Fantasy: Tricked

To be tricked...

There's something to be said about the idea of being tricked into wearing something feminine, and immediately becoming ultra-obsessed with becoming a super-sexy ultra-feminine girl.

I want to beg for a scrap of feminine attire.  I want it so bad.  I want it to transform me.  I want to utterly forsake my manhood, and become all soft and curvy.

I slip into the bathing suit, feminine as it is.  She giggles.  By the time I've strapped myself into it, I know that something's gone horribly wrong.  It feels like nothing I've ever worn before.  It's soft, and tight all over my crotch and hips and especially my waist.  It's incredibly high-cut, compared to anything I've ever worn.  It's snug around my chest, and the straps on my shoulders keep me snugly inside it.  It clings to my body.  Much to my surprise, it actually feels feminine.  I am picturing her in this very swimsuit, and getting very excited.  I am extraordinarily aroused.  It suddenly occurs to me that what I'm doing is incredibly gay.  As if on cue, she comes to me, and presses her gorgeous panty-clad body against me.  She slaps my ass.

Some inhumanly powerful urge comes over me.  I want to rub my penis all over her.  But at the same time, I don't want it there at all.  I want her to fondle my nipples.  I giggle like she did earlier.  I'm rubbing my crotch over the bathing suit, and squirming around like she does when I finger her.  I want to wear her lingerie.  I want to wear her fuck-me boots.  I am ecstatic with feminine pleasure.

She asks me if I want to be a girl, and to my shock and horror, I answer affirmatively.  And I mean it.  My shock is mainly from the surprising realization that I love the idea.  In a split second, I fantasize about wearing bikinis, panties, bras, stockings, nightgowns, mini-skirts, and all sorts of glorious shoes, all of which aren't nearly feminine enough.  She lets me try on some stockings, even though they clearly don't match my swimwear.  She offers me a corset and a thong, and I take them reluctantly, unwilling to remove this glorious bathing suit.  But I give in, suspecting that this new outfit will be even sexier.

By the end of the night, I've impulsively thrown all of my masculine attire in a garbage bag, and ostentatiously walked it out to the curb, in full view of my neighbours.  I have promised her that from this moment forward, I will wear nothing but the skankiest clothes imaginable, and strive to become as feminine as possible.  She has me ritually forsake my penis, and all manhood, forever.  I moan the words emphatically.  I fall asleep in a silk nightgown, and dream of sucking cock.

When I wake up, I regret what I've done.  I feel ridiculous in my feminine outfit.  I have nothing to change into.  I lament how incredibly gay I've been, and suddenly become aware again of how much I loved it.  Soon I find myself trying on boots again. 

Fiction: Photo Shoot

The fantasy is the same as always.  Different articles of women's clothing make me succumb to become ultra-feminine.  I become a cheerleader for the LA Clippers.  I am coerced into competing to become feminine.  I single-handedly betray my entire gender when I chose femininity over masculinity. 

For whatever reason, I find myself in the position of having to choose, and I can't help but choose womanhood.

No, here it is:

I'm walking around in public, minding my own business.  Some guy comes up to me and asks me if I'm there for the photo shoot.  "Photo shoot?" I ask.

"Yeah, aren't you one of the models?"

"Um, no..."

"Oh, I'm sorry.  I thought you were here for the shoot.  We've been waiting 40 minutes for our guy to show up, and so far no sign of him.  Say, would you want to try it out yourself?  We'll make you a big star!"

"No, thanks."

"Seriously, you're even better looking than the guy we actually were gonna pay to do this."

"Whatever, pal.  See ya."

"Come on!  We'll give you his money!  All you have to do is pose!"

"How much money?"

"Five grand."

"Guaranteed?  No strings attached?"

"No way!  We don't just pick up anybody off the street.  Come on, we're desperate, we're late, and we just want to get this done already.  Are you in or not?"

"Wait a minute.  You promise there won't be any bullshit?  I want half the money up front, or I walk.  You're just some salesman trying to trick me into some bullshit that I'll end up having to pay for."

"Fine," he says, counting twenty-five hundred dollar bills in front of me, and putting them in my hand.  "Now just go stand over there, and Tracy will take care of you."

Dumfounded, I do as he says.

Tracy sends me down the hall.  But I spot a ridiculously sexy woman in lingerie up ahead.  I figure, what the hey, even if it's not where I'm supposed to be, I've already got $2500.  All I want to do is look.  I'll just pretend that I'm there for the shoot.

She looks so hot in her stockings and bustier and undies.  She even has a feather boa.  Inside are a whole bunch of other scantily clad ladies.  I stand there for a full minute staring at all the pussy lounging around in that room.  A photographer has one girl on a bed, striking bawdy poses.  It takes a while to register that some guy with a clipboard is trying to get my attention.  "Hey, buddy, if you're not part of the shoot, then get the hell outta here!" he says.

"Um," I stammer, "I am part of the shoot."  I hand him a slip of paper that I got from Tracy, who sent me in this general direction in the first place.

