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 sodomy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sodomy. Show all posts
Fiction: Revenge of the Harem
I'm rich. But I don't like to go out much. That's why I keep my harem. They're here for life. They never leave. I have my way with them whenever I want, and they can bitch all they want about it, it won't change. They're my little sex slaves.
Typically, I tie them up naked, spread eagled and gagged on this contraption that I've got. It's like a roof on my bed. I tie them to it so that they face the mattress, and come down to get fucked whether they like it or not. I've even climbed up and hung off of them as I fuck them, so that they're fucking in mid-air. It's quite a bit of fun. They all hate it at first, but they eventually start loving it.
Then one day, the tables turn. They somehow organize a revolt, and they capture me. But they don't want to kill me. They'd rather embarrass me. They disable me, remove all my body hair, and strap me into some of their lingerie and then into the machine, where I can't move. I'm wearing silky undies, a matching bra and garter belt and black stockings. They take pictures of me, stare at me and laugh, and hurl insults at me. They call me a sissy. Then they bring in the real torture.
They bring in some strapping young faggot. Essentially he does to me what I did to the girls. And they all watch and hoot and holler and love the show. He fucks me up the ass, in the mouth, the whole bit. He even fondles my nipples. He keeps my panties on, so that I don't forget who the girl is in this relationship. He even whispers in my ear that I'm his little pretty girlfriend. As he fucks me, he fondles my pantied crotch. The girls cheer the loudest when I finally come. I just feel so effeminate.
This goes on infinitely. I'm imprisoned, and I'm forced to wear women's clothes only. And every day, I get strapped in and fucked, just like my girls used to. I start really enjoying it, too. I start looking forward to it. I start making myself as sexily effeminate as I can. I start dressing myself up, rather than being forced to. I willingly suck his dick. I become his little private sex whore. And I feel very feminine and proud. The girls have their revenge.
Typically, I tie them up naked, spread eagled and gagged on this contraption that I've got. It's like a roof on my bed. I tie them to it so that they face the mattress, and come down to get fucked whether they like it or not. I've even climbed up and hung off of them as I fuck them, so that they're fucking in mid-air. It's quite a bit of fun. They all hate it at first, but they eventually start loving it.
Then one day, the tables turn. They somehow organize a revolt, and they capture me. But they don't want to kill me. They'd rather embarrass me. They disable me, remove all my body hair, and strap me into some of their lingerie and then into the machine, where I can't move. I'm wearing silky undies, a matching bra and garter belt and black stockings. They take pictures of me, stare at me and laugh, and hurl insults at me. They call me a sissy. Then they bring in the real torture.
They bring in some strapping young faggot. Essentially he does to me what I did to the girls. And they all watch and hoot and holler and love the show. He fucks me up the ass, in the mouth, the whole bit. He even fondles my nipples. He keeps my panties on, so that I don't forget who the girl is in this relationship. He even whispers in my ear that I'm his little pretty girlfriend. As he fucks me, he fondles my pantied crotch. The girls cheer the loudest when I finally come. I just feel so effeminate.
This goes on infinitely. I'm imprisoned, and I'm forced to wear women's clothes only. And every day, I get strapped in and fucked, just like my girls used to. I start really enjoying it, too. I start looking forward to it. I start making myself as sexily effeminate as I can. I start dressing myself up, rather than being forced to. I willingly suck his dick. I become his little private sex whore. And I feel very feminine and proud. The girls have their revenge.
Diary: Deep Questions about Limits
I think that's about finished. It was pretty exhilarating to write. For the first time, I managed to make myself come using my hands. And I did it more than once, too.
This story brought to mind one of those interesting deep questions: if you could experience the most prolonged and intense sexual experience conceivable, knowing in advance that it would be 100 times better and longer than any sexual experience you've ever had, and knowing that it would destroy your sexuality irrevocably so that you could never have sex again, would you do it?
I can't even answer that myself. It's a very difficult question. I'm leaning towards quantity right now, rather than quality.
One thing I had thought of as a kid when I used to fantasize about becoming a girl by wearing women's clothes: literal emasculation. I had this fantasy that girls would capture me and force me to wear their clothes to effeminate me a bit. To add injury to insult, they would then chop off my genitals in preparation for a sex change operation, and force me to eat my own penis. I don't remember anything about my balls, but I do remember having to eat my own dick. Cooked like a sausage. I ate it, too, and became a girl.
It's a bit raunchy, isn't it? Not too stimulating, either. How could I be mortally embarrassed if I didn't still have my dick swishing around in effeminate silk?
More raunchiness: homosexuality. There was a time when I fantasized about fucking men as a girl. It doesn't really turn me on all that much, but there's that guilty aversion to the effeminacy associated with homosexuality. In other words, I started thinking about having a cock up my ass, or in my mouth, as I acted like a girl, and it made me feel that much more effeminate. Because that's what girls do. But I felt guilty that it turned me on, and so it turned me on even more-much as wearing lingerie does. Right now I can picture myself all dolled up in lingerie, feeling all proud, and even horny, as a man snaps the elastics on my panties. I get all excited as I suck him and fuck him. Even though I'm still male, and I'm only wearing women's clothes.
Finally, there's another story in me, one that combines all sorts of very nasty, sordid, and most unsavoury sexual acts...
This story brought to mind one of those interesting deep questions: if you could experience the most prolonged and intense sexual experience conceivable, knowing in advance that it would be 100 times better and longer than any sexual experience you've ever had, and knowing that it would destroy your sexuality irrevocably so that you could never have sex again, would you do it?
I can't even answer that myself. It's a very difficult question. I'm leaning towards quantity right now, rather than quality.
One thing I had thought of as a kid when I used to fantasize about becoming a girl by wearing women's clothes: literal emasculation. I had this fantasy that girls would capture me and force me to wear their clothes to effeminate me a bit. To add injury to insult, they would then chop off my genitals in preparation for a sex change operation, and force me to eat my own penis. I don't remember anything about my balls, but I do remember having to eat my own dick. Cooked like a sausage. I ate it, too, and became a girl.
It's a bit raunchy, isn't it? Not too stimulating, either. How could I be mortally embarrassed if I didn't still have my dick swishing around in effeminate silk?
More raunchiness: homosexuality. There was a time when I fantasized about fucking men as a girl. It doesn't really turn me on all that much, but there's that guilty aversion to the effeminacy associated with homosexuality. In other words, I started thinking about having a cock up my ass, or in my mouth, as I acted like a girl, and it made me feel that much more effeminate. Because that's what girls do. But I felt guilty that it turned me on, and so it turned me on even more-much as wearing lingerie does. Right now I can picture myself all dolled up in lingerie, feeling all proud, and even horny, as a man snaps the elastics on my panties. I get all excited as I suck him and fuck him. Even though I'm still male, and I'm only wearing women's clothes.
Finally, there's another story in me, one that combines all sorts of very nasty, sordid, and most unsavoury sexual acts...
Fantasy Double-Feature: Lingerie Store; and, Captured and Forced
Okay, maybe something a little bit different. I can tell that story over and over again over more than one hundred pages, and never get tired of telling it: the great metamorphosis.
Here's another fantasy: a man innocently goes to buy lingerie for his wife or girlfriend, but he unsuspectingly goes to a special lingerie store. No, not one of those that cater to transvestites. One that creates transvestites. He goes in, and nervously picks out something for his girl, but when he goes to buy it, the clerks goad him into trying it on. C'mon, they say. You have to try it on to be sure that it fits her. Maybe you won't like it once you see it worn. The man cajoles the clerks: why don't YOU try it on for me. I'm sure you'd look a hell of a lot better in it than me. To which she replies, yeah, but this is for your wife. I'm not your wife. That wouldn't be fair to her, now would it? Besides, I don't think your wife would care to wear something that another woman has worn. It's just not sanitary. You, she could stand, because presumably she pretty well shares your groin with you. So it's not so bad on you. Go ahead. Just try it on. There's mirrors in the change rooms.
So the guy tries it on, very reluctantly. Over his underwear, in fact. He feels foolish. He looks foolish. But it's his first taste. He goes downhill from there. He has to try it on again. He buys more and more lingerie for his woman. He tries it on all the time. Without underwear. He comes to crave it, without even knowing it. (there's the trick: how to convey that he's craving without knowing it? How to tell that he's obsessed with not only panties, but wearing panties?) He keeps thinking about how good she'd look in a certain kind of lingerie. He wants to keep returning to the lingerie store just to look at the panties, which turn him on more than his woman. (Easily described: He looks at the fine detail, and how it would feel on skin, and how it would caress the body, but not about how it would accentuate certain parts of his woman's figure.) Eventually, he starts playing with her undies, in his hands, just to feel them, just to look at them. He loves the way they look so feminine, moreso than woman. They are the femininity that he craves. He adores how they feel against his skin. It's only a matter of time before they touch his dick. And from there, it's only a matter of time before he slides into them in a passion of fetish, and rubs himself off in them.
