and continued to titillate myself, in spite of their derision. I'm sure they like it anyway. I sure as Hell did.
But I couldn't get away from it. The panties were my only link to the goddess. Sure, they weren't hers, but still, the fact that I wore any at all made me think of her. I needed to relive that moment. I desperately needed to wear women's underwear to satisfy myself. It slowly became a necessary staple in my sexual encounters with my harem girls. Soon I couldn't do without them. I would buy new lingerie for them with the view in mind of slipping into it myself after stripping it off of them.
It got to be so bad that I couldn't come without girls' clothes on me. I needed to wear panties to come. It sure was ironic: here I was asserting my manhood with the harem girls by wearing their underwear. Eventually, I stopped touching them, because I could get more satisfacton from just prancing around in their panties and brassieres and teddies and garter belts than by fucking them. I was completely transformed: I thought of the goddess, and of my pleasure in recreating the experience of that fantastic encounter. I stopped having the girls come to me, strip, and give me their clothes; I asked them to bring it to me first. I asked to try things on with them. Of course, this was still always in our private sexual encounters. Nothing was ever said about this outside of the proverbial bedroom. I never ventured out of the bedroom to get women's clothes on. Up to that point, anyway. I just felt the need to wear girls' stuff so strongly that I eventually started stealing into the girls' wardrobes to steal a peek at their panties. And then to touch them. And then to wear them, while they weren't around.
I started wearing girls' panties under my clothes. It made me feel so sexy, so connected to that mysterious goddess. My girls would never miss their panties, considering how much underwear they had to choose from. Still, I was careful never to be caught by them wearing it before they gave it to me. For a while at least. Then I started meeting them, and stripping down to my panties and bra. We were virtually mirror images of each other.
Even that wasn't enough. I still felt too distant from the goddess. I started thinking about how great it felt to be feminine. I realized that the goddess wasn't the center of my sexual thoughts anymore. I was just using her as an excuse to justify my wearing women's underwear. I began to realize that this must be leading up to my ultimate sexual fantasy. It was just too incredibly tantalizing to give up. On a whim, I shaved my legs.
Pretty soon, I was completely femininely attired under my clothes: under my shirt and pants, I had some kind of lingerie covering a hairless body. My hair was long. Being feminine made me feel incredible. I saw less and less of the harem girls. I relished taking off my suit at the end of the day, and finding my femininely attired body underneath. I wore girls' panties all the time.
Now I was thinking that this is the height of my eternal fantasy. But little did I know how much more there was to come.
I didn't expect one day as I went on my daily walk to spot the woman who had introduced me to such unearthly delights. I ran after her, and I accosted her. How I wished I still had the power of wishes, so that I could subjugate her and keep her forever in my harem! But that would not be the case. Instead, I had to go the old fashioned way. I had to talk to her.
She recognized me instantly. She gave me a wink, and we flirted over a cup of coffee. She invited me back to her place, and I accepted.
Once inside, she said, "so, by now, you must have found yourself making choices you never thought possible." I asked her what she meant, knowing full well what she meant, but too guilty to admit it. She stepped towards me, and tore off my shirt, revealing my flowery, lacy bra.
"Ha! I knew it! Well done. Go home. I'm glad to see you're doing what I want."
I was hurt. Again. I couldn't believe that she was turfing me again. I pleaded with her to keep me along, to have another fling just for old times' sake. She laughed, and pushed me to the door.
"But wait," I pleaded. "Can I at least have something to remember you by?"
"I suppose," she answered, and she disappeared into her bedroom. She came back and handed me a bikini. I was enthralled, and looked forward to slipping into it later. Satisfied (amazingly) I left. And did I ever wear that bikini!
But it wasn't enough. I had to have more. I needed to be more feminine. On a whim, I started looking into taking female hormones, to give me tits and a waist, and remove my hair, and change my voice. After a long time of deliberating, I took the plunge. I started turning myself into a girl. After only a few years of constant masturbating in women's clothes, I began to notice significant improvements to my figure. I was looking good. I started wearing skirts and blouses. My harem women were both appalled and amused. My guards and servants were shocked. I was beginning to flaunt my femininity. I wore makeup, pantihose, heels, the whole works. I had made myself into a complete transsexual. All I needed was a cunt, and I would be female. I often wondered at this point if this was my ultimate sexual fantasy. But it wasn't over yet.
To try to feel more feminine, that is, to continue in the way that I thought I had to go to fulfill my fantasy, I started to pick up men. I started having sex with men. They fucked me up my girlish ass, and I sucked their dicks. Those who found out that I was actually still a boy either didn't care, or ran away. I didn't care who knew. But I found that I didn't quite enjoy it. I still longed for femininity. I still wanted to caress tits (not my own) and eat pussy. Pussy was still tops on my mind, and it wouldn't go away. I was stuck.
Then it all came to fruition. As I strutted my girly butt down the street, she made herself visible to me again. She took me back, and told me, "yes, now I can see that you're almost ready." I followed her home again, and she led me into a large chamber. In it were the beautiful servant maidens I had seen before, when I was brought to her naked. Each and every one of them had a dick. They welcomed me to the fold, and I stripped down with them. These were men, too.
Now my fantasy came to its conclusion. I found myself cuddling up to one of the "girls," and admiring her beautiful, lithe girl's body, and rubbing my silken-covered cock against hers. I was rubbing up against the most beautiful women on earth, and they were all men. The feeling of silk on silk, of lace on silk, of satin on lace, etc. etc. etc. gave me the most pleasurable experience since the one with my goddess. Then I understood that I was to attend on her always, just like the rest of the girls.
So my ultimate fantasy had come true: I got to fuck my goddess, and her servant girls, some of whom were actually transsexuals.
Then djinn reappeared to me, and asked me if I ws still happy with my choice. And although I was reduced to a sex object, always fucking, always ready to come, always hard, and immortal, I had to say, YES, I want to be like this forever. So here I am, wearing girls' clothing only, and rubbing up against another girl's dick, while eating out the goddess. Forever.