He glances at it for a while, and sizes me up.  "Ok, sweetie, then you'd better get into costume quick."  With that, he shuffles me to a dressing room.  Inside are Betty and Monica, who are middle-aged but trying hard to be pretty.  Betty wears a thick black apron, and Monica has a blow dryer in one hand, and a measuring tape around her neck. 

"Come in, come in, sit!" beckons Monica.  So I come in and sit.

"It's truly amazing," says Betty.  "You'd never suspect some of these guys, would you.  Honey, we'll make you a superstar."  They immediately go to work on me.

It doesn't take long for me to realize that they're trying to apply makeup.  I try to stop them.

Monica scolds me.  "Listen, honey, just because you're getting paid $50 grand to show off your girlie side doesn't mean you get to treat me like a peon.  Just tell me what you want me to do, but don't give me this bitchy attitude, ok?"

"Fifty grand?!?"

"Oooh, sorry if it's more.  I didn't realize the caliber of superstar we're dealing with here."

I look at the slip of paper.  I am shocked to discover that it is, in fact, a contract for fifty thousand dollars.  As well as for five.  It appears that I have indeed infiltrated the wrong photo shoot.  There are two items on the schedule.  The first offers five thousand dollars for a standard men's magazine aftershave feature.  The second offers fifty thousand dollars for transvestites for an adult website. 

I am faced with a rather interesting dilemma.  Do I flaunt my boyish good looks, and increase my chances to score with ladies when I tell them I am a model, and pocket a month's worth of pay?  Or do I abandon my manhood for just a brief moment and take home a whole year's worth?  Not much of a dilemma, really.

Nobody will ever know about it, except the people here.

"You know," I say, "I'm a little unprepared.  I'm sorry, I haven't done this in a while.  I don't even know where to begin.  Why don't you two girls just go to town on me, and hopefully I'll turn out ok?"

They grumble, but they start to work.

First, they demand that I strip down.  They shake their heads and tsk-tsk at me.  Before I know it, I'm covered in depilatory cream.  They rinse it all off after the requisite amount of time has passed.  My body hair and facial hair are gone, without a trace.  My body feels chilly from the lack of insulation.  I am suddenly ridiculously smooth and sleek.  I'm beginning to wonder if this is such a wise decision.  But then I remember the payoff.

"Why don't you choose your outfit?" asks Betty.  "You fellas are usually pretty picky about this kinda thing."

I am surrounded by racks upon rack of lingerie.  I don't even know what to choose.  I am aroused at the sheer femininity around me, but too nervous for it to show.  I hesitate around a poofy lacy white bra.  I even hold its hanger in my hand for a minute.  "Hurry up, we ain't got all day," admonishes Monica.  That's when I notice that it's actually a bustier, with straps for stockings, and a matching full-cut boyshort type panty that's so lacy it's an insult to call it boycut.  Before I know it, they're helping me into it.  The bustier is acts as a corset, so it's difficult for me to strap myself in.  Betty hands me a package of white nylon stockings.  I put them on clumsily, and marvel at the sensation on my legs.  Betty hands me some white heels, which I slip onto my feet daintily, in spite of myself. 

I look into the mirror, and find myself shockingly sexy.  When I tuck my cock between my legs, I look positively female, from the neck down.

Betty sits me down in the chair and starts working on my face.  Monica starts working on a blonde wig on the sidelines.  In the end I look like a juicy little whore with far too much makeup.  I can't believe what a great job they did making me look like a woman.  I'm actually sexy!

"My, aren't we the little princess!" says Monica.  I'm not sure whether she was mocking me or not.  There was a tone of respect in her voice.  "Now go out there and knock 'em dead!"  She places a sheer robe over my shoulders and pushes me out the door.

The guy with the clipboard ushers me to a bevy of women such as those I had previously observed.  "You're number 19.  Just stay here and wait your turn."  Of course, upon closer inspection, I can see that these women are actually men in drag.  I'm not sure whether to whistle or cringe.  Two of the five look at me jealously.  The others are much too happy in their outfits to be anything but welcoming.

I can't help but look at myself, and admire what I'm wearing.  This is the kind of outfit that I've only ever dreamed of having one of my girlfriends wear.  And here I am, decked out in it like a strumpet, looking every bit as sexy as any girl I ever dated.  I can't help but rub my thighs together when I walk, for the sheer pleasure of the sensation.  I'm very nervous.  I never thought I'd allow myself to be caught dead wearing women's underwear.  The idea always seemed so revolting to me.  But in the end, it's not so bad, especially since I'm getting fifty G's out of it.

I can feel all kinds of eyes on me.  The other "ladies" are talking amongst each other about their favourite outfits and so on.  I have nothing to offer.  They're such flamers.  Their every gesture is so unerringly feminine.  I feel out of my depth.  I keep my distance, hoping that none of them will come on to me.  I concentrate on thinking of what I will do with the money I'm making.  Even though I'm standing around in women's lingerie with a bunch of flaming transvestites, and at least a dozen others, too.