Problem: is that the moment of recognition? Is that when he realizes that he has a problem? I suppose that it must be. How could one not find that problematic? I don't remember exactly what I thought when I first put on pantyhose by myself for masturbatory purposes, but I'm sure that it was scary and made me very ashamed after. That's when we get into the tired story of obsession. I think I want to stay away from that. I've talked enough about it.
How about this: forced effemination. I found an ad once in the back of Now magazine about an 'escort' who specializes in 'forced effemination.' What would that entail? No doubt, payment first. Then she takes you up to her apartment, and ties you up and forces you to wear her undies. But it has to go further than that, although that would be quite fantastic, I think. I would love to have a woman dress me up in her lingerie, and shave my body, and make me up, and then make me prance around before I collapse in a fit of total abandon at her feet, worshiping her and her effortless femininity. Here's something like a story that I never finished reading on the internet:
A guy answers a personal ad for some sexual fantasy. He meets this couple to make sure it's cool. Them for the same reason. He's misled, intentionally. He shows up, and they capture him, and turn him into a girl.
Here's my version: it would be totally involuntary, totally unexpected. I'm walking down the street when I'm captured. I wake up bound and gagged and blindfolded in the trunk of a car. They lug me out of the trunk and toss me in a basement somewhere. I can't escape: they're too strong, or I'm too weak from fighting or from being drugged.
I wake up naked in a dank cellar. Hours later, a scantily clad woman (of course) comes down to see me. I'm chained to the wall, so I can't escape. I'm naked. She tightens the chains, and makes it impossible for me to move. She takes me to another room, where they nair my body, from head to toe. I have no body hair left. I still have head hair. They toss me back in my cell, naked, and leave me there for a long time. They put a choke chain on me. They start commanding me, showing me who's boss. When I disobey, or don't obey fast enough, they tug and cause me great pain. In so doing, they make me put on women's underwear. Just panties and a bra. And they chain me up like that for the rest of the day.
Later, as the days go on, they let me go to the bathroom. But I have to wear women's underwear only. They make me wear spiked heels. They make me walk more effeminately. They put pills in my food, which I must eat or starve. I obey or I die. They make me gesture femininely. They make me act like a complete faggot. Soon they introduce me to garter belts and other items of lingerie. Stockings. I nair or shave my own body. My hair seems much more sparse after a while. And my voice starts getting higher. And my pecs start getting floppier and floppier.
They are turning me into a girl. In fact, they would tell me so from the very beginning. They will turn me into a girl, whether I like it or not. I don't. Not at all. But I have to get used to it. It's that or death. They eventually feel confident enough to remove the choke chain and allow me to prance around effeminately to our mutual pleasure. I still have a dick: I am a chick with a dick. But I want to be a girl. Desperately. So I dress like one, act like one, suck dicks like one, etc. I become completely female, except for one thing: my genital organ. I squeal for dicks. I'm totally metamorphosed. Female.
Let's go back: they start making me wear women's underwear. I feel ashamed and emasculated, especially in my hairless skin. I realize that I really do look feminine, sort of. They move in and start rubbing my flaccid, embarrassed dick. This goes on for quite a while.
They start doing things to make me horny. They get close, and they touch me tenderly, and they fondle me. They make me horny, but I'm wearing women's underwear. They make me rub myself with my panties on. They make fun of me, telling me that I'm a sissy, a girly-boy. That I'll be female in no time. That I can't do anything about it, and that I obviously love it. They make me angry, but I can't help it. They masturbate me. They tease me to make me super horny, and then laugh when I relieve myself in the only way physically possible. (They've chained me to a contraption that I can rub my dick against, and I do, and I can't help it. I need the relief.)
They make me prance around like a woman, so I get used to being feminine. I have to do it consciously at first, but soon it becomes habit. My only sexual outlet is when they let me jump on their machine. And they only allow me to if I act sufficiently feminine. That means different things throughout my development: First, walking like a girl. Then, talking like a girl. Then, gesturing like a girl. Then, doing everything better than I ever had. I come to realize that it's really not such a small price to pay. NO! First, they make me do girlish stuff for food, which isn't yet laced with estrogen. They condition me to be feminine or starve. If I do very well, they allow me to masturbate. Otherwise, they keep me chained up in a way that I can never rub my dick on anything. Just picture myself chained up, hairless, effeminate, in women's lingerie, a matching bra and panties, sweaty, struggling to break free. Lace and silk elastics, so delicate, biting into my flesh tantalizingly. So I become a bit more effeminate. I resist at first, but I have to turn myself around to live. I wear the clothes, I do as they say. They masturbate me themselves, and accentuate my pleasure by making me imagine myself female. And it starts to work, as I am angry to discover. They always push me harder and harder. Eventually, I suck dicks. They let me get fucked, and give me a choice. I choose men, because I want a penis in me. I am totally effeminate. I accept my new existence, and beg them to let me have estrogen, to make me into a girl. But they refuse.
By sheer force of will, my body changes. I grow tits, a waist, keep hair off, etc. I become a girl, by wearing women's underwear.
Here's another fantasy: a man innocently goes to buy lingerie for his wife or girlfriend, but he unsuspectingly goes to a special lingerie store. No, not one of those that cater to transvestites. One that creates transvestites. He goes in, and nervously picks out something for his girl, but when he goes to buy it, the clerks goad him into trying it on. C'mon, they say. You have to try it on to be sure that it fits her. Maybe you won't like it once you see it worn. The man cajoles the clerks: why don't YOU try it on for me. I'm sure you'd look a hell of a lot better in it than me. To which she replies, yeah, but this is for your wife. I'm not your wife. That wouldn't be fair to her, now would it? Besides, I don't think your wife would care to wear something that another woman has worn. It's just not sanitary. You, she could stand, because presumably she pretty well shares your groin with you. So it's not so bad on you. Go ahead. Just try it on. There's mirrors in the change rooms.
So the guy tries it on, very reluctantly. Over his underwear, in fact. He feels foolish. He looks foolish. But it's his first taste. He goes downhill from there. He has to try it on again. He buys more and more lingerie for his woman. He tries it on all the time. Without underwear. He comes to crave it, without even knowing it. (there's the trick: how to convey that he's craving without knowing it? How to tell that he's obsessed with not only panties, but wearing panties?) He keeps thinking about how good she'd look in a certain kind of lingerie. He wants to keep returning to the lingerie store just to look at the panties, which turn him on more than his woman. (Easily described: He looks at the fine detail, and how it would feel on skin, and how it would caress the body, but not about how it would accentuate certain parts of his woman's figure.) Eventually, he starts playing with her undies, in his hands, just to feel them, just to look at them. He loves the way they look so feminine, moreso than woman. They are the femininity that he craves. He adores how they feel against his skin. It's only a matter of time before they touch his dick. And from there, it's only a matter of time before he slides into them in a passion of fetish, and rubs himself off in them.
Problem: is that the moment of recognition? Is that when he realizes that he has a problem? I suppose that it must be. How could one not find that problematic? I don't remember exactly what I thought when I first put on pantyhose by myself for masturbatory purposes, but I'm sure that it was scary and made me very ashamed after. That's when we get into the tired story of obsession. I think I want to stay away from that. I've talked enough about it.
How about this: forced effemination. I found an ad once in the back of Now magazine about an 'escort' who specializes in 'forced effemination.' What would that entail? No doubt, payment first. Then she takes you up to her apartment, and ties you up and forces you to wear her undies. But it has to go further than that, although that would be quite fantastic, I think. I would love to have a woman dress me up in her lingerie, and shave my body, and make me up, and then make me prance around before I collapse in a fit of total abandon at her feet, worshiping her and her effortless femininity. Here's something like a story that I never finished reading on the internet:
A guy answers a personal ad for some sexual fantasy. He meets this couple to make sure it's cool. Them for the same reason. He's misled, intentionally. He shows up, and they capture him, and turn him into a girl.
Here's my version: it would be totally involuntary, totally unexpected. I'm walking down the street when I'm captured. I wake up bound and gagged and blindfolded in the trunk of a car. They lug me out of the trunk and toss me in a basement somewhere. I can't escape: they're too strong, or I'm too weak from fighting or from being drugged.
I wake up naked in a dank cellar. Hours later, a scantily clad woman (of course) comes down to see me. I'm chained to the wall, so I can't escape. I'm naked. She tightens the chains, and makes it impossible for me to move. She takes me to another room, where they nair my body, from head to toe. I have no body hair left. I still have head hair. They toss me back in my cell, naked, and leave me there for a long time. They put a choke chain on me. They start commanding me, showing me who's boss. When I disobey, or don't obey fast enough, they tug and cause me great pain. In so doing, they make me put on women's underwear. Just panties and a bra. And they chain me up like that for the rest of the day.
Later, as the days go on, they let me go to the bathroom. But I have to wear women's underwear only. They make me wear spiked heels. They make me walk more effeminately. They put pills in my food, which I must eat or starve. I obey or I die. They make me gesture femininely. They make me act like a complete faggot. Soon they introduce me to garter belts and other items of lingerie. Stockings. I nair or shave my own body. My hair seems much more sparse after a while. And my voice starts getting higher. And my pecs start getting floppier and floppier.