Fiction: Sci-Fi War of the Sexes
So how many times will I sneak into the computer room late at night, when everyone's asleep, just to glorify my masturbatory fantasies? I must admit that this makes it that much more exciting. It allows me to work out the details of my fantasy before I begin, and work myself to the highest pitch of desire. I never have anything to add. I just have a vague sense of having to elaborate my own deepest fantasy to myself one more time, just to try to get to the very bottom of it. Now, I think that after 50 pages of this, I've come about as close as I'm going to get. It's not even the point anymore. God only knows how many times I've repeated myself. One of these days, I should re-read all of this. It'll take a while, for sure. Oh, well. If only I could write about other things with this much passion. I only hope that no one ever discovers this. . .
I checked out one of [my brother]'s Heavy Metal comics. Cheesy sex-comics, with unbelievable depictions of women. I always want to wear their clothes. I love their outfits. That's what I want to be: a sexy girl in those tawdry comic books. I could picture my own cheesy comic installment. . .
Futuristic city-scape. Tall round buildings, twisted metallic stuff all over, with tubes and wires everywhere. Sexy women in skimpy clothing everywhere. No men to be seen.
Focus on supreme sex-goddess on a throne, in the sexiest clothing you've ever seen. At her feet lie prostrate hundreds of adoring naked men. They are her slaves.
Cockamammie dialogue about the War between the sexes. Reproduction has become obsolete, because women don't go through pregnancies anymore. Fetuses are incubated until birth. Sex's only purpose now is pleasure.
Men, of course, wanted to control all the pleasure. They wanted women to be their private sex toys. But women know better than to want such loveless garbage. After centuries of slavery under men, women in harems and brothels etc begin to find a taste for pussy, too. They discover that they don't even need men for pleasure anymore. So they begin to collaborate secretly, to overthrow men.
Men are at first oblivious to this. But then the hostility becomes unbearable. Women create societies of their own, with their men-children as slaves, a lower class which does all the dirty work. They are filthy and stupid, and only good for cleaning. Not even good for sex anymore, because women all fuck each other now. Men have no place in this system. Until the wars.
Switch to explosions, destruction. A male attack on the female city. Chaos. Action. The men need to recapture the women, because they can't allow themselves to become fags. They desperately need women, their soft round bodies, etc. Can't do without them.
The battle ends. The male ship leaves, having destroyed a significant part of the city. Goddess calls for revenge. The war escalates.
Various scenes show the intrigues in each court. The men know they're in trouble. They rape the women they've captured, and fuck them so much that the women soon die. Some men however keep female hostages, and keep them from other men. They guard them jealously. Women are the most precious possession anywhere. Meanwhile, the men captured by women become mere drones, who have no sex at all.
The women, however, devise a sort of plan. They know how valuable they are to men, so they find a way to destroy masculinity from within. They pretend to be willing to have sex with men, but coax them to wear their underwear. This underwear destroys the men mentally. Gives them into the power of the women.
Thus women are banned in the male world. Women must be destroyed, because they are insidious and dangerous. So men no longer capture women.
But women have discovered their great advantage. They capture men and turn them into their pawns, and return them to manworld as if nothing has happened. These men tear down the male establishment completely.
So naturally, the male champion falls in love with the goddess. She loves him despite the centuries of being a lesbian. Her ultimate goal is to capture the male leader and make him her personal slave. this is only alluded to.
So the battles rage. Male forces dwindle. The decisive battle.
The male champion is captured, and brought to the goddess. The surviving men despair for the loss of their champion, whom they presume dead. But the goddess goes on to capture the rest of the men. As a final embarrassment to her defeated foes, she produces her captive, their former champion.
He emerges onto the stage at her command. He is completely subservient to her. He is wearing his male clothing.
She publicly commands him to do silly things, like kiss her delicate, stockinged feet. She commands him to remove his clothes in front of her as in a strip tease, dancing like a girl. He stands naked in front of her, for all the world to see.
Then she stands up, and tells him to stop. She commands him to sit like a dog. She begins to remove her own clothing. She simply drops it on the ground in front of him. Then she has her other slaves put the two sets of clothing in two piles, and bring her out another skimpy outfit.
In front of the whole world, she asks him to get dressed in whatever clothing he prefers. Whatever he feels more comfortable in. Without hesitation, he slips into her discarded clothing, greedily, lustily, as if he were digging into a meal after a long period of fasting. He prances around like a girlie, happily attired in the goddess's skimpy underwear. The whole horde of men are completely demoralized, and are forever defeated.
The end.
Of course, within this whole comic book story is the matter of choice. The moment when the champion discovers the virtue of wearing girls' underwear. He is given the choice, and he reluctantly discovers why he has feared for so long to act out his secret fantasy of slipping on women's panties. He discovers that doing so is far more sexy and far more satisfying than anything he has ever experienced. He discovers that he loves it so much, that he can't prevent himself from going back to it.
Still, I like the idea of training. Or of a long period of transformation, involving countless guilty forays into femininity. Like me.
Just think. They have to train him to wear it. But they always watch. They are always a part of the process. Unlike me. They enjoy watching him initially refuse to wear what they put in front of him, and slowly give in, not to their coaxing, but to his own irresistible desire. Like mine. He simply can't stop himself from wanting to wear women's underwear. So he wears it, and while he wears it, longs for the next time.
One thing I was intrigued by tonight, before I began to write this drivel, was how in the earliest stages of my experimentation, I was always afraid of direct contact with the feminine garment. Or to be more specific, I always needed some kind of protection on my genitals from actual women's wear. I had to be wearing my underwear underneath the pantihose or bathing suit I dared to slip into. I needed that anchor to my sexuality. I couldn't accept that I was succumbing to abject femininity when I put on some article of women's clothing. meanwhile, I fantasized about it all the time. I used to roll up my underwear to make them more skimpy, and thus more feminine. This was very satisfying for a time.
But slowly, I allowed myself, in my feverish desire, to remove my protection, and expose myself to the consequences of wearing only women's clothing. It was a long process. It sometimes began again when I tried something new. Eventually, probably after the second bathing suit, I leaped into whatever I captured naked and fearless. I wanted to feel as feminine as possible.
But the process was still quite fun. It was most exciting. I remember my first tries with pantihose only vaguely. They were my first concrete experience with women's clothing. At first, I was very careful not to go overboard. But I had such a powerful desire to wear them. All the time. Whenever I was horny, I wanted to wear something, or pretend to wear something. So wearing pantihose was first, not only because I always found it so sexy, but because it was so abundant (as I soon discovered, when I dared to sneak a peek into mom's dresser). What harm could there be if I stole a pair from the hamper for a few minutes, I thought. I used to come into it, too. But I started off protected; of that I am sure.