I get to watch all of the other "girls" pose.  A few others show up behind me.  They're disturbingly awkward as they camp it up, trying to be girlish.  The photographer acts like it's a real photo shoot, with real hot girl models.  At least I get some ideas for what I'm supposed to do when it's my turn.  I hope they can't tell that I'm just a straight guy doing this for the money.

Finally, it's my turn.  I stumble onto the platform, since I've never walked in heels before.  I'm horribly embarrassed.  Everyone is looking at me!  And I'm dressed like a girl!  I'm standing there, immobile, petrified. 

"Come on, baby," cajoles the photographer.  "Don't be shy.  Just be yourself, feel natural!  Show me what a sexy little tramp you are!"

He starts snapping photos.  "Yeah, I get it.  You're the shy little debutante, aren't you?  Yeah, that's it baby!  I like it!  Yeah, be coy, look away from me like you're afraid of me!  Yeah, that's working, baby!"

I notice that I'm not even looking at the camera, and I'm shyly covering up my shameful outfit.  I'm crossing my legs, and feeling the stockings on my thighs.  Everywhere I touch, there's silk or lace.  Oh my God, what have I done!  Is this worth fifty thousand dollars?

"Yeah, baby!  Touch yourself some more!  That's what I want to see!"

I'm gently moving my hands over my hips, over the gentle elastic of the lace.  I've never felt anything like it.  I'm picturing Vanessa's body in my mind.  I'm touching all of her best parts, like her waist, her hips, her flanks, her boobs, her butt.  I'm shaking my hips to the beat of the music. 

"Oh yeah!  That's it!  Get into it now!"

I'm dancing around a bit now, barely moving my feet, but rubbing my silky legs together.  I'm feeling it now.  I can't stop it.  I'm moving my body delicately, pretending I'm Vanessa, doing the little striptease I've always wished she'd do for me.  I'm luxuriating in this fancy lingerie.  I feel dirty.  This is so wrong!  Not only am I dressed like a girl, never mind a skank, and not only am I being photographed, but I am actually enjoying it!  To think that I'm getting a small fortune for it to boot!

Finally, the photographer puts a stop to it, having used up a roll on me.  Some other clipboard guy ushers me off the stage, and directs me to Jen, who stands by a table, handing out cheques.  I stride over to her confidently, and put out my hand.  It is with great disappointment that I notice a zero missing from the sum.

"Five thousand?  I thought I was supposed to get fifty!" I squeal.

"Well then, you shoulda gone to the aftershave shoot like you were supposed to!"

"What the Hell!  It says on the schedule that transvestites get fifty!"

She shows me the little checkbox on the contract that shows that I signed on for five thousand dollars.  "It's in your contract, sweetie.  Better luck next time."

She turns around, and I'm about to shout back some witty retort, when I realize that I'm standing around, arguing with a woman while wearing sexy lingerie and a wig. 

Mortified, I skitter back to my dressing room, clopping along in my pretty white heels, almost in tears.  I whip out of my clothes as fast as I can, ashamed that I'd been tricked into compromising my manhood for a mere five thousand dollars.  I want to rid myself of every trace of my error.  Only I struggle to get out of the corset, and Betty and Monica have to stop working on some other, more seasoned trannie to help me.

Even after I put on my pants, I don't feel quite right without my body hair.  It looks like It'll be a while until I can forget all about this. 

I'm about to storm out the door when Betty hands me a bag.  "Don't forget your clothes," she says.

"What clothes?"

"Duh!  You get to keep your lingerie, you know.  You think anybody else wants to wear it after you?"

I sheepishly accept it and go on my way.  I toss it in a dumpster behind the mall.

[A few weeks later, as I rummage through my closet for a particular sweater, I notice an unfamiliar white bag.  I peek inside it, and am shocked to discover my lingerie from my photo shoot fiasco.  I almost faint from the rush of shame.  I hold up the panties, and admire the flowery lace design, and the sexy cut.  I shudder to recall the greed that led to me prancing around for a camera in something that feminine.  Could it be a coincidence that Vanessa and I aren't getting it on so well ever since?  It was very difficult to explain the loss of hair.  I never did own up to what I did.

With heavy heart, I toss the panties back into the bag, and walk out to the kitchen, and]

A few weeks later, I notice a large manila envelope with an anonymous return address, sent to me, in my mailbox.  Inside is a set of five photo contact sheets of what appears to be a scantily clad woman.  Upon closer inspection, it becomes clear that it's not a woman, but me.  These are the photos from my shoot!

Along with the contact sheets is a note from the photographer, offering me prints of any size for a fee.  He also mentions that I've been a hit on the website, and that they'd be happy to photograph me again for "another cool $50 K". 

Again, my face reddens, but this time with rage.  How dare they rip me off like that!  And rub my face in it by offering me proof of my shame at a price!  I throw down the offending documents and storm off to my computer.  I want to see what they've done with my photos.

I turn up a little ways down their front page.  Apparently, I was the "Sissy of the Day" for July 23rd.  I rated a 7.3 from viewers of the site, which is crawling with images of shemales and transsexuals.  I must admit, I do look awfully feminine.  I look far better than most of the other "girls" on the site, although some of them are astoundingly beautiful.  But I can only see one photo, as the other 12 are available to members only.