They are turning me into a girl. In fact, they would tell me so from the very beginning. They will turn me into a girl, whether I like it or not. I don't. Not at all. But I have to get used to it. It's that or death. They eventually feel confident enough to remove the choke chain and allow me to prance around effeminately to our mutual pleasure. I still have a dick: I am a chick with a dick. But I want to be a girl. Desperately. So I dress like one, act like one, suck dicks like one, etc. I become completely female, except for one thing: my genital organ. I squeal for dicks. I'm totally metamorphosed. Female.
Let's go back: they start making me wear women's underwear. I feel ashamed and emasculated, especially in my hairless skin. I realize that I really do look feminine, sort of. They move in and start rubbing my flaccid, embarrassed dick. This goes on for quite a while.
They start doing things to make me horny. They get close, and they touch me tenderly, and they fondle me. They make me horny, but I'm wearing women's underwear. They make me rub myself with my panties on. They make fun of me, telling me that I'm a sissy, a girly-boy. That I'll be female in no time. That I can't do anything about it, and that I obviously love it. They make me angry, but I can't help it. They masturbate me. They tease me to make me super horny, and then laugh when I relieve myself in the only way physically possible. (They've chained me to a contraption that I can rub my dick against, and I do, and I can't help it. I need the relief.)
They make me prance around like a woman, so I get used to being feminine. I have to do it consciously at first, but soon it becomes habit. My only sexual outlet is when they let me jump on their machine. And they only allow me to if I act sufficiently feminine. That means different things throughout my development: First, walking like a girl. Then, talking like a girl. Then, gesturing like a girl. Then, doing everything better than I ever had. I come to realize that it's really not such a small price to pay. NO! First, they make me do girlish stuff for food, which isn't yet laced with estrogen. They condition me to be feminine or starve. If I do very well, they allow me to masturbate. Otherwise, they keep me chained up in a way that I can never rub my dick on anything. Just picture myself chained up, hairless, effeminate, in women's lingerie, a matching bra and panties, sweaty, struggling to break free. Lace and silk elastics, so delicate, biting into my flesh tantalizingly. So I become a bit more effeminate. I resist at first, but I have to turn myself around to live. I wear the clothes, I do as they say. They masturbate me themselves, and accentuate my pleasure by making me imagine myself female. And it starts to work, as I am angry to discover. They always push me harder and harder. Eventually, I suck dicks. They let me get fucked, and give me a choice. I choose men, because I want a penis in me. I am totally effeminate. I accept my new existence, and beg them to let me have estrogen, to make me into a girl. But they refuse.
By sheer force of will, my body changes. I grow tits, a waist, keep hair off, etc. I become a girl, by wearing women's underwear.
Diary: My Velvety Undies; and, a Prison Fantasy
That fuzzy lingerie was quite enjoyable. It's just my size. It's a little too full, both for my taste and hers. It covers too much up. But it's quite fun to wear. I couldn't stop thinking about it for a few days after I wore it. Especially that first time. I came once, and I just had to continue. I had to get some more. I came again. Then later that night, I had to jerk myself again, but I didn't bother to put it on, although it was at the centre of my thoughts the whole time. I regretted not wearing it. But I had to be careful: it was collecting little bits of white fluff from my fuzzy bedsheets. I rubbed as much off as I could, but I figured in the end that my task was hopeless, and that she probably wouldn't even notice. Nevertheless, I forbade myself from wearing it again until she wore it first. And she did. And she didn't notice. Although she did tell me that I'm not allowed to wear it.
That, of course, only makes me want to wear it more. I wore it again last night, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. It had been a while since I had done anything. I had been dry since Sunday, I think. So it was a welcome relief. And I've been thinking of those panties all day. I want to do it again tonight. And as a matter of fact, I will. I'll be wearing them a hell of a lot more than A__. Isn't that just great?
I was quite impressed with the way those panties caress the crotch, in a way that men's underwear just doesn't. I can feel a strange sort of erotic tugging at my balls and along the line up to my hips. It makes me feel so sexy, so girlish. So BAD. And that's a good thing. A very good thing indeed.
It's amazing how often I come back to this. I find myself coming back here time after time, affirming for myself why I find so much pleasure in wearing undergarments designed for members of the opposite sex. Is there really anything inherently sexy about the underwear itself? Intuitively, no; it's what's supposed to go into it that's sexy. But somehow, I can't help but break into a sweat when I look at women's underwear. It's so incredibly sexy, so naughty. I look at silky, lace-trimmed panties and I can't help but be turned on. There doesn't even have to be anything inside them. Just the panties are enough. This raises an intriguing question, to which I will now attempt to find the answer: is it the panties themselves that turn me on, or their association with things feminine?
Let me see. There is a clear connection with the femininity of panties. I wouldn't care for them at all if there weren't. But the question is whether the femininity comes from the fact that girls wear them, or is it inherent in them? In that case, the panties are a source of femininity, because some panties are sexier than others. I would much rather wear a skimpy pair of lacy, stringy panties than both the big massive ones that mom wears and even the undeniably sexy fuzzy red panties in my drawer. So there is something to the panties themselves. Women, however, don't draw their femininity from the panties, although they do accentuate feminine features. A girl would be about as sexy with them as without them. Although I must admit that I prefer seeing A__ in her underwear than naked. She is smashing naked, but in underwear, she's somehow sexier. I suppose that has as much to do with my underwear fetish as it does with their accentuation of her features.
So I suppose I must conclude that the panties themselves turn me on, because they are, strangely enough, inherently feminine. But why are they inherently feminine? I suppose it must be because they are shaped in a way that makes a woman look fantastic. But that's mostly psychological. Why associate lace or silk with women, and not men? It seems rather arbitrary. But in my mind, there is nothing arbitrary about it. It's not just the silk, or the softness, or the lace, but the overall shape of the panties that counts. You know when you look at it that it's designed for a girl's body. It's not just the crotch, either. Something about the trim usually means sexiness, too. The fuzzy panties have no lace, no silk (except for something soft on the inside) but are still sexy enough. The shape has everything to do with it. A bikini panty is incredibly, exquisitely sexy, too, and it has no lace, no silk, just a high cutting shape. I still have a craving for a bikini, but that's usually overridden these days by a powerful need for varieties of underwear. I still want to wear A__'s regular panties, which are by no means spectacular. They just look so fun. It must be psychological. The shape alone can't possibly account for it all. But in a way, I guess it does. Silkiness and lace are just an added bonus.
Another question is this: why, if I am turned on by the underwear, do I absolutely need to wear it? It just wouldn't be pleasurable if I didn't slip into it. Sometimes, the most intense moment of my pleasure comes when I imagine that when I am done, I can slip into my girlie underwear and go to sleep, as if that's my normal undergarment. It's incredibly enticing, incredibly erotic. The whole fetish for underwear is connected to an overpowering desire for femininity. I want to discard my masculinity, which all men hold so dear, in favour of femininity and women's underwear. I want to laugh in the face of all the men who would disown me if I ever showed the slightest trace of girlishness, as I wontonly shake off my manliness and gamboll freely with the girls, in their clothes. I want to abdicate my heavy responsibilities as a man and take on the playful female spirit of sexual abandon. I want to make myself pretty, and sleek, and lithe, and curvy, in revolt to masculine norms. I just want to escape that fragile male facade and embrace the freedom of being female. Girls don't have rules against wearing certain types of clothes. Girls don't have rules against doing things that men do. Girls can be as feminine as they please. Men can't be feminine at all. Mind you, girls can't really get away with being masculine, but they get away with it far more easily and far more often than men get away with being feminine. It doesn't really have anything to do with it.
I still have so much trouble putting my finger on it. Femininity arouses me to the utmost degree, yet I have transferred that arousal somehow away from particular women to a symbol of their femininity in their underwear. From an intense heterosexual urge, I have extracted an overpowering urge to be feminine. Something about the perversity of it arouses me even more. Something about the sheer taboo of it makes me want to do it that much more, makes me enjoy it that much more. The fact that I should feel shame, and that I have felt shame, for doing it, makes it so arousing. I should be ashamed of myself, because I wear women's clothes. But so what? What does that mean? If anybody asked me, that's how I would defend myself. So what if I wear women's underwear for pleasure? What does that entail? Am I somehow less masculine now? Years of doing it hasn't changed me into a woman or a homosexual has it? Was I any more sexy a year ago than I am now? Your not knowing that I secretly wear women's underwear didn't make me seem girlish, did it? Of course not. I'm not girlish. But secretly, I would think about how I wished each time that it did make me feminine, how I wished each time to throw away my manhood forever and never look back. The idea of wearing women's underwear permanently has often enticed me. Always enticed me. I know that my arguments are hollow, because every argument I use to defend myself has an easy answer. YES, you are less masculine. YES, it has changed you into a sort of pervert. Normal people don't do that. Normal people wear their own underwear. It's weird and it makes me uncomfortable to think that you dress like a girl in private. What other perverted thoughts do you think?