I don't remember when I began to keep a pair of pantihose under my bed. I don't even know if by then I had begun to experiment with wearing pantihose naked. But boy, was it fun. And shameful. I was very careful about it.
I don't remember when I began to "borrow" the first bathing suit, either. But I do remember wearing it only for a short time at first, returning it guiltily, and then masturbating. And at those times, I wore it protected, I'm sure. The incident I most remember was the discovery of the second bathing suit.
I tried it on, mostly because I had stuffed the first one, which I had stolen, all covered in come, into the sides of my waterbed, where it began to stink horribly. So I needed a new one. I tried this new one on one afternoon, with my underwear on. And I was shocked to discover how wonderfully tight and thick and smooth it seemed to be on my body. I danced around in it, but soon took it off. It was just too intense. But soon thereafter, palpitating with desire, I returned for it, and tried it on naked. It was the most intense experience up to that point of my young life. I was amazed. I was hooked. I loved it.
But I think I already might have owned the first bikini bottom. That one was extraordinarily intense, too.
Anyway, the point is that I had to protect myself from the magical power of the article of women's wear. It's like a firm belief in sympathetic magic: if I wear women's clothing, I will become a woman. The idea appealed to me in a very sexual way, even though I didn't want to admit it.
Now I do readily admit it in private. I'm wearing my lingerie outfit now, and wish I had a bra to go with my panties. Or smaller panties with a matching bra. And a nice little skimpy bikini. That's all I want. One day...
I checked out one of [my brother]'s Heavy Metal comics. Cheesy sex-comics, with unbelievable depictions of women. I always want to wear their clothes. I love their outfits. That's what I want to be: a sexy girl in those tawdry comic books. I could picture my own cheesy comic installment. . .
Futuristic city-scape. Tall round buildings, twisted metallic stuff all over, with tubes and wires everywhere. Sexy women in skimpy clothing everywhere. No men to be seen.
Focus on supreme sex-goddess on a throne, in the sexiest clothing you've ever seen. At her feet lie prostrate hundreds of adoring naked men. They are her slaves.
Cockamammie dialogue about the War between the sexes. Reproduction has become obsolete, because women don't go through pregnancies anymore. Fetuses are incubated until birth. Sex's only purpose now is pleasure.
Men, of course, wanted to control all the pleasure. They wanted women to be their private sex toys. But women know better than to want such loveless garbage. After centuries of slavery under men, women in harems and brothels etc begin to find a taste for pussy, too. They discover that they don't even need men for pleasure anymore. So they begin to collaborate secretly, to overthrow men.
Men are at first oblivious to this. But then the hostility becomes unbearable. Women create societies of their own, with their men-children as slaves, a lower class which does all the dirty work. They are filthy and stupid, and only good for cleaning. Not even good for sex anymore, because women all fuck each other now. Men have no place in this system. Until the wars.
Switch to explosions, destruction. A male attack on the female city. Chaos. Action. The men need to recapture the women, because they can't allow themselves to become fags. They desperately need women, their soft round bodies, etc. Can't do without them.
The battle ends. The male ship leaves, having destroyed a significant part of the city. Goddess calls for revenge. The war escalates.
Various scenes show the intrigues in each court. The men know they're in trouble. They rape the women they've captured, and fuck them so much that the women soon die. Some men however keep female hostages, and keep them from other men. They guard them jealously. Women are the most precious possession anywhere. Meanwhile, the men captured by women become mere drones, who have no sex at all.
The women, however, devise a sort of plan. They know how valuable they are to men, so they find a way to destroy masculinity from within. They pretend to be willing to have sex with men, but coax them to wear their underwear. This underwear destroys the men mentally. Gives them into the power of the women.
Thus women are banned in the male world. Women must be destroyed, because they are insidious and dangerous. So men no longer capture women.
But women have discovered their great advantage. They capture men and turn them into their pawns, and return them to manworld as if nothing has happened. These men tear down the male establishment completely.
So naturally, the male champion falls in love with the goddess. She loves him despite the centuries of being a lesbian. Her ultimate goal is to capture the male leader and make him her personal slave. this is only alluded to.
So the battles rage. Male forces dwindle. The decisive battle.
The male champion is captured, and brought to the goddess. The surviving men despair for the loss of their champion, whom they presume dead. But the goddess goes on to capture the rest of the men. As a final embarrassment to her defeated foes, she produces her captive, their former champion.
He emerges onto the stage at her command. He is completely subservient to her. He is wearing his male clothing.
She publicly commands him to do silly things, like kiss her delicate, stockinged feet. She commands him to remove his clothes in front of her as in a strip tease, dancing like a girl. He stands naked in front of her, for all the world to see.
Then she stands up, and tells him to stop. She commands him to sit like a dog. She begins to remove her own clothing. She simply drops it on the ground in front of him. Then she has her other slaves put the two sets of clothing in two piles, and bring her out another skimpy outfit.
In front of the whole world, she asks him to get dressed in whatever clothing he prefers. Whatever he feels more comfortable in. Without hesitation, he slips into her discarded clothing, greedily, lustily, as if he were digging into a meal after a long period of fasting. He prances around like a girlie, happily attired in the goddess's skimpy underwear. The whole horde of men are completely demoralized, and are forever defeated.
The end.
Of course, within this whole comic book story is the matter of choice. The moment when the champion discovers the virtue of wearing girls' underwear. He is given the choice, and he reluctantly discovers why he has feared for so long to act out his secret fantasy of slipping on women's panties. He discovers that doing so is far more sexy and far more satisfying than anything he has ever experienced. He discovers that he loves it so much, that he can't prevent himself from going back to it.
Still, I like the idea of training. Or of a long period of transformation, involving countless guilty forays into femininity. Like me.
Just think. They have to train him to wear it. But they always watch. They are always a part of the process. Unlike me. They enjoy watching him initially refuse to wear what they put in front of him, and slowly give in, not to their coaxing, but to his own irresistible desire. Like mine. He simply can't stop himself from wanting to wear women's underwear. So he wears it, and while he wears it, longs for the next time.