I don't feel so bad if my photos are not particularly widely available.  Thank God Vanessa still knows nothing of this.  We've been having so much trouble since then.  I just haven't felt quite like the man I used to, and she's gotten antsy.  I don't think she bought my excuse for the loss of my body hair.  I guess I'm still depressed about having been tricked so badly.

I lost out on forty-five thousand dollars!  Giving up my manhood for five thousand certainly wasn't worth it, but I doubt I would feel so badly if I had actually gotten paid properly.

Now, I know that I should know better, but they are offering to pay me fifty to shoot me again.  I've done it once before, and it's my own blunder that cost me the full amount.  What harm could there be if I did it again, and got the full amount?  I might as well get my due.  Consider the first incident a loss, but the second makes up some of it.

Naturally, Vanessa is not to know.

Lucky for her, I'm uncommonly horny that night, and fuck her brains out.

In the days leading up to my appointment, I excitedly scout around for some sexy outfits.  I look at all sorts of pictures from lingerie vendors' websites.  I get excited thinking about how sexy those girls are.  I know that I have to take a hit to my manhood, but for fifty grand, it's cake.  I'll have them in mind when I prance around on the stage, and it'll be over before I know it.  Easy money.

The same people are set up in the mall.  The guy who shanghaied me into this to begin with doesn't even recognize me, but he does a double-take when he sees what I'm signed up for.

"Didn't you do an aftershave ad for us?"

"Um, no.  I mean, yes."

"Heh, well here it has you signed up for the transvestite lingerie shoot.  Somebody's clearly fucked up somewhere."  He says this loud enough for everyone within a ten foot radius to hear him.

"No, that's right," I whisper.

"OK, I'll switch you over to the deodorant ad."

"No, I mean it was right before."

"What?"

I'm straining to keep my voice low, but he's not hearing me.  "The lingerie," I say with clenched teeth.

"You're here for lingerie?!?"

"Yes."

He looks at me for a long time.  A few other people are staring.

"OK," he says, finally.  "Lingerie it is.  Now go see Tracy by that door over there."

I walk timidly over to Tracy, who is trying not to laugh.  "OK, Lingerie is suite 233.  Here's your contract."

I look at it closely this time, and sure enough, they are trying to rip me off again!

"Hey," I shout, "this is for only ten thousand.  I thought I was getting fifty!"

"In one shoot?" she replies, incredulously.  "What are you, nuts?"

"That's what it said in the letter you sent me!  And that's what you were going to pay the first time when you ripped me off!"

"Read the contract!  It says you'll get up to fifty after four shoots, if your site gets the enough hits.  According to our records, you're only a tier 3, so that means ten grand.  Take it or leave it!"

Another difficult decision.  They're certainly tricking me again.  But it's also better than five.  I'm already here, and all these people already know why I'm here.  I'm not happy about it, but I didn't come all this way for nothing.

"Fine.  I'll do it."

This time, I take more time to pick out an outfit.  I was particularly smitten with a photo of Carmen Electra in a silver teddy with a furry trim, but they had nothing like it.  I had so many hot women in mind, but the selection of lingerie was somewhat limited.  I felt like I was shopping for Vanessa.  I couldn't help but remind myself that I would be wearing it.  I settled for a sheer black babydoll, silk string bikini panties, fishnet stockings, all with red bows, and knee-high black fuck-me boots.  Betty and Monica removed all my hair again, and I got dressed.  I felt like I had everything under perfect control until I zipped up the last boot.  Oh my God, I thought, what the Hell am I doing?  I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror.  My hair and makeup had yet to be applied.  This is so fucking flaming gay, I thought to myself.  I trembled as I walked to the chair and sat down for my makeover.  I'm turning into a girl! I thought.  I sold my manhood for ten thousand dollars!

By and by, the women finished their work, and I was gorgeous.  My heart pounded in my chest like a jackhammer.  I couldn't walk away now.  In fact, I didn't even need to be ushered to the side of the stage.  I was psyching myself up, thinking about how Carmen Electra would look in this outfit. 

At the stage, there was no sign of the coy debutante.  Instead, I was a raunchy, horny little slut.  I felt so wonderful acting like a girl.  I was imagining that my outfit was so feminine that my penis shrank into my body and became a pussy.  I didn't want to stop.  I went home with my panties on instead of my boxers, knowing that Vanessa wouldn't be home.  I even got to keep the boots!

I hid the outfit in my closet.  I thought I'd put it where Vanessa would never find it.  It was buried under all sorts of junk, where it could do no harm.

For weeks I marvelled at the huge sum of money I had made, just for wearing lingerie, and having some pictures taken!  I couldn't wait for the next shoot.  I didn't especially need the money, but I figured it was so easy, and so harmless, that I might as well go back another three times and collect my cool fifty.  I was still embarrassed enough to not want Vanessa to know.  She didn't trust me at all anymore.