But that's part of the dream, isn't it? I dream of being forced into women's underwear, and finally succumbing to the pleasure of it, and finally becoming feminine, and ultimately female. I have no choice but to accept how pleasurable it is, or I will go insane. The way I see it, I know something that everybody, including women, knows: wearing sexy women's lingerie is incredibly arousing and gratifying. Women know it, and they wear it, because it makes them feel sexy and attractive. Men know it because they see women wearing it, and becoming sexy and attractive. But what they don't know, or rather what they are afraid to admit, is that even men would feel sexy and attractive--exactly as women do-- when they wear it. Men would feel sexy and feminine by wearing women's panties. And that's what they fear. They just know that they would love wearing their sweetheart's underwear. And that's exactly why they don't do it. It could become habit-forming. They might start wearing it every day, and eventually become transsexuals. That's what they're afraid of. Women are afraid of it, too, because they don't want more girlfriends, they want men to be masculine; they fear that their men will want to become women. Funny thing is that all of these fears are not only completely justified, but perfectly true. Most men will probably never put on women's underwear, because they don't want to have to deal with suddenly wanting to repeat the experience compulsively. They don't want it to make them girlish. They think that wearing lingerie just once will make them turn into complete sissies, who'll keep coming back for more. The beauty of it is that they're absolutely right. Just look at me: I can't stop. I always want more. And this has been going on for almost twenty years now, since I was five years old.
The difference is that I'm not afraid anymore. Now I'm only marginally afraid that anyone finds out. The fear has withered away because I've become desensitized to wearing women's clothes now, and it's almost routine. But I would never want anyone to find out. That would be disastrous. But I want to keep doing it forever.
Again, a cheesy scenario: I am captured by a bunch of girls. They are playful and sexy and beautiful. They think it's great to have a man with them. They have no respect for me, though, because I am the enemy. They strip me naked and make me wear their clothes and makeup. They turn me into their mannequin. And they laugh at me. But I can't help but enjoy it. And they take notice. And they torture me, and force me to come all over myself as I wear their outfits, particularly their lingerie and bathing suits and sexy stuff. Naturally, I only model their sexy stuff. They keep tempting me and mocking me, for years, but I hope for a rescue. Finally, I can't take it anymore, and I succumb. Before, I never let myself come. But now, I let myself go. I accept the pleasure. I don't prevent myself a release anymore, and I start coming all over the place, and really enjoying it. No.
They capture me and start dressing me up. I don't react. I just feel humiliation. I am shamed. I, a big powerful man, am dressed in pretty little silks and flowery laces and bows. I secretly, even to myself, feel the pleasure of a hard-on in my crotch, but I resist it at all costs. It just feels so soft, and so tight. It's the girls, I tell myself. They're causing this. But I know in my heart that it's the clothes I'm wearing, tight on my pecker, and soft and pretty, that make me horny. They notice, and rub me down until I come inside the clothes. I am completely ashamed, as they make fun of me in girly clothes, apparently enjoying myself. they do this again and again to me, and I am always ashamed. I desperately try to stop them from pleasuring me, but I can't help but feel pleasure. By the second or third time, they stop, and they don't do it anymore. I long for the pleasure, but I can't ask them. I am a prisoner, and I don't have rights. But they have me in their playroom. This is where they prance around in their underwear, modelling stuff for themselves, for each other, because girls like to do that type of thing. Their clothes are everywhere. Tempting me. They leave me alone there every night with their lingerie all around me. I am going insane, so I put some on, and masturbate in it, completely revelling in the pleasure.
Of course, they don't notice. They have apparently lost interest in me. They don't make me wear their clothes anymore. They don't do much to me anymore, just keep me there to watch and drool. Nobody knows where I am. They think I'm dead, they tell me. I'm not going anywhere. About a week has passed, and I have only begun sneaking into their panties. They forced me only on the first day. They keep me naked, and shake their butts and tits in my face. They love to bug me. But they think they're torturing me. I secretly have my fun when I come all over their lingerie at night.
I am always careful that they don't notice. I don't want them to know that I am having fun, or they will take that fun away from me.
One morning, not long after I have gotten into a nighttime routine of prancing around in their underclothes, they wheel in a TV, and they draw my attention to it. They make me watch videos of myself. At night. Poking around their clothes. Putting some on. Strutting around the room like one of them. Dropping to the ground in a mass of sexual pleasure, rubbing myself all over their clothes. Coming. I turn my head in embarrassment as they stare at me with sly grins. They know about my pleasure. I'm not so upset that they know that I was pleasuring myself, but that they know how I was pleasuring myself. I want to vomit. I must be purple with shame.
One of the girls comes prancing over to me, and hands me a matching set of panty and bra. It's white, skimpy, and very sexy. It's brand new. "This ought to look soooo good on you. . ." she bubbles. The other girls giggle. They coax me to put it on. "We're not doing anything until you put that on," they tell me. "We'll take all of our stuff out of here if you don't do as we say, and you'll be left with nothing."
I look at the underwear in my hands. It's so sexy. I am trembling in both dread and anticipation. I look at the underwear, and at the girls, and back at the underwear. I don't know what to do. Should I forsake my masculinity right here and now, or hold out, and maintain it as powerfully as I can? As if she could read my mind, the one who gave me the underwear says, "We know you love to wear girls's stuff. You have very little masculinity to cling to anymore. You are beyond salvation now. You're one of us."
I burst into tears of rage, frustration, and shame, and wring the underwear in my hands. It feels so soft, so silky. It's so delicate, so. . . feminine. I look at them again. I am about to throw the lingerie across the room, but I can't. I don't want to let go. I know that I am caught. I can't go back. It would be murder for me to give up on my new found pleasure now. But what if I can shake it? What if I can save that last shred of maleness? I look at the lingerie again. Then I look at the girl who gave it to me. Amy is her name.
"Will you at least look at it?" she implores. She is standing right in front of me. She's wearing nothing but a matching set of purple lace. She's very sexy. Very pretty. Her long, slender legs are beautifully shaven. Her titties look so happy in their tight little garment. The other girls are all standing together in a huddle, playing together. They casually touch each other's legs, arms, hair. I subconsciously stretch out the bra in front of me and look at it. It's silk and lace. A strong silk. The panties are very high cut, I notice, as I stretch them out, too. A frilly little elastic forms the waistband that holds together the silk pouch with the lace trim. Impulsively, I slip into the panties, shaking all over, almost tripping as I step into the second leg hole. The girls encourage me. "Atta girl. That's the way." Amy helps me put my bra on. She has a huge grin on her face, and I sheepishly smile back to her. "You look beautiful," she says, as she takes me by the hand and flits with me in tow to the others.
"Girls," she says, "we have a new girlfriend. This is Bobbie. She's new at this, so we have to show her how we do things here." The other girls all introduced themselves, and sized me up as if I were one of them. They were very friendly. I was going nuts with anticipation. I was so horny.
"First, we have to let Bobbie get comfortable. Shall we?" The girls surrounded me, and started rubbing up against me. They weren't sexual or erotic about it. Just friendly. I was in absolute heaven. They avoided my cock, my absurd cock that stuck half out of the panties, but which felt so good in there. The girls made me feel so feminine. They stroked me like I would a girlfriend, with attention to my tits, butt, thighs, belly. After several minutes of this, they stop.
"Now Bobbie," says Amy, "we're not all that convinced that you want to be one of us. Show us how much you appreciate your new clothes, and we'll be happy. Go on, just like you did at night."
I sheepishly dropped to my knees, and then to the ground, and rubbed myself silly, although quite self-consciously, and uncomfortably. It was my first time in front of them, and I felt a little uncomfortable. I was having doubts.
"I know you're having your doubts. But trust me. Just follow your heart."
I couldn't help myself but feel tremendously proud at that moment, and I abandoned the last vestiges of my maleness. It felt so good, and I didn't want it to stop. But I came, and I felt ashamed again.
Here I was, wearing a matching panty and bra, with come all over me, in front of six beautiful girls in their underwear. I felt ridiculous, and a shame to my gender. I blushed, and I wept. Hard. The girls cheered as I masturbated. I was so ashamed. I rolled off my panties, and the girls were silent. I was sobbing. "I can't go on with this. It isn't right," I bawled.
Amy frowned and took away my panties. Well, then, I guess we'll have to take back our lingerie. Let's go girls. They packed up all their things, and left me there naked and crying.
Every night, I longed for the underwear. But I chastised myself for being so weak. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I longed for them to play with me again, and I never ceased lamenting my sorry state. They only visited me rarely now.
But one night, Amy snuck into my cell and awakened me. She shushed me, and gave me the same underwear I had worn before. "Take this. I know you want another chance. It's not too late." And she left me there with the underwear. I was shaking again. I could hardly control myself. I put them on, and shook my booty all night in it. But I was still ashamed. . .
* * *
To make a long story short, I eventually realized that the pleasures of femininity were far greater than my noble upholding of my masculinity. I stopped making myself feel guilty about wearing that exquisite underwear, knowing that I could never be the man that I was. Uncomfortably, I accepted my plight as a transsexual, and began to enjoy myself. The girls took me into their group again, and I was one of them. They showed me how to become female. I learned to shave my body, and to walk and talk like them. I was no longer a prisoner.