One thing I was intrigued by tonight, before I began to write this drivel, was how in the earliest stages of my experimentation, I was always afraid of direct contact with the feminine garment. Or to be more specific, I always needed some kind of protection on my genitals from actual women's wear. I had to be wearing my underwear underneath the pantihose or bathing suit I dared to slip into. I needed that anchor to my sexuality. I couldn't accept that I was succumbing to abject femininity when I put on some article of women's clothing. meanwhile, I fantasized about it all the time. I used to roll up my underwear to make them more skimpy, and thus more feminine. This was very satisfying for a time.
But slowly, I allowed myself, in my feverish desire, to remove my protection, and expose myself to the consequences of wearing only women's clothing. It was a long process. It sometimes began again when I tried something new. Eventually, probably after the second bathing suit, I leaped into whatever I captured naked and fearless. I wanted to feel as feminine as possible.
But the process was still quite fun. It was most exciting. I remember my first tries with pantihose only vaguely. They were my first concrete experience with women's clothing. At first, I was very careful not to go overboard. But I had such a powerful desire to wear them. All the time. Whenever I was horny, I wanted to wear something, or pretend to wear something. So wearing pantihose was first, not only because I always found it so sexy, but because it was so abundant (as I soon discovered, when I dared to sneak a peek into mom's dresser). What harm could there be if I stole a pair from the hamper for a few minutes, I thought. I used to come into it, too. But I started off protected; of that I am sure.
I don't remember when I began to keep a pair of pantihose under my bed. I don't even know if by then I had begun to experiment with wearing pantihose naked. But boy, was it fun. And shameful. I was very careful about it.
I don't remember when I began to "borrow" the first bathing suit, either. But I do remember wearing it only for a short time at first, returning it guiltily, and then masturbating. And at those times, I wore it protected, I'm sure. The incident I most remember was the discovery of the second bathing suit.
I tried it on, mostly because I had stuffed the first one, which I had stolen, all covered in come, into the sides of my waterbed, where it began to stink horribly. So I needed a new one. I tried this new one on one afternoon, with my underwear on. And I was shocked to discover how wonderfully tight and thick and smooth it seemed to be on my body. I danced around in it, but soon took it off. It was just too intense. But soon thereafter, palpitating with desire, I returned for it, and tried it on naked. It was the most intense experience up to that point of my young life. I was amazed. I was hooked. I loved it.
But I think I already might have owned the first bikini bottom. That one was extraordinarily intense, too.
Anyway, the point is that I had to protect myself from the magical power of the article of women's wear. It's like a firm belief in sympathetic magic: if I wear women's clothing, I will become a woman. The idea appealed to me in a very sexual way, even though I didn't want to admit it.
Now I do readily admit it in private. I'm wearing my lingerie outfit now, and wish I had a bra to go with my panties. Or smaller panties with a matching bra. And a nice little skimpy bikini. That's all I want. One day...
Fiction: Feminazi
The feminazi movement began innocently enough. As early as the nineteen fifties, women were liberating themselves from the oppressive yoke of a patriarchal society. They burned their brassieres in protest against constraining clothing. They began to work outside the home, to earn a living independently of men. They began to become self-sufficient. Gradually, however, the movement gained so much ground that in the Nineties, women were socially as important as men, especially to the younger generations. Women had come to a dead end in the road to equality: equality itself.
Here was the great rift between the feminists of the time. Many women felt that the movement was being hijacked by lesbians, who seemed to want to androgynize society entirely, and prevent women from being women. These Lesbianists were usually very masculine, and the more feminine elements felt pushed out of their natural functions as women. The True Feminists wanted to remain women, remain feminine; the lesbianists seemed to counter that impulse. The argument was that women are "feminine" only by the standards of men; they only become sexy in the eyes of men, thereby becoming their sex toys, and nothing more. Such an attitude on the part of men could only set the movement back, and the Lesbianists believed that only by denying men the sexual aspects of women would they gain equality. A truly equal society would have to be androgynous, to avoid sexual inbalance.
But the True women knew that being women meant being attractive to men, and at the same time being superior to them. They believed that they could use their sexual potency as an advantage over men. These women, still heterosexual, had to account for their sex drive. To the Lesbianists, this was blasphemy.
At around the same time, the fashion industry began to sexualize women to an astonishing degree. Women wore tight, mostly revealing clothing, while men wore baggy, unflattering clothes and nondescript suits. Women's bodies were being showcased, while men's bodies were being covered up. This was the first covert push. Even the Lesbianists had to appreciate this.
Men were certainly happy at this time. They could see all they would want, and women still had no idea what lurked beneath the baggy rags of men. Men slobbered all over women like lost puppies.
Behind the scenes, the two groups of women, who had, naturally, cornered the fashion industry, had planned it this way. Men were, in a way, subservient to their sexy women. But they still regarded women as sex objects, and besides that held most of the power. But women were creeping in slowly. The Lesbianists and True Women realized that their visions of a female dominated society were identical, in that men would be as women were in the middle ages: slaves to their powerful spouses. Only the women wanted to crush men even more brutally. The Lesbianists, at least, envisaged a society where men would be used only for breeding purposes. But the common dream of a feminine paradise was impossible with the opposition of the True Women.
The Lesbianists placed a mole within the True Women's ranks, one who could speak and entice like only a select few have ever been able to. She was able to charm the ranks of True Women to the point where she had repeated affairs with virtually all of the higher ranking members. She transformed them all into closet lesbians with her charming and irresistible sex appeal. Now, even the Ture Women were beginning to see that they could acheive better sexual experiences with other women than with men. They were all eventually exposed to one another, and had a lesbian orgy to celebrate. But they were a much larger and much more influential group than the left-leaning fringe group which opposed them. They would accept a peaceful agreement with the Lesbianists only if women were not only allowed, but encouraged, and even forced, to be as feminine as possible. Even women enjoy a sexy girl more than a fat semi-masculine cow. The whole idea of their ultra-feminism was that men are only huge hairy violent brutes, and that soft, smooth, beautiful, delicate women are better off by themselves. They slowly began to assimilate all women to their ways, by either charming heterosexual women into their beds and converting them, or else raping them and forcing them to accept their ways. They were very clandestine, and very successful. They operated with absolute secrecy. No one ever dared to disclose to an untrusted woman, and certainly not any man, the true agenda of Women. They had no need for preventive measures, because the converted were so unanimously and fanatically devoted to the cause.