Unfortunately, the shoot didn't go as well as I thought.  My ratings on the website had dropped to a 6.5.  I clearly didn't look curvy enough.  I looked like a man in drag.  I could only conclude that I hadn't prepared enough, so I started to practice when Vanessa was out.  Since it's worth so much money, I thought I might as well put some effort into it.  I might make more.

When she found my stash from the last shoot, she thought there was another woman.  I tried to tell her that it was for her, but I didn't know how to present it to her because she always resisted this kind of sex play.  She then confronted me about the shemale website in the browser history.  She called me a sick pervert, although she still didn't quite make the connection between the two.  So I had to give her the outfit, even though the boots didn't fit her at all.

Imagine my disappointment when Tracy told me that my 6.5 rating dropped me into tier 4, and that I'd only be making five thousand for the third shoot.  I accepted it, because I knew that there was only one way to get my rating back up.  I chose a sexy little pink camisole, a thong, and slippers with straps all the way up to my knees.  This time, I knew how to pose.  I made sure to accentuate all the good girlie parts.  I posed like a pro.  Sure enough, when my pictures showed up on the site, they were worth an 8.

Of course I wasn't satisfied.  I had only gotten five thousand. I took it as a challenge.  A rating of 8 made me a tier 2 trannie, which would be worth fifteen thousand dollars at the next shoot.  As much as I wanted to stop, for Vanessa's sake, the money was just too good.

That's how I explained the whole thing to her when she caught me wearing her bikini.

I figured I needed to expand my horizons a bit, and try some new things.  I was horribly ashamed when she found me.  She was in tears.  I told her the truth: that I was doing it just for the money, that it was harmless.  After a while, she forgave me.

She said she'd stay with me, but only if I would split my earnings with her.  She would help me out by showing me the proper way to do my own makeup, and how to walk and talk.  After the final shoot, it would all have to stop.  I readily agreed, to save our relationship.

She had me dressing up every other day by the end of it.  She had me try on just about everything.  I was getting really good at being female.  The third shoot was a smashing success.  I wore a one-piece bathing suit, and looked every bit like Carmen Electra.  They gave me fifteen thousand dollars, as expected.  I split it evenly with Vanessa.

For the fourth shoot, we decided that I'd have enough time to grow my hair.  It would be a crucial factor.  My rating went up to 8.6 based on the swimsuit pictures.  I practiced every day in preparation.  I even started going out to buy my own lingerie and swimwear and skirts and dresses and shoes, while dressed en femme.  I spent the week before the final shoot as a girl.  I even showed up this time already dressed in a miniskirt and a tight little blouse.

When it was over, I had decided to break it off with Vanessa.  By now, she was holding me back.  My wardrobe had become sexier and more feminine than hers.  Plus I wanted all the payoff to myself.  Besides, she was horrified about the hormones I started taking to keep the hair off my body and put some natural volume in my brassiere.

Fiction: Captured in the Battle of the Sexes

This time, an image of a perfect specimen of femininity in a little off-white sequined dress, standing with hands on a rail.  The dress is not extremely tight, but enough to lovingly caress the hips, gently holding tight, curvaceous buttocks.  It drapes the thighs down to the tops of the knees; long, smooth, bronze legs, firm and sinuous, yet sensuously curvy, support that perfectly round little tush.  How did you learn so quickly to carry yourself that way?

Another image, relating back to the last story about the literal battle of the sexes: the men are crucified, still wearing their camouflage fatigues.  They are surrounded by their female captors.  They stoically resist, as they have been trained.  They will not succumb to femininity.  They are men of stone, steadfast and determined.  They are masculine to the unshakeable core, the mightiest, most virile men.  They all face a huge stage, backed by a massive screen.  Each of them watches the podium with trepidatious composure.  Their resolve rests upon the sanctity and purity of each man’s individual machismo, backed by confidence in each other’s strength, and ultimately held together by their illustrious godlike leader: a man so strong-willed, and so unquestionably virile that no woman can but fall to her knees and beg for his affections.  This man commands their hearts, their minds, their lives.  He is their foundation.  Together, they are the last of the army of men.  They know that they are incorruptible, because of his leadership.  He is the last hope; they are his elite guard.  The situation is grim, but they all suspect that their leader will somehow pull them out, perhaps by seducing and overpowering his would-be captors and bending them to his will.  One hundred men depend on it.

(Here the fantasy splits into two scenarios)

One: The video screen behind the stage shows a man on a cross near the front of the forest of men.  A bevy of gorgeous half-naked women begin to slink around him seductively, mussing up his hair and feeling his powerful chest.  They fiddle with the buttons of his uniform, slowly undoing them.  They begin to unbutton his shirt.  He squirms with discomfort.  Some of the men envy his luck, but wonder why he cringes.  Soon the women tug at his undershirt.  What is that beneath his white tank top?  A wide tuft of black chest hair?  Not surprising on such a man.  But no, it shimmers.  A thin black band rises from his pectoral to his shoulder.  His chest appears covered with something, but he’s shifting his body away from the camera.  Good God, it can’t be!  The women have now pulled back the camouflage shirt, and torn away one half of Johnson’s tank top, revealing a lace-trimmed brassiere.  The men gasp in horror.  One of their number was a traitor all along.  How could they have trusted him?  He has stopped resisting, and his femininely adorned chest becomes fully exposed.  He bows his head in shame.  The women who stripped him laugh at him cruelly as they undo his pants and pull down his boxers.  His panties match the bra.  He endures the hateful glares of his companions.