Then one day, the girls let me see a visitors. A group of men from where I came from had found me. Apparently, they had known that I was captured, not killed, and that the enemy had me. They were negotiating for my release. My former enemy told them that I was here by choice, and that I wouldn't leave. They insisted on seeing me.
They were appalled. They recognized me, despite the breast implants, and the effeminated body. I still had a penis. The men couldn't keep their eyes off me, even though the real girls were all also in their underwear as usual. they giggled in the background.
I told them that I wanted to stay, that I was comfortable here. They were trying to force me to return. I apparently had no choice. So I went. It was a long voyage home.
In short, they made me discard my new clothes, and gave me yucky men's clothes. But at night, I snuck into each man's cabin, and showed him the way. I fucked them all. And they loved it. They thought I was a ship's maid or something. I managed to get some panties back, and I fucked them all. This way I convinced their leader to turn back, that all the sex they wanted would wait for them on shore. All of those gallivanting beauties were theirs. They turned back. Now they're all prisoners. And they're all learning my lesson: that girls rule.
That, of course, only makes me want to wear it more. I wore it again last night, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. It had been a while since I had done anything. I had been dry since Sunday, I think. So it was a welcome relief. And I've been thinking of those panties all day. I want to do it again tonight. And as a matter of fact, I will. I'll be wearing them a hell of a lot more than A__. Isn't that just great?
I was quite impressed with the way those panties caress the crotch, in a way that men's underwear just doesn't. I can feel a strange sort of erotic tugging at my balls and along the line up to my hips. It makes me feel so sexy, so girlish. So BAD. And that's a good thing. A very good thing indeed.
It's amazing how often I come back to this. I find myself coming back here time after time, affirming for myself why I find so much pleasure in wearing undergarments designed for members of the opposite sex. Is there really anything inherently sexy about the underwear itself? Intuitively, no; it's what's supposed to go into it that's sexy. But somehow, I can't help but break into a sweat when I look at women's underwear. It's so incredibly sexy, so naughty. I look at silky, lace-trimmed panties and I can't help but be turned on. There doesn't even have to be anything inside them. Just the panties are enough. This raises an intriguing question, to which I will now attempt to find the answer: is it the panties themselves that turn me on, or their association with things feminine?
Let me see. There is a clear connection with the femininity of panties. I wouldn't care for them at all if there weren't. But the question is whether the femininity comes from the fact that girls wear them, or is it inherent in them? In that case, the panties are a source of femininity, because some panties are sexier than others. I would much rather wear a skimpy pair of lacy, stringy panties than both the big massive ones that mom wears and even the undeniably sexy fuzzy red panties in my drawer. So there is something to the panties themselves. Women, however, don't draw their femininity from the panties, although they do accentuate feminine features. A girl would be about as sexy with them as without them. Although I must admit that I prefer seeing A__ in her underwear than naked. She is smashing naked, but in underwear, she's somehow sexier. I suppose that has as much to do with my underwear fetish as it does with their accentuation of her features.
So I suppose I must conclude that the panties themselves turn me on, because they are, strangely enough, inherently feminine. But why are they inherently feminine? I suppose it must be because they are shaped in a way that makes a woman look fantastic. But that's mostly psychological. Why associate lace or silk with women, and not men? It seems rather arbitrary. But in my mind, there is nothing arbitrary about it. It's not just the silk, or the softness, or the lace, but the overall shape of the panties that counts. You know when you look at it that it's designed for a girl's body. It's not just the crotch, either. Something about the trim usually means sexiness, too. The fuzzy panties have no lace, no silk (except for something soft on the inside) but are still sexy enough. The shape has everything to do with it. A bikini panty is incredibly, exquisitely sexy, too, and it has no lace, no silk, just a high cutting shape. I still have a craving for a bikini, but that's usually overridden these days by a powerful need for varieties of underwear. I still want to wear A__'s regular panties, which are by no means spectacular. They just look so fun. It must be psychological. The shape alone can't possibly account for it all. But in a way, I guess it does. Silkiness and lace are just an added bonus.
Another question is this: why, if I am turned on by the underwear, do I absolutely need to wear it? It just wouldn't be pleasurable if I didn't slip into it. Sometimes, the most intense moment of my pleasure comes when I imagine that when I am done, I can slip into my girlie underwear and go to sleep, as if that's my normal undergarment. It's incredibly enticing, incredibly erotic. The whole fetish for underwear is connected to an overpowering desire for femininity. I want to discard my masculinity, which all men hold so dear, in favour of femininity and women's underwear. I want to laugh in the face of all the men who would disown me if I ever showed the slightest trace of girlishness, as I wontonly shake off my manliness and gamboll freely with the girls, in their clothes. I want to abdicate my heavy responsibilities as a man and take on the playful female spirit of sexual abandon. I want to make myself pretty, and sleek, and lithe, and curvy, in revolt to masculine norms. I just want to escape that fragile male facade and embrace the freedom of being female. Girls don't have rules against wearing certain types of clothes. Girls don't have rules against doing things that men do. Girls can be as feminine as they please. Men can't be feminine at all. Mind you, girls can't really get away with being masculine, but they get away with it far more easily and far more often than men get away with being feminine. It doesn't really have anything to do with it.
I still have so much trouble putting my finger on it. Femininity arouses me to the utmost degree, yet I have transferred that arousal somehow away from particular women to a symbol of their femininity in their underwear. From an intense heterosexual urge, I have extracted an overpowering urge to be feminine. Something about the perversity of it arouses me even more. Something about the sheer taboo of it makes me want to do it that much more, makes me enjoy it that much more. The fact that I should feel shame, and that I have felt shame, for doing it, makes it so arousing. I should be ashamed of myself, because I wear women's clothes. But so what? What does that mean? If anybody asked me, that's how I would defend myself. So what if I wear women's underwear for pleasure? What does that entail? Am I somehow less masculine now? Years of doing it hasn't changed me into a woman or a homosexual has it? Was I any more sexy a year ago than I am now? Your not knowing that I secretly wear women's underwear didn't make me seem girlish, did it? Of course not. I'm not girlish. But secretly, I would think about how I wished each time that it did make me feminine, how I wished each time to throw away my manhood forever and never look back. The idea of wearing women's underwear permanently has often enticed me. Always enticed me. I know that my arguments are hollow, because every argument I use to defend myself has an easy answer. YES, you are less masculine. YES, it has changed you into a sort of pervert. Normal people don't do that. Normal people wear their own underwear. It's weird and it makes me uncomfortable to think that you dress like a girl in private. What other perverted thoughts do you think?
But that's part of the dream, isn't it? I dream of being forced into women's underwear, and finally succumbing to the pleasure of it, and finally becoming feminine, and ultimately female. I have no choice but to accept how pleasurable it is, or I will go insane. The way I see it, I know something that everybody, including women, knows: wearing sexy women's lingerie is incredibly arousing and gratifying. Women know it, and they wear it, because it makes them feel sexy and attractive. Men know it because they see women wearing it, and becoming sexy and attractive. But what they don't know, or rather what they are afraid to admit, is that even men would feel sexy and attractive--exactly as women do-- when they wear it. Men would feel sexy and feminine by wearing women's panties. And that's what they fear. They just know that they would love wearing their sweetheart's underwear. And that's exactly why they don't do it. It could become habit-forming. They might start wearing it every day, and eventually become transsexuals. That's what they're afraid of. Women are afraid of it, too, because they don't want more girlfriends, they want men to be masculine; they fear that their men will want to become women. Funny thing is that all of these fears are not only completely justified, but perfectly true. Most men will probably never put on women's underwear, because they don't want to have to deal with suddenly wanting to repeat the experience compulsively. They don't want it to make them girlish. They think that wearing lingerie just once will make them turn into complete sissies, who'll keep coming back for more. The beauty of it is that they're absolutely right. Just look at me: I can't stop. I always want more. And this has been going on for almost twenty years now, since I was five years old.
The difference is that I'm not afraid anymore. Now I'm only marginally afraid that anyone finds out. The fear has withered away because I've become desensitized to wearing women's clothes now, and it's almost routine. But I would never want anyone to find out. That would be disastrous. But I want to keep doing it forever.
Again, a cheesy scenario: I am captured by a bunch of girls. They are playful and sexy and beautiful. They think it's great to have a man with them. They have no respect for me, though, because I am the enemy. They strip me naked and make me wear their clothes and makeup. They turn me into their mannequin. And they laugh at me. But I can't help but enjoy it. And they take notice. And they torture me, and force me to come all over myself as I wear their outfits, particularly their lingerie and bathing suits and sexy stuff. Naturally, I only model their sexy stuff. They keep tempting me and mocking me, for years, but I hope for a rescue. Finally, I can't take it anymore, and I succumb. Before, I never let myself come. But now, I let myself go. I accept the pleasure. I don't prevent myself a release anymore, and I start coming all over the place, and really enjoying it. No.