By the time most women were converted, men began to notice that they were losing their grip on women. Women were becoming openly homosexual, and thumbed their noses at their former lovers. Men began to complain. Some raped and beat women to get their sexual pleasures, but they were all severely punished, usually by castration, as according to the new laws passed at the bidding of Women. Men were fearful of the consequences, because more often than not, during a rape investigation, any and all suspects of any connection to the injured lady were punished. These incidents were rare indeed.
Other men began to campaign for changes to the way things are done. They were willing to give up political power in order to obtain sex. In large measure, men refused this, but Women made huge advances politically in this time. The fashion industry, however, had been recognized as a part of men's problems. It seemed that women became so sexily clad that they could no longer resist each other, and that men were so painfully ugly in their clothes that they became ignored by women. Documents have shown that the movement by men to change fashion to make them sexier, and more appealing to women, was planted by Female agents. Men began, despite the fashion industry, to wear tighter, more revealing clothing. Some enterprising males fashioned their own apparel to retain masculinity; but most of the men were forced to wear certain androgynous clothes, which had been designed for women. men began to wear halter tops, and tight bicycle shorts. They showed lots of flesh, and tight fitting garments were popular. Women did begin to notice them again, but only as perversions of their new sexualities. men would have to become much more feminine to attract women.
At last, the campaign for men to wear women's clothing was in full force, and it proved to be the undoing of men in the end. Women no longer had any interest in men, except as breeding tools. Desperate men resorted to sex changes, or at least dressing in drag for sex. They were indeed slaves to women in this way. They went to great lengths to become as feminine as possible. They shaved their bodies, grew their hair, and took estrogen pills. Women had by now managed to gain all of the political power, because even men now regarded each other as useless unless they could get a woman to have sex with them; and the only way to do that was to become as feminine as possible. Society as a whole began to view femininity as the noblest ideal, and men strove to become like women. Men began to wear skirts and blouses and makeup to acheive their ends. Ironically, it was all out of machismo that they forsook masculinity. They became women to be regarded as manly.
Eventually, that entire plan fell apart on them, when they realized what was happening. At least thirty percent of all men in the western world became transsexual. Men in high places began to look more and more like women, and were eventually replaced by them. In a short period of time, women had managed to seize control of government and establish a benign dictatorship. Politics was no longer useful. Women were absolute rulers of the West. Men, by constitutional law, had to obey the Women at all times. Men had in large part granted Women these powers. Men were forced into slavery to women: each woman was allowed to have one slave man to do the dirty work for her. Soon thereafter, masculinity was outlawed outright. Men could exist, but they had to be feminine. Independent men were outlaws.
Men had given up alll of their property, and so had to beg the women for lodging, food, and clothing. They were kept enthralled by feminine clothing. Mostly, they were made to pick out a feminine outfit, or the mistress would choose one for them, and they would revel in their artificial femininity by wearing lingerie. Many women would engage in psychological torture by forcing the men to dress up with them, and they would proceed to embrace, and the men would swoon and come all over themselves in this ultimate experience. They were being transformed into women by women, who alone knew about womanhood. The dream of a man was to become a girl in every way but genitally, and then breed with his mistress, whereupon he would be allowed (after successful fertilization) a full sex change. He would at last become a woman. He would, of course, be a lesbian, and unable to reproduce, so he remained a slave to his mistress, but he ranked higher in the social order than anyone with a penis.
Foreign governments were soon taken in as well, through the charm and propaganda of the women. Women everywhere began to rule. And now we have this glorious matriarchal system, where Women are the highest possible form of existence.
Here was the great rift between the feminists of the time. Many women felt that the movement was being hijacked by lesbians, who seemed to want to androgynize society entirely, and prevent women from being women. These Lesbianists were usually very masculine, and the more feminine elements felt pushed out of their natural functions as women. The True Feminists wanted to remain women, remain feminine; the lesbianists seemed to counter that impulse. The argument was that women are "feminine" only by the standards of men; they only become sexy in the eyes of men, thereby becoming their sex toys, and nothing more. Such an attitude on the part of men could only set the movement back, and the Lesbianists believed that only by denying men the sexual aspects of women would they gain equality. A truly equal society would have to be androgynous, to avoid sexual inbalance.
But the True women knew that being women meant being attractive to men, and at the same time being superior to them. They believed that they could use their sexual potency as an advantage over men. These women, still heterosexual, had to account for their sex drive. To the Lesbianists, this was blasphemy.
At around the same time, the fashion industry began to sexualize women to an astonishing degree. Women wore tight, mostly revealing clothing, while men wore baggy, unflattering clothes and nondescript suits. Women's bodies were being showcased, while men's bodies were being covered up. This was the first covert push. Even the Lesbianists had to appreciate this.
Men were certainly happy at this time. They could see all they would want, and women still had no idea what lurked beneath the baggy rags of men. Men slobbered all over women like lost puppies.
Behind the scenes, the two groups of women, who had, naturally, cornered the fashion industry, had planned it this way. Men were, in a way, subservient to their sexy women. But they still regarded women as sex objects, and besides that held most of the power. But women were creeping in slowly. The Lesbianists and True Women realized that their visions of a female dominated society were identical, in that men would be as women were in the middle ages: slaves to their powerful spouses. Only the women wanted to crush men even more brutally. The Lesbianists, at least, envisaged a society where men would be used only for breeding purposes. But the common dream of a feminine paradise was impossible with the opposition of the True Women.
The Lesbianists placed a mole within the True Women's ranks, one who could speak and entice like only a select few have ever been able to. She was able to charm the ranks of True Women to the point where she had repeated affairs with virtually all of the higher ranking members. She transformed them all into closet lesbians with her charming and irresistible sex appeal. Now, even the Ture Women were beginning to see that they could acheive better sexual experiences with other women than with men. They were all eventually exposed to one another, and had a lesbian orgy to celebrate. But they were a much larger and much more influential group than the left-leaning fringe group which opposed them. They would accept a peaceful agreement with the Lesbianists only if women were not only allowed, but encouraged, and even forced, to be as feminine as possible. Even women enjoy a sexy girl more than a fat semi-masculine cow. The whole idea of their ultra-feminism was that men are only huge hairy violent brutes, and that soft, smooth, beautiful, delicate women are better off by themselves. They slowly began to assimilate all women to their ways, by either charming heterosexual women into their beds and converting them, or else raping them and forcing them to accept their ways. They were very clandestine, and very successful. They operated with absolute secrecy. No one ever dared to disclose to an untrusted woman, and certainly not any man, the true agenda of Women. They had no need for preventive measures, because the converted were so unanimously and fanatically devoted to the cause.