Now the camera cuts to Terwilligger, at the opposite end of the crowd.  He pleads for them to stop.  Him too, wonder the others, as another gaggle of lithe young hotties slowly strips him to an unmistakably feminine panty and bra set.  He weeps with embarrassment as the other men begin to mutter in disbelief.

Next went Smith, who wore a string bikini.  Then Parish in just panties.  Wang in his one piece swimsuit came after that.  Then Dalton.  Then Lee.  Then Patel, Schmidt, Torres, Garcia, Hakkannen, Visniewski, Dekembe, Miller, Groulx, and Santini.  One by one, the men were exposed in women’s skivvies.  By the time they had lost 20 men, those remaining began to question each other’s virility.  If so many could be traitors, how could anyone tell if the man he shared a tent with was another traitorous fairy?  Bolton harshly accused Silverman, who shook visibly with apprehension.  They came for Bolton first, revealing him in his frilly white silks to Silverman, who turned out to only have been hiding a garter.

After exactly half of them had been exposed, the women asked for volunteers.  Any man who spoke up now would be spared the humiliation of being stripped before his peers.  MacPherson, Moore, Cadieux, and Vandenburgh all screamed like the sissies they were, and were untied and sent to the stage.  Seeing that they weren’t being molested, seven more piped up.  All told, 23 men were too cowardly to get stripped down.  When it became evident that no others would give up, these men were made to strip anyway, one by one, to burlesque music.  Most were happy to have found asylum, and strutted like supermodels in their various lingerie outfits.  It was easy for them, since they knew that the traitors outnumbered the loyalists.  Once they had each proclaimed their abject femininity, they lined up on the stage holding hands.

There now remained 28 men.  Fifteen more were exposed.  Every one of the first 87 men exposed had something girlish to hide.  At last, Maartens turned out to be clean.  So did Franks, Julien, Chung, and the leader, Meyer.  All the others were sissies.

All told, 95 of the hundred last men were already corrupted.  Only five had remained true to their gender.

Now the women asked the 5 remaining naked men if they wanted to convert now to avoid the shame of being effeminated aggressively, publicly, and ruthlessly.  Chung begged for mercy, and he was given a French maid’s uniform, which he put on greedily and expertly.  Franks caved in, too, and was given a tight little bikini, which he struggled getting into, but appeared to enjoy when he got it on.  Then they let go all the crucified sissies, since it was no longer possible to shame them since they were all transsexual anyway.

That left Maartens and Julien flanking their beloved leader Meyer.  Maartens and Julien relied on their captain to lead them out of their predicament.  They needed Meyer’s strength to pull them through.  Meyer defiantly refused to co-operate, and his henchmen followed his lead.

The women decked out Maartens like a whore.  He wore lingerie fancier and more feminine than any of the other men had ever even imagined themselves in in their wildest dreams.  He whimpered in distress, but Meyer encouraged him to remain manly, to be strong, to not let the feminine accoutrements destroy him.  Maartens held fast, although he struggled visibly to restrain himself from expressing his long-repressed feminine side.  Julien did not fare much better.

Meyer, however, was released from his cross, and made to dress himself.  He had to wear the whole deal.  He looked like a whore.  When they marched him to the stage, he quickly learned to wiggle his butt in those 3-inch heels.  The lace and silk were too much for him.  He crumpled at the feet of the queen and came all over himself.  Maartens and Julien wept with relief, and came too.

Scenario Two: Much the same as One, except only 25 or so men prove to be traitors.  The other 75 are stripped naked one by one, proudly showing up the women by being well-endowed and manly to the very skin.  The last man is the leader.  He is more defiant than any of the others.  It appears that the women, in spite of having won the final battle, will not be able to add insult to injury.  The women are truly in awe of Meyer as they apprehensively go about their task.  They know that they have lost, but they crave to see the manliest of men in all his naked glory.  They long to ride him.  The other men feel their strength returning.  They could break their bonds and overpower their captors, and make a desperate escape...

But wait: There is something under Meyer’s fatigues.  It’s a black silk corset with pink bows!  And a matching silk thong, garter belt, and stockings!  His skin is shaven smooth like a girl’s!  He’s laughing!  He’s shaking his girlish hips at his men in a seductive way.  He’s the most effeminate of them all! 

The men’s spirits sink, free-fall, splatter.  The women fall away from Meyer with mirth, and he breaks his bonds.  He then goes to each man in turn and sucks his cock, snowballing into the next man’s mouth.  Then each man is given a panty and bra set, and brutally effeminated.