They capture me and start dressing me up. I don't react. I just feel humiliation. I am shamed. I, a big powerful man, am dressed in pretty little silks and flowery laces and bows. I secretly, even to myself, feel the pleasure of a hard-on in my crotch, but I resist it at all costs. It just feels so soft, and so tight. It's the girls, I tell myself. They're causing this. But I know in my heart that it's the clothes I'm wearing, tight on my pecker, and soft and pretty, that make me horny. They notice, and rub me down until I come inside the clothes. I am completely ashamed, as they make fun of me in girly clothes, apparently enjoying myself. they do this again and again to me, and I am always ashamed. I desperately try to stop them from pleasuring me, but I can't help but feel pleasure. By the second or third time, they stop, and they don't do it anymore. I long for the pleasure, but I can't ask them. I am a prisoner, and I don't have rights. But they have me in their playroom. This is where they prance around in their underwear, modelling stuff for themselves, for each other, because girls like to do that type of thing. Their clothes are everywhere. Tempting me. They leave me alone there every night with their lingerie all around me. I am going insane, so I put some on, and masturbate in it, completely revelling in the pleasure.
Of course, they don't notice. They have apparently lost interest in me. They don't make me wear their clothes anymore. They don't do much to me anymore, just keep me there to watch and drool. Nobody knows where I am. They think I'm dead, they tell me. I'm not going anywhere. About a week has passed, and I have only begun sneaking into their panties. They forced me only on the first day. They keep me naked, and shake their butts and tits in my face. They love to bug me. But they think they're torturing me. I secretly have my fun when I come all over their lingerie at night.
I am always careful that they don't notice. I don't want them to know that I am having fun, or they will take that fun away from me.
One morning, not long after I have gotten into a nighttime routine of prancing around in their underclothes, they wheel in a TV, and they draw my attention to it. They make me watch videos of myself. At night. Poking around their clothes. Putting some on. Strutting around the room like one of them. Dropping to the ground in a mass of sexual pleasure, rubbing myself all over their clothes. Coming. I turn my head in embarrassment as they stare at me with sly grins. They know about my pleasure. I'm not so upset that they know that I was pleasuring myself, but that they know how I was pleasuring myself. I want to vomit. I must be purple with shame.
One of the girls comes prancing over to me, and hands me a matching set of panty and bra. It's white, skimpy, and very sexy. It's brand new. "This ought to look soooo good on you. . ." she bubbles. The other girls giggle. They coax me to put it on. "We're not doing anything until you put that on," they tell me. "We'll take all of our stuff out of here if you don't do as we say, and you'll be left with nothing."
I look at the underwear in my hands. It's so sexy. I am trembling in both dread and anticipation. I look at the underwear, and at the girls, and back at the underwear. I don't know what to do. Should I forsake my masculinity right here and now, or hold out, and maintain it as powerfully as I can? As if she could read my mind, the one who gave me the underwear says, "We know you love to wear girls's stuff. You have very little masculinity to cling to anymore. You are beyond salvation now. You're one of us."
I burst into tears of rage, frustration, and shame, and wring the underwear in my hands. It feels so soft, so silky. It's so delicate, so. . . feminine. I look at them again. I am about to throw the lingerie across the room, but I can't. I don't want to let go. I know that I am caught. I can't go back. It would be murder for me to give up on my new found pleasure now. But what if I can shake it? What if I can save that last shred of maleness? I look at the lingerie again. Then I look at the girl who gave it to me. Amy is her name.
"Will you at least look at it?" she implores. She is standing right in front of me. She's wearing nothing but a matching set of purple lace. She's very sexy. Very pretty. Her long, slender legs are beautifully shaven. Her titties look so happy in their tight little garment. The other girls are all standing together in a huddle, playing together. They casually touch each other's legs, arms, hair. I subconsciously stretch out the bra in front of me and look at it. It's silk and lace. A strong silk. The panties are very high cut, I notice, as I stretch them out, too. A frilly little elastic forms the waistband that holds together the silk pouch with the lace trim. Impulsively, I slip into the panties, shaking all over, almost tripping as I step into the second leg hole. The girls encourage me. "Atta girl. That's the way." Amy helps me put my bra on. She has a huge grin on her face, and I sheepishly smile back to her. "You look beautiful," she says, as she takes me by the hand and flits with me in tow to the others.
"Girls," she says, "we have a new girlfriend. This is Bobbie. She's new at this, so we have to show her how we do things here." The other girls all introduced themselves, and sized me up as if I were one of them. They were very friendly. I was going nuts with anticipation. I was so horny.
"First, we have to let Bobbie get comfortable. Shall we?" The girls surrounded me, and started rubbing up against me. They weren't sexual or erotic about it. Just friendly. I was in absolute heaven. They avoided my cock, my absurd cock that stuck half out of the panties, but which felt so good in there. The girls made me feel so feminine. They stroked me like I would a girlfriend, with attention to my tits, butt, thighs, belly. After several minutes of this, they stop.
"Now Bobbie," says Amy, "we're not all that convinced that you want to be one of us. Show us how much you appreciate your new clothes, and we'll be happy. Go on, just like you did at night."
I sheepishly dropped to my knees, and then to the ground, and rubbed myself silly, although quite self-consciously, and uncomfortably. It was my first time in front of them, and I felt a little uncomfortable. I was having doubts.
"I know you're having your doubts. But trust me. Just follow your heart."
I couldn't help myself but feel tremendously proud at that moment, and I abandoned the last vestiges of my maleness. It felt so good, and I didn't want it to stop. But I came, and I felt ashamed again.
Here I was, wearing a matching panty and bra, with come all over me, in front of six beautiful girls in their underwear. I felt ridiculous, and a shame to my gender. I blushed, and I wept. Hard. The girls cheered as I masturbated. I was so ashamed. I rolled off my panties, and the girls were silent. I was sobbing. "I can't go on with this. It isn't right," I bawled.
Amy frowned and took away my panties. Well, then, I guess we'll have to take back our lingerie. Let's go girls. They packed up all their things, and left me there naked and crying.
Every night, I longed for the underwear. But I chastised myself for being so weak. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I longed for them to play with me again, and I never ceased lamenting my sorry state. They only visited me rarely now.
But one night, Amy snuck into my cell and awakened me. She shushed me, and gave me the same underwear I had worn before. "Take this. I know you want another chance. It's not too late." And she left me there with the underwear. I was shaking again. I could hardly control myself. I put them on, and shook my booty all night in it. But I was still ashamed. . .
* * *
To make a long story short, I eventually realized that the pleasures of femininity were far greater than my noble upholding of my masculinity. I stopped making myself feel guilty about wearing that exquisite underwear, knowing that I could never be the man that I was. Uncomfortably, I accepted my plight as a transsexual, and began to enjoy myself. The girls took me into their group again, and I was one of them. They showed me how to become female. I learned to shave my body, and to walk and talk like them. I was no longer a prisoner.
Then one day, the girls let me see a visitors. A group of men from where I came from had found me. Apparently, they had known that I was captured, not killed, and that the enemy had me. They were negotiating for my release. My former enemy told them that I was here by choice, and that I wouldn't leave. They insisted on seeing me.
They were appalled. They recognized me, despite the breast implants, and the effeminated body. I still had a penis. The men couldn't keep their eyes off me, even though the real girls were all also in their underwear as usual. they giggled in the background.
I told them that I wanted to stay, that I was comfortable here. They were trying to force me to return. I apparently had no choice. So I went. It was a long voyage home.
In short, they made me discard my new clothes, and gave me yucky men's clothes. But at night, I snuck into each man's cabin, and showed him the way. I fucked them all. And they loved it. They thought I was a ship's maid or something. I managed to get some panties back, and I fucked them all. This way I convinced their leader to turn back, that all the sex they wanted would wait for them on shore. All of those gallivanting beauties were theirs. They turned back. Now they're all prisoners. And they're all learning my lesson: that girls rule.
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.
Diary: Over-Analysis Matrix
I have another little insight to add about my loose structuralisation of transsexual fantasies. It's very simple, but at the same time completely essential. I can't believe I missed it.
There's several paragraphs just outlining the possibilities of my little fantasy up there. There are many things which I didn't even consider at all. I just made assumptions. I could probably write hundreds of pages analysing each possible case. But there is one thing which I somehow managed to overlook: the crucial moment in each of these cases, bar none, is the very first moment when the specimen is exposed to women's underwear. That has to be the key. So let's go through this again, not so much for clarification as for the cheap thrill it gives me:
These, first of all, are the possibilites I had up there:
Firstly, I have never even thought about wearing girls' underwear, much less done it. Therefore, all of the possibilities for reactions are wide open. How does the suggestion register in my mind? Is it appealing, revolting, neither, or both? I could certainly understanding it being both in most cases. Perhaps some would truly find it revolting, although I can't understand why. Perhaps some would find it truly appealing, but, even though I am one of those, I can't understand why. The male ego would always kick in and resist, but there's always that feminine side which just needs to come out. But once the idea has been presented, I can't see anyone really being indifferent. But even so, the very suggestion has changed everything. Before the actual act can even take place, it has to be imagined, or at least considered somehow. Before this moment, the idea had never even occurred to the specimen; therefore, the specimen is already at 2) without even having done anything.