By the time most women were converted, men began to notice that they were losing their grip on women. Women were becoming openly homosexual, and thumbed their noses at their former lovers. Men began to complain. Some raped and beat women to get their sexual pleasures, but they were all severely punished, usually by castration, as according to the new laws passed at the bidding of Women. Men were fearful of the consequences, because more often than not, during a rape investigation, any and all suspects of any connection to the injured lady were punished. These incidents were rare indeed.
Other men began to campaign for changes to the way things are done. They were willing to give up political power in order to obtain sex. In large measure, men refused this, but Women made huge advances politically in this time. The fashion industry, however, had been recognized as a part of men's problems. It seemed that women became so sexily clad that they could no longer resist each other, and that men were so painfully ugly in their clothes that they became ignored by women. Documents have shown that the movement by men to change fashion to make them sexier, and more appealing to women, was planted by Female agents. Men began, despite the fashion industry, to wear tighter, more revealing clothing. Some enterprising males fashioned their own apparel to retain masculinity; but most of the men were forced to wear certain androgynous clothes, which had been designed for women. men began to wear halter tops, and tight bicycle shorts. They showed lots of flesh, and tight fitting garments were popular. Women did begin to notice them again, but only as perversions of their new sexualities. men would have to become much more feminine to attract women.
At last, the campaign for men to wear women's clothing was in full force, and it proved to be the undoing of men in the end. Women no longer had any interest in men, except as breeding tools. Desperate men resorted to sex changes, or at least dressing in drag for sex. They were indeed slaves to women in this way. They went to great lengths to become as feminine as possible. They shaved their bodies, grew their hair, and took estrogen pills. Women had by now managed to gain all of the political power, because even men now regarded each other as useless unless they could get a woman to have sex with them; and the only way to do that was to become as feminine as possible. Society as a whole began to view femininity as the noblest ideal, and men strove to become like women. Men began to wear skirts and blouses and makeup to acheive their ends. Ironically, it was all out of machismo that they forsook masculinity. They became women to be regarded as manly.
Eventually, that entire plan fell apart on them, when they realized what was happening. At least thirty percent of all men in the western world became transsexual. Men in high places began to look more and more like women, and were eventually replaced by them. In a short period of time, women had managed to seize control of government and establish a benign dictatorship. Politics was no longer useful. Women were absolute rulers of the West. Men, by constitutional law, had to obey the Women at all times. Men had in large part granted Women these powers. Men were forced into slavery to women: each woman was allowed to have one slave man to do the dirty work for her. Soon thereafter, masculinity was outlawed outright. Men could exist, but they had to be feminine. Independent men were outlaws.
Men had given up alll of their property, and so had to beg the women for lodging, food, and clothing. They were kept enthralled by feminine clothing. Mostly, they were made to pick out a feminine outfit, or the mistress would choose one for them, and they would revel in their artificial femininity by wearing lingerie. Many women would engage in psychological torture by forcing the men to dress up with them, and they would proceed to embrace, and the men would swoon and come all over themselves in this ultimate experience. They were being transformed into women by women, who alone knew about womanhood. The dream of a man was to become a girl in every way but genitally, and then breed with his mistress, whereupon he would be allowed (after successful fertilization) a full sex change. He would at last become a woman. He would, of course, be a lesbian, and unable to reproduce, so he remained a slave to his mistress, but he ranked higher in the social order than anyone with a penis.
Foreign governments were soon taken in as well, through the charm and propaganda of the women. Women everywhere began to rule. And now we have this glorious matriarchal system, where Women are the highest possible form of existence.
Fiction: Coerced into Slavery
I fucked her sensuously, but she seemed bored. She made me stop. I was right into it, so it took some time.
"Rob," she said, "We have to try something new. I'm sick of just fucking like this."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Well. . . I have always had this fantasy. . ." she purred. I was newly aroused.
"What is it?"
"Well. . . I don't think you'd like it. No man would do it. . ."
"You'd be surprised at what a man will do. What is it? Don't be afraid. Don't be ashamed."
"No," she resolved, "I just can't tell you outright. You have to guess."
"Very well," I answered, always enjoying her delicious coyness, and her sexy mind games. "Is it anal sex?"
"No, no!"
"Tit fucking?"
"Nope."
"Shit? Piss?"
She shook her head, biting her lip.
"Another man? Another woman? Domination?"
She vigorously shook her head. I was at a loss. "C'mon, tell me," I implored, "I don't know."
She writhed around seductively in acute embarrassment, and beckoned me to bring my head closer, so that she could whisper in my ear.
"Rob," she whispered breathlessly, licking my ear and caressing it with her lips, "If I ask you to do something, will you promise to do it?"
I looked at her supiciously. "Depends what."
She caressed me and rubbed herself onto me. "Won't you do it? For me?"
With such an incentive, I was hornier than I ever thought possible. "Sure," I said huskily, as I caressed her and kissed her neck.
"Um. . . could you pick up my panties off the floor? And my bra?"
I obeyed, thinking that she would put them back on and striptease me again. She was about to order me to do something, but she hesitated, preferring to whisper it salaciously in my ear: "Now, put them on."
I was surprised. How could such a thing turn her on? Not thinking twice of it, I put them on. She passionately rubbed herself all over me, and had the most intense orgasm. I came, too, by her randiness and rubbing.
The next night, as we started going hot and heavy again, she urged me to wear her clothes again. Again, I complied, not thinking twice of it. This became more and more frequent as the days went on. Eventually, she would merely snap the elastic of her panties, and I would immediately remove them from her and put them on myself directly. Sex is sex, I thought, so I continued. I also began to doubt my manhood, because I noticed (and she as well) that I was now aroused as soon as she even hinted at my wearing her clothes.
I began to look forward to it as much as she did. We had fantastic sex this way, and I rarely penetrated her. I began to associate the clothes with good sex. I felt masculine, despite my trappings. Eventually, she seemed to lose interest in this game. She again resorted to the same tactics that got me into her clothes to begin with, and urged me to act more feminine. I did this comically at first, to humour her. I liked this better than penetration. I began to enjoy it even more. I shamefully, however, began to admit to myself that it was indeed better to be in a feminine state of mind. I had to feel as feminine as the sex goddess before me to feel fulfilled.