Scenario Three: 99 men on crosses.  Then someone vaguely familiar appears on the stage.  She’s absolutely gorgeous in her sequined white dress.  What a gorgeous ass.  Is she a movie star?  Some kind of celebrity?  She steps up to the microphone and speaks.  In Meyer’s voice: “You’re all going to be girlies now.”

Of course, with scenario three, there are two further options: Meyer is either totally converted in a matter of seconds, much to his embarrassment, or he is already longing to become a girl, and has been leading his men to doom all along.

The conversion:

Meyer is led into a dark room with a spotlight in the middle and a mirror.  He is stripped naked and made to stand in the spotlight.  Someone tosses him a pink satin panty and bra set.  He reticently refuses to wear it.  The panty is a thong with snaps.  His arms are strapped to cables from the ceiling, and his ankles shackled to long chains on the ground.  Slowly the ceiling cables start moving apart, lifting him from the ground, and spreading his arms.  The chains also tighten from opposite ends of the room, leaving him suspended in air and spread eagled.  He is stretched so tightly that he cannot move.  A woman gingerly snaps the panties on, then the brassiere.  Meyer is made to face the mirror and contemplate how he looks in women’s underwear for 12 hours.

He remains mentally strong, and resists.  He tries uselessly to squirm out of his new underwear, but in the mirror he appears to be enjoying himself.  He stops struggling, and realizes that he can’t remain passive either, so he squirms some more.  He vacillates all night, determined to not betray his gender in spite of the circumstances.  He refuses to accept that he is doomed.  He convinces himself that no matter how feminine he looks as he tries hopelessly to squirm out of his panties and bra, it will not change him.  He convinces himself that if he can withstand this, he can withstand anything.

When they finally release him, they laugh when he does not immediately tear off his feminine underwear.  He instead massages his strained arms and legs.  When they laugh, he moves to undo the snaps on his panties, when he realizes how feminine this is.  His hand lingers on his hip.  Finally after a moment’s hesitation, he slides them down his legs and kicks them across the room.  He fumbles with the brassiere for five minutes before he can unclasp it, slide it off his shoulders, and fling it away. 

They then hand him a different panty and bra set.  He puts it on himself since they’re going to force him anyway.  They tie him up a bit more loosely this time.  He is horrified by what he sees in the mirror.  Every squirming movement of his hips only reinforces the feminizing effect of the panties.  He cannot abide it.  He must resist more!  He squirms harder and harder.  In the mirror he stares at a go-go dancer oozing sexuality.  With every movement, his defiance grows stronger.  Nothing can shake his manhood.  If these panties are the epitome of femininity, they cannot break him.  He squirms in defiant celebration.

When he awakens, his bonds have been released.  He does not know how long he has been sleeping in women’s underwear, unbound.  He feels humiliated and cheated, enough to slowly roll off his panties and snap off his bra.

Now they present him with a choice: a one-piece swimsuit, a string bikini, or black panty and bra set embroidered with red lace. 

Even though the swimsuit is less revealing, it is still unmistakably feminine.  It clings so tightly to his skin that he must squirm even harder to shake it loose.  His restraints are loose enough now that he can touch the straps of his bathing suit and rub his thighs together. 

The next time, he chooses the bikini.  It’s a test of his determination.  This time, the restraints are loose enough for him to squeeze his nipples as he withstands another onslaught of femininity. 

The next time, restraints are not necessary.  He dresses himself up in lingerie.  There is no longer any pretense of maintaining manhood.  Nothing is feminine enough.  He is given access to an entire inventory of women’s clothes.  He removes his body hair.  Not feminine enough.  He begins to take hormones.  Can’t get feminine fast enough.  He wears everything in the store to make himself more feminine.

Finally after only a week of feminization – all of it broadcast to his captured troops – he finds the little white sequined dress.  He is the girl in my imagination.  He goes out to his crucified men, and rubs his panties against their cocks.  They think he’s a girl until he speaks.  “You wouldn’t believe how good this feels,” he says between mouthfuls of cock.  “I can’t believe I resisted this at all!”

Fiction: Caught on the Front of the Battle of the Sexes

So many fantasies tonight…

It all started with a picture in my head of Milla Jovovich half naked crouched down with a frilly black garter on her thigh.  I have never seen such an image in my entire life, but I can imagine it.  That’s what I want to look like right now.  I’m imagining that I’m wearing that frilly black garter, and it’s the last straw: I can no longer pretend that I can go back to wearing men’s clothes ever again.  My thigh is bald and totally effeminate now.  I feel relieved about slipping into a little black dress, and going out as a woman in public for all to see, and being indistinguishable from any other hot young tart.  Plus I look like Milla Jovovich.  My transformation is complete.

Another thought: girl says, “What made you think no-one would know?”  She has caught me and confronted me, caught me wearing black panties, a bra, and – you guessed it – a frilly black garter on one of my thighs.  Or maybe she caught me rifling through her things, and is showing me what it’s like to wear them.  And I’m going along because it makes me feel like Milla Jovovich.