But that last sentence is a fallacy. It is indeed possible that the specimen be completely indifferent to the prospect, and only converted to thinking about it sexually and obsessively after the initial contact with girls' clothing. Look at me: I remember the circumstances of my first brush with femininity. I must have been five years old. It was in Kindergarten, and it was for the annual school show. All of the Kindergarten kids were made to look like flowers. This required all of us, boys included, to wear white tights. So the suggestion of wearing girls' clothes came from outside, somehow. I wonder if it always happens this way. I was still very young, but I had already discovered masturbation, and fixated on girls when I did, although I had no idea why. Anyway, I was there when Mom went to a store and asked if it was okay to buy tights and return them, because I was only going to wear them once. It was, I think, Okay. I was aware that I would be wearing girls' clothes, but I had no huge reaction to it. I just knew that girls wore a certain type of clothes, and boys wore another. The sexual idea had never crossed my mind. When I discovered how it felt to wear those white tights, though, I became converted. I had already learned to be secretive about my masturbating. So I asked Mom and Dad if I could sleep with the tights on, instead of pyjamas. They said no, of course, and put my tights back in my dresser. I lay in bed a long time that night, imagining how wonderful it would feel to wear them again and masturbate. I didn't but I sure wanted to. After that, I don't know when I first dared to "borrow" pantihose, but it had dwelt on my mind ever since that night. And I remember that all the boys in the class wore white tights. We were all dressed like girls. Funny, isn't it?
All that to say that it is possible to feel complete indifference to transvestism until the moment of contact.
So just think of specimen 1, who hasn't ever thought of dressing up in girls' underwear before. The poor sucker would have no idea what he's getting into. If he staunchly refuses, it's because the idea repulses him at first as an insult to his masculinity. If he's indifferent about it, and gets talked into it, it's because he's confident enough in his masculinity to not really care that he's wearing girls' underwear. If he slinks right into it, it can either be because he has rapidly jumped to 2, as the idea greatly and immediately appeals to him, or he does it out of open defiance of expectations of his masculinity, always confident that it will remain unscathed. Or he could do it out of sheer curiosity, just to see what it's like, in which case, he falls more into this latter, or into case 2.
So case 2 has imagined wearing girls' panties before. Even if the thoughts revolted him, he probably thought about it in sexual terms. What would it do to my masculinity, he would think? This is a stage that I can only sort of relate to. I had worn women's clothes first, before I longed for them. This one has never worn them. So he doesn't know what it's like. He can only guess.
So what does he guess? He has none of the experience. He probably would have an innate fear that doing it would instantly compromise his masculinity. That fear, as discussed so many times before, would likely turn to intense curiosity. The only thing I can think of that I can relate to is homosexuality: I have never experienced it, but I have fantasized about it on occasion. The idea of sucking dick, or getting fucked up the ass, often creeps into my femininization sessions. On this level, even, I am ashamed to admit it, ashamed to recognize the possibility. But it turns me on nonetheless. If given the chance, though, I would probably never do it. It doesn't appeal to me enough. Wearing girls' clothes, however, does. So the question is, what would I do in a situation where I could have homosexual sex? In exactly the same terms: a fag has me captured, just like in my other fantasy, and asks me at first to bend over, or to suck his dick. I really think that I would refuse. In which case he would rape me anyway. A part of me wants to say that I would jump at the chance, just out of curiosity. It does appeal to me that way. Who knows? I figure, I might really enjoy it. It might be the ultimate sexual experience of my life. Why not try it? All this, I guess, would go through case 2's mind.
But this raises a few questions about 1 and 2. 1 would be completely new to the experience, and would probably not enjoy it quite as much. But look at the way I felt when I first wore those tights! I didn't want to take them off! 1 would be the same way, I think. It would be so new to him. 2 would probably be shocked to learn that the thing he wanted to do was so wonderful. 3 would have suspected it all along.
Now 4 is a different story altogether. He would be like me a couple of years ago: guilty of his frequent sins. So all of this would be completely irrelevant to him, in a way, because he already has given in to that first moment. That's what this is all about: the first moment. It's a chance to imagine the impact that this stuff could have had on me at various stages. 4 would no doubt have refused to give in. He's ashamed of himself. This would be an exercise in accepting his femininity. 5 would just be an opportunity to accept it publicly. 6 hardly needs any comment. I don't know what that's doing there.
It all rests on the possibilities of a sexual shock. It gets less and less extreme as one goes down the list. That's where the fantasizing lies: in figuring just how shocking it might have been.
That's the incredible thing. I was intensely aroused by pantihose. What if I had started out, my very first time, with some kind of lingerie? As a grown man, yet? Imagine the shock to my sexuality. Delicious, I must say. The lucky sap gets to skip the whole thing and go right to the top of the heap. It would be so incredible that he would completely go insane with pleasure. I would have gone insane with pleasure. Just to think of the big step I imagined with bathing suits! They were so sexy, because they are form fitting and tight and skimpy on the crotch, right where the focus is. And then the big step to bikinis, which are even skimpier, and that much more heavenly for it. And then the not so big step to panties, which are the ultimate, because they are so skimpy, and they are so much the bare essentials. No girl would go without panties. So panties would be by far the ultimate sensation. I can't even imagine a first time in panties. It's just too intense.
But also imagine how incredible it could be for the guy who had thought about the sexual possibilities, and going all the way from the very get-go. Same thing. Oh, I have to go. I feel like wearing a bathing suit tonight. . .
There's several paragraphs just outlining the possibilities of my little fantasy up there. There are many things which I didn't even consider at all. I just made assumptions. I could probably write hundreds of pages analysing each possible case. But there is one thing which I somehow managed to overlook: the crucial moment in each of these cases, bar none, is the very first moment when the specimen is exposed to women's underwear. That has to be the key. So let's go through this again, not so much for clarification as for the cheap thrill it gives me:
These, first of all, are the possibilites I had up there:
- have never even imagined wearing girls' clothes, much less done it.
- have never worn women's clothes, but have guiltily and secretly fantasized about it on occasion.
- have guiltily worn women's clothes on a bet, or as a quick little experiment, but never gone through with the full experience of wearing it for complete sexual gratification
- have guiltily worn women's clothing secretly and ashamedly, for sexual gratification
- have shamelessly worn girls' clothes for sexual fun in secret.
- be a totally unashamed transvestite.
- I furiously refuse all attempts to get me to put them on, cajoling included.
- I at first refuse, but after some cajoling agree to put them on
- I put them on right away, no questions asked.
Firstly, I have never even thought about wearing girls' underwear, much less done it. Therefore, all of the possibilities for reactions are wide open. How does the suggestion register in my mind? Is it appealing, revolting, neither, or both? I could certainly understanding it being both in most cases. Perhaps some would truly find it revolting, although I can't understand why. Perhaps some would find it truly appealing, but, even though I am one of those, I can't understand why. The male ego would always kick in and resist, but there's always that feminine side which just needs to come out. But once the idea has been presented, I can't see anyone really being indifferent. But even so, the very suggestion has changed everything. Before the actual act can even take place, it has to be imagined, or at least considered somehow. Before this moment, the idea had never even occurred to the specimen; therefore, the specimen is already at 2) without even having done anything.
But that last sentence is a fallacy. It is indeed possible that the specimen be completely indifferent to the prospect, and only converted to thinking about it sexually and obsessively after the initial contact with girls' clothing. Look at me: I remember the circumstances of my first brush with femininity. I must have been five years old. It was in Kindergarten, and it was for the annual school show. All of the Kindergarten kids were made to look like flowers. This required all of us, boys included, to wear white tights. So the suggestion of wearing girls' clothes came from outside, somehow. I wonder if it always happens this way. I was still very young, but I had already discovered masturbation, and fixated on girls when I did, although I had no idea why. Anyway, I was there when Mom went to a store and asked if it was okay to buy tights and return them, because I was only going to wear them once. It was, I think, Okay. I was aware that I would be wearing girls' clothes, but I had no huge reaction to it. I just knew that girls wore a certain type of clothes, and boys wore another. The sexual idea had never crossed my mind. When I discovered how it felt to wear those white tights, though, I became converted. I had already learned to be secretive about my masturbating. So I asked Mom and Dad if I could sleep with the tights on, instead of pyjamas. They said no, of course, and put my tights back in my dresser. I lay in bed a long time that night, imagining how wonderful it would feel to wear them again and masturbate. I didn't but I sure wanted to. After that, I don't know when I first dared to "borrow" pantihose, but it had dwelt on my mind ever since that night. And I remember that all the boys in the class wore white tights. We were all dressed like girls. Funny, isn't it?
All that to say that it is possible to feel complete indifference to transvestism until the moment of contact.
So just think of specimen 1, who hasn't ever thought of dressing up in girls' underwear before. The poor sucker would have no idea what he's getting into. If he staunchly refuses, it's because the idea repulses him at first as an insult to his masculinity. If he's indifferent about it, and gets talked into it, it's because he's confident enough in his masculinity to not really care that he's wearing girls' underwear. If he slinks right into it, it can either be because he has rapidly jumped to 2, as the idea greatly and immediately appeals to him, or he does it out of open defiance of expectations of his masculinity, always confident that it will remain unscathed. Or he could do it out of sheer curiosity, just to see what it's like, in which case, he falls more into this latter, or into case 2.