Eventually, she tired of this again. She began to give me the choice of whether I wanted to do it my way or hers. When I did it her way, I enjoyed myself so much more, so I more frequently did it. I felt so good being feminine. Soon, I began to request it, and she would grudgingly give me leave.
I wore her panties all the time now at home, and became sexually and psychologically enslaved to her. I begged her to let me worship her by letting me rub my feminized body onto her perfect model of womanhood. She allowed me, but became bored. She let me become her personal servant. I never left the house anymore. I lived to serve my goddess of sex. I was well rewarded. How I loved the feel of silk or lace on my monstrously ugly prick when I imagined being a girl. But she betrayed me.
She started bringing home other men. She fucked them, and made me watch clandestinely. I hated it. But they were not allowed to worship her like I was. So I laughed. Once, she brought home a homosexual to watch me worship. He found it quite compelling. He asked her if I were homosexual, and she answered, "Of course he is! Do you think he could be so feminine without being gay?"
"I don't believe it. If he is, then let him blow me."
I hadn't realized the extent of her power. I kneeled down before him and sucked his glorious prick dry until I exploded with ecstasy. I had longed for a dick. I didn't even know it. I felt so much more feminine, and I began to enjoy the company of men. They would fuck me all over, and I would love it. I was a total female, except for my shape.
She then contrived to have me take Gyna's mixture each time I sucked dick, and fucked like a girl. I would smear it on their dicks, suck them dry, and swallow it with their loads. It tasted great. Sure enough, within time, my dick shrivelled up and became a cunt; I grew tits and my waist shrank. My body hair fell out. I became a girl, physically as well as mentally. I fucked some men for a long time thereafter, enjoying it thoroughly, although I became bored.
Then she came to me, hornier than ever, and told me her truest fantasy. "Rob, I am a lesbian, and I love you. I want to fuck you." It took some time for me to become accustomed to pussy, but she slowly converted me again. Ever since, we have been lesbian lovers. I love pussy even more than I did when I was a man, because now I can truly appreciate what it is to have one, and to feel a pretty girl licking it clean.
"Rob," she said, "We have to try something new. I'm sick of just fucking like this."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Well. . . I have always had this fantasy. . ." she purred. I was newly aroused.
"What is it?"
"Well. . . I don't think you'd like it. No man would do it. . ."
"You'd be surprised at what a man will do. What is it? Don't be afraid. Don't be ashamed."
"No," she resolved, "I just can't tell you outright. You have to guess."
"Very well," I answered, always enjoying her delicious coyness, and her sexy mind games. "Is it anal sex?"
"No, no!"
"Tit fucking?"
"Nope."
"Shit? Piss?"
She shook her head, biting her lip.
"Another man? Another woman? Domination?"
She vigorously shook her head. I was at a loss. "C'mon, tell me," I implored, "I don't know."
She writhed around seductively in acute embarrassment, and beckoned me to bring my head closer, so that she could whisper in my ear.
"Rob," she whispered breathlessly, licking my ear and caressing it with her lips, "If I ask you to do something, will you promise to do it?"
I looked at her supiciously. "Depends what."
She caressed me and rubbed herself onto me. "Won't you do it? For me?"
With such an incentive, I was hornier than I ever thought possible. "Sure," I said huskily, as I caressed her and kissed her neck.
"Um. . . could you pick up my panties off the floor? And my bra?"
I obeyed, thinking that she would put them back on and striptease me again. She was about to order me to do something, but she hesitated, preferring to whisper it salaciously in my ear: "Now, put them on."
I was surprised. How could such a thing turn her on? Not thinking twice of it, I put them on. She passionately rubbed herself all over me, and had the most intense orgasm. I came, too, by her randiness and rubbing.
The next night, as we started going hot and heavy again, she urged me to wear her clothes again. Again, I complied, not thinking twice of it. This became more and more frequent as the days went on. Eventually, she would merely snap the elastic of her panties, and I would immediately remove them from her and put them on myself directly. Sex is sex, I thought, so I continued. I also began to doubt my manhood, because I noticed (and she as well) that I was now aroused as soon as she even hinted at my wearing her clothes.
I began to look forward to it as much as she did. We had fantastic sex this way, and I rarely penetrated her. I began to associate the clothes with good sex. I felt masculine, despite my trappings. Eventually, she seemed to lose interest in this game. She again resorted to the same tactics that got me into her clothes to begin with, and urged me to act more feminine. I did this comically at first, to humour her. I liked this better than penetration. I began to enjoy it even more. I shamefully, however, began to admit to myself that it was indeed better to be in a feminine state of mind. I had to feel as feminine as the sex goddess before me to feel fulfilled.
Eventually, she tired of this again. She began to give me the choice of whether I wanted to do it my way or hers. When I did it her way, I enjoyed myself so much more, so I more frequently did it. I felt so good being feminine. Soon, I began to request it, and she would grudgingly give me leave.
I wore her panties all the time now at home, and became sexually and psychologically enslaved to her. I begged her to let me worship her by letting me rub my feminized body onto her perfect model of womanhood. She allowed me, but became bored. She let me become her personal servant. I never left the house anymore. I lived to serve my goddess of sex. I was well rewarded. How I loved the feel of silk or lace on my monstrously ugly prick when I imagined being a girl. But she betrayed me.
She started bringing home other men. She fucked them, and made me watch clandestinely. I hated it. But they were not allowed to worship her like I was. So I laughed. Once, she brought home a homosexual to watch me worship. He found it quite compelling. He asked her if I were homosexual, and she answered, "Of course he is! Do you think he could be so feminine without being gay?"
"I don't believe it. If he is, then let him blow me."
I hadn't realized the extent of her power. I kneeled down before him and sucked his glorious prick dry until I exploded with ecstasy. I had longed for a dick. I didn't even know it. I felt so much more feminine, and I began to enjoy the company of men. They would fuck me all over, and I would love it. I was a total female, except for my shape.
She then contrived to have me take Gyna's mixture each time I sucked dick, and fucked like a girl. I would smear it on their dicks, suck them dry, and swallow it with their loads. It tasted great. Sure enough, within time, my dick shrivelled up and became a cunt; I grew tits and my waist shrank. My body hair fell out. I became a girl, physically as well as mentally. I fucked some men for a long time thereafter, enjoying it thoroughly, although I became bored.