So case 2 has imagined wearing girls' panties before. Even if the thoughts revolted him, he probably thought about it in sexual terms. What would it do to my masculinity, he would think? This is a stage that I can only sort of relate to. I had worn women's clothes first, before I longed for them. This one has never worn them. So he doesn't know what it's like. He can only guess.
So what does he guess? He has none of the experience. He probably would have an innate fear that doing it would instantly compromise his masculinity. That fear, as discussed so many times before, would likely turn to intense curiosity. The only thing I can think of that I can relate to is homosexuality: I have never experienced it, but I have fantasized about it on occasion. The idea of sucking dick, or getting fucked up the ass, often creeps into my femininization sessions. On this level, even, I am ashamed to admit it, ashamed to recognize the possibility. But it turns me on nonetheless. If given the chance, though, I would probably never do it. It doesn't appeal to me enough. Wearing girls' clothes, however, does. So the question is, what would I do in a situation where I could have homosexual sex? In exactly the same terms: a fag has me captured, just like in my other fantasy, and asks me at first to bend over, or to suck his dick. I really think that I would refuse. In which case he would rape me anyway. A part of me wants to say that I would jump at the chance, just out of curiosity. It does appeal to me that way. Who knows? I figure, I might really enjoy it. It might be the ultimate sexual experience of my life. Why not try it? All this, I guess, would go through case 2's mind.
And then there's case 3. This one would have worn girls' clothes before, but never have had the total experience. He would be just like I was after having worn the white tights in Kindergarten: longing for women's clothing, but never daring to do it, for the sheer fear of it. But I'm sure that before I dared to wear girls' clothes again, I fantasized about it, and only about it. I didn't fantasize about fucking at all: I always imagined that I was being captured by the beautiful girls, and taken away to a place where I would have to become like them. I would have to wear their clothes. At first, of course, I would resist, but then I would discover the intense pleasure of it all. So here's case 3, given an opportunity to act out his secret wish. What would he do? This is the ultimate moment, I think. The mindset is exactly like mine was. That first time was quite exquisite, even though I did it protected with my own underwear. I didn't dare go all the way. But that eventually changed. I thought of it as purging myself of my feminine demons. But it only got worse. It only made me want to do it more and more and more, and with less and less protection. So case 3 would most likely be so relieved to fianlly do it, that he would be the most willing participant of all.
But this raises a few questions about 1 and 2. 1 would be completely new to the experience, and would probably not enjoy it quite as much. But look at the way I felt when I first wore those tights! I didn't want to take them off! 1 would be the same way, I think. It would be so new to him. 2 would probably be shocked to learn that the thing he wanted to do was so wonderful. 3 would have suspected it all along.
Now 4 is a different story altogether. He would be like me a couple of years ago: guilty of his frequent sins. So all of this would be completely irrelevant to him, in a way, because he already has given in to that first moment. That's what this is all about: the first moment. It's a chance to imagine the impact that this stuff could have had on me at various stages. 4 would no doubt have refused to give in. He's ashamed of himself. This would be an exercise in accepting his femininity. 5 would just be an opportunity to accept it publicly. 6 hardly needs any comment. I don't know what that's doing there.
It all rests on the possibilities of a sexual shock. It gets less and less extreme as one goes down the list. That's where the fantasizing lies: in figuring just how shocking it might have been.
So here are the three scenarios. I'm finding it very difficult to explain how this can be so incredibly arousing. But it's incredible. I think it goes back to my idea of the potency of women's underwear, and the heirarchy. I used to imagine that I had to pass through certain stages before I could move on to the next. I would have to do pantihose a certain number of times before I could move on to bathing suits (dare I even imagine!)
That's the incredible thing. I was intensely aroused by pantihose. What if I had started out, my very first time, with some kind of lingerie? As a grown man, yet? Imagine the shock to my sexuality. Delicious, I must say. The lucky sap gets to skip the whole thing and go right to the top of the heap. It would be so incredible that he would completely go insane with pleasure. I would have gone insane with pleasure. Just to think of the big step I imagined with bathing suits! They were so sexy, because they are form fitting and tight and skimpy on the crotch, right where the focus is. And then the big step to bikinis, which are even skimpier, and that much more heavenly for it. And then the not so big step to panties, which are the ultimate, because they are so skimpy, and they are so much the bare essentials. No girl would go without panties. So panties would be by far the ultimate sensation. I can't even imagine a first time in panties. It's just too intense.
But also imagine how incredible it could be for the guy who had thought about the sexual possibilities, and going all the way from the very get-go. Same thing. Oh, I have to go. I feel like wearing a bathing suit tonight. . .
Fiction: The Aphroditian Penalty for Adultery
The women of the Aphroditian colony, since the 20th Century, have become more and more assertive. Once, they would have calmly submitted to their husbands' wishes, even to the extent of beatings and humiliation. But the Aphroditian women have effectively asserted their equal, if not superior, place in Phroditian society in the past few generations. I witnessed myself an incident of relative rarity among their community, and certainly absurd by the standards of our culture.
My kind hostess often invited me to witness the execution of justice in her country, and I gladly accepted. Mostly, the Aphroditians administer justice exactly as we do here. But for one particular crime, the law differs. In cases of serial adultery, men are tried through the regular system, but the punishment, codified by law, certainly passes for cruel and unusual punishment by our standards. But the rate of such incidents is so low that convictions on such charges have become virtually non-existent. The convict in this case, a Mr. A, stifled his tears as the sentence was passed down.
I was floored when I heard the sentence, and did all I could in that stern court to contain my laughter. It seemed to me that the punishment was absolutely ridiculous, and even somewhat light considering the weight this society places on the offense. But when I saw justice being carried out, I realized that this was cruelly effective, in the most shocking, most grotesque way.
The punishment is completely public. All waking moments of the long sentence are broadcast on television (for it is a very visual torment: the punishment comes from the fact that it is being witnessed), and the highlights replayed in a two-hour special, which the vast majority of people truly enjoy watching, even, though it surprises me, the men. The convict is made to suffer the constant ridicule of the public, by having a constant audience. These punishments become a public feast for the citizens.
Essentially, the punishment consists of this: the convict is made to strip naked, or else this is forcibly done, by scantily clad women, no less. Then, his clothes are destroyed before his eyes, and his victim reads the crime for which he was sentenced, and orders him to don women's under-clothing. If he refuses, again, he is subdued and forced into it by scantily clad women. This usually consists of ornate and beautiful lingerie, taken directly from one of the women tormenters. Then the men and women all around him laugh at him, and scorn him. This poor A. had cruel insults thrown at him from the entire populace. When his victim feels that he has been sufficiently mocked, she approaches him and tells him, "you have treated women poorly. Now you shall learn what it is to be a woman, for believing that you were being masculine in your adultery." The women all laugh in unison, because the poor man, burly and hairy, wears the underwear of a woman. A. cringed and fought as his sentence was being carried out. He looked so pathetic in his emasculated state, yet still male. He defiantly resisted his punishment. The men then laughed at him as the women had, laughing at his effeminacy. In this way, the convict is made to feel ashamed of his having been emasculated like this. Normally, I have been told, this has little effect on the first day; but this punishment goes on for days, weeks, months, until the convict is reduced to tears of shame. This is assisted by incessant teasing by beautiful women, who taunt him, and slink about in the same skimpy clothing that he wears.
These women flirt with him, and tease him, and arouse him, but they never allow him to release his sexual energy. They tie up his hands so that he cannot masturbate in any way. They rub up against him sensually, but slink away, laughing at him for wearing their clothes. They torture him like this constantly. They change his lingerie every day, to let him get a taste for feminine clothing. They declare him a woman, and when they finally release him (only when they know that his will is broken), to run free in his monitored cell, they give him only a choice of women's underwear to wear. The convict has two choices: accept the clothing, or go about naked. If he chooses the latter, the women disappear, and a male is sent in to sodomize him. All of this is done publicly -- A. was thus anally raped for more than a week. The sodomizer taunts him, too, by calling him his "bitch" and his "whore." Thereby, he comes to wear the clothing eventually of his own volition, either to avoid the sodomy, or to accept his now feminine role. I watched horrified as A. wept slipping on a garter belt. When the man begins to wear his lingerie voluntarily (with or without misgivings), he is given a safety razor with which to shave his body hair. He must pay special attention to the legs. In this way, he makes his body look as feminine as it can without having the more drastic features of women. The women encourage him to enjoy his femininity, by allowing him to hump them, as long as he wears the lingerie, and doesn't take control. If he does not respond, or if he misbehaves, they send in men, instead. Thereby, he comes to appreciate wearing women's underwear, by associating it with sexual pleasure. In all events, he is rewarded for being feminine.
Eventually, the convict becomes by all appearances a woman. He begins to accept his femininity, and openly aspires to it. He takes female hormones, which form his body as a woman's: suddenly, the man has breasts, a thin waist, wide hips, a smooth, soft body, long hair -- but still has a penis. He is thus made to perform acts of prostitution as a public service for a period of ten years, at the end of which he is operated upon and fully effeminated.
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