Then she came to me, hornier than ever, and told me her truest fantasy. "Rob, I am a lesbian, and I love you. I want to fuck you." It took some time for me to become accustomed to pussy, but she slowly converted me again. Ever since, we have been lesbian lovers. I love pussy even more than I did when I was a man, because now I can truly appreciate what it is to have one, and to feel a pretty girl licking it clean.
Fiction: Enslaved and Forced to Become a Woman
The woman wouldn't let me go. I was threatened with death. She would really shoot me if I tried to bolt. So I stayed. She made me strip. I was naked in front of her, and I felt embarrassed. She laughed at the size of my penis. I was forced to stand there and let her make fun of me. She wouldn't touch me. I had to be her slave. I did everything for her. At first I was truculent, but she beat me with a billy club. When I was truly insubordinate, she would shove it up my ass.
I served as her naked slave for weeks. I slept naked on the floor at the foot of her bed, chained to a bedpost. I couldn't climb onto the bed and kill her, because the chain was too short. If I misbehaved she would torture me. Never did she let me become sexually satisfied. She placed a cup on my penis that prevented it from being touched. How I longed for relief! She skimped around all day in her lingerie to torture my brain.
About two years later, two years of perpetual shame, she told me that she would allow me to wear clothing. She would throw me into a room and allow me to choose any garment that I want, and wear it for as long as I pleased. I was allowed to pick a wardrobe.
She threw me in, and the air was cold. She turned on the lights, and I discovered that I was in a lingerie shop. There was nothing in any way masculine in the room. The only clothing was women's underwear. I had no choice but to grab some girls' underwear for warmth. I draped silk on my body, and it immediately warmed me. But not as much as I wished. She made it colder in the room, and no matter what amount of clothing I piled onto me, I could not warm up. She told me to try something on. I refused. I would not be forced to be a transvestite! She relented and permitted me to serve her for another year.
On that anniversary, she allowed me to re-enter the lingerie closet and pick a wardrobe again. But I was accustomed to nakedness. She still did not allow me any sexual pleasure, and oh, how she aroused me. She would tease me. . . I again refused.
She seemed to warm up to me more, out of familiarity. She told me about how to be a woman, and expected me to do as she did. I had to, or would die. She was so pleasant about it, that I actually enjoyed acting like her, my exalted goddess.
When she threw me into the lingerie store that year, I again felt apprehensive. But she now refused to let me leave without anything on. To humour her, I put on the most unflattering lingerie that I could find. I came as soon as it touched my cock. I was disgusted.
She threw me back in, and forced me to take another. Again, I repeated the action.
The next time, she made me try on something else, and let me wear it for much longer. It felt so warm on my body. I liked it. I began to experiment with other clothes, halfheartedly, because she was never satisfied with what I took. I became a lingerie model for her. I tried to act as femininely as possible, and the more I was feminine, the more she appreciated it. I began to plot what I would wear, to make it the most revealing possible. I began to enjoy wearing the sexiest clothes. . . She loved to see me that way. I began to truly love acting like a woman. I noticed that my penis was shrinking each time I acted femininely. At first I was alarmed, but the pleasure was such that I could no resist. I continued, heedless. I started engaging in homosexual sex. My breasts began to grow, and my hips. My waist and genitalia continued to shrink. I began to look like a girl. My body hair fell out. One day, my dick was gone, swallowed into a hole of flesh forming on my crotch. I had a cunt. At last, I became female. I could truly fuck like a girl! I am now a woman. I treat my own slave in much the same way.
I served as her naked slave for weeks. I slept naked on the floor at the foot of her bed, chained to a bedpost. I couldn't climb onto the bed and kill her, because the chain was too short. If I misbehaved she would torture me. Never did she let me become sexually satisfied. She placed a cup on my penis that prevented it from being touched. How I longed for relief! She skimped around all day in her lingerie to torture my brain.
About two years later, two years of perpetual shame, she told me that she would allow me to wear clothing. She would throw me into a room and allow me to choose any garment that I want, and wear it for as long as I pleased. I was allowed to pick a wardrobe.
She threw me in, and the air was cold. She turned on the lights, and I discovered that I was in a lingerie shop. There was nothing in any way masculine in the room. The only clothing was women's underwear. I had no choice but to grab some girls' underwear for warmth. I draped silk on my body, and it immediately warmed me. But not as much as I wished. She made it colder in the room, and no matter what amount of clothing I piled onto me, I could not warm up. She told me to try something on. I refused. I would not be forced to be a transvestite! She relented and permitted me to serve her for another year.
On that anniversary, she allowed me to re-enter the lingerie closet and pick a wardrobe again. But I was accustomed to nakedness. She still did not allow me any sexual pleasure, and oh, how she aroused me. She would tease me. . . I again refused.
She seemed to warm up to me more, out of familiarity. She told me about how to be a woman, and expected me to do as she did. I had to, or would die. She was so pleasant about it, that I actually enjoyed acting like her, my exalted goddess.
When she threw me into the lingerie store that year, I again felt apprehensive. But she now refused to let me leave without anything on. To humour her, I put on the most unflattering lingerie that I could find. I came as soon as it touched my cock. I was disgusted.
She threw me back in, and forced me to take another. Again, I repeated the action.
The next time, she made me try on something else, and let me wear it for much longer. It felt so warm on my body. I liked it. I began to experiment with other clothes, halfheartedly, because she was never satisfied with what I took. I became a lingerie model for her. I tried to act as femininely as possible, and the more I was feminine, the more she appreciated it. I began to plot what I would wear, to make it the most revealing possible. I began to enjoy wearing the sexiest clothes. . . She loved to see me that way. I began to truly love acting like a woman. I noticed that my penis was shrinking each time I acted femininely. At first I was alarmed, but the pleasure was such that I could no resist. I continued, heedless. I started engaging in homosexual sex. My breasts began to grow, and my hips. My waist and genitalia continued to shrink. I began to look like a girl. My body hair fell out. One day, my dick was gone, swallowed into a hole of flesh forming on my crotch. I had a cunt. At last, I became female. I could truly fuck like a girl! I am now a woman. I treat my own slave in much the same way.
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