Finally, it’s the fantasy of the worldwide battle of the sexes.  I am the commander of the last bastion of masculinity on the front.  Female civilization is destroying manhood.  I have been instructed about the horrendous dangers of coming into contact with any feminine undergarment, unless it is being worn by a sexy female.  It is perfectly ok to fuck girls, as long as you don’t get tricked into wearing their clothes.  I have seen ultra-virile men turned into flaming transsexuals in a matter of weeks after they got cajoled into putting on a bra or some panties by a hunnie they just laid.  

I get seduced by a girl who looks just like Milla Jovovich.  I fuck her brains out one night – I fuck lots of girls here on the front.  I don’t know if they’re all trying to seduce the fighting men to turn them into girls, or if they’re just horny and want dicks inside them.  Anyway, I wake up alone in my barracks with a frilly black garter on my left thigh.  I groan in disbelief, knowing that I am corrupted, and that I will soon become a flaming transsexual.  I vow to fight it harder than any man ever fought.

I remember the worst case.  Johnson came to my barracks in the middle of the night, bawling his eyes out.  He said that he was sorry, and that he wasn’t a traitor, that he just wanted to fuck her.  But he had somehow found himself in a moment of playful passion, in spite of his training, wearing the girl’s bra for a laugh.  I told him to be strong, and to fight every instinct of girlhood he had.  For the next four or five days, his spirits were pretty high.  Just in case, we got him some whores and had him do the nastiest most degrading sex acts on them, as according to our training, it should get him back in the spirit of manhood.  But he started to fade somehow.  He began to look more and more nervous with each passing day.  By the end of twelve days, he was quaking like a leaf.  On day fourteen, he was seen running out of his quarters with a whore.  She was buck naked.  He was wearing her sleazy tarty lingerie and miniskirt and tight tube top and had his face all made up.  They had him parading on the front lines prancing around like a total sissy the next morning.  They made sure that we wouldn’t be able to get a decent shot at him to take him out.

Johnson was the worst case by far.  He voluntarily put on that girl’s bra, and lasted a quarter of the time that most men with his affliction do.  One guy held out for a year before he got caught masturbating in a one-piece women’s swimsuit.  He was taken out of his tent and shot as he was.  All reports confirm that he couldn’t possibly have gotten that swimsuit but the very same day, when he rode a cheap redheaded bitch like a bronco, and chased her off the camp naked.  It was her swimsuit.  He had been in remission for so long that we all figured he had long since recovered, and was simply taking advantage of the health benefits by fucking hookers every day.  It turns out his diary was filled with anxiety and fear, as he fought tooth and nail with his fantasies of being the girls he fucked every day.

There are some survivors, but they’re not fit for the front.  There is not one single case of any cure having worked for anyone who ever wore women’s clothes.  I vowed to be the first.

As the commander of the last battalion of men on the front, I had to maintain my manhood at all costs.  If I gave in, and if any of the men found out about my potential defeat, then all would be lost.  I would have to keep it secret, even as I fight against whatever pernicious mind control had affected so many of my men. 

I gripped the garter and just as I moved to tear it off, I hesitated.  I would have to find a way to dispose of it completely.  Burn it.  Bury it.  Swallow it.  I could not keep it with my gear, because of the mandatory inspections that were meant to weed out any transvestitism among the troops.  If I buried it, the upturned earth would be a dead giveaway.  If I burnt it, the smoke and flames would surely attract suspicion.  I could never swallow it without making myself horribly ill.  So how would I dispose of it?  I fingered the elastic on my thigh as I considered this.

Suddenly realizing what my hand was doing, I angrily slid it off my leg and flung it down onto the bed in front of me.  I stared at it for a long time.  I pondered how the lace and satin alone made it incredibly feminine, and how the bunched up satin made it look so frilly and delicate and girlish.  How could something so unfathomably feminine gotten onto my muscular, macho, virile leg and not wither against my undeniable masculinity?  I pictured it on my thigh again.  I didn’t feel the least bit feminine.  I was sure that I would survive it.

Then, my thoughts became clouded with a most insidious idea.  My problem was that I had to dispose of the garter somehow, as its existence compromised my manhood in the eyes of my troops.  If I was unaffected by it, I could hide it on myself, as no-one would ever check my own clothes; if I had been affected by it, I might as well wear it since I would be turning into a flaming faggot sissy eventually anyway.  Either way, I had found a solution to my problem: I would wear the garter under my uniform.  I liked the idea of putting it on again.  I enjoyed the thrill of challenging my manhood.  

Of course, that was bullshit, and I knew it.  I found myself fantastically excited about the prospect of wearing the garter again.  Worse, I was increasingly aroused about the prospect of my capitulation.  I giggled at the thought that I could wear a frilly sexy girlish garter all day and no-one would be the wiser.  I imagined how sexy it must feel for my leg to be bald, and wearing silk and lace panties and a brassiere to match under a little black cocktail dress.  I thought about Johnson’s fourteen-day record, and how I, the most virile of men, would shatter it by 13 days, 23 hours, and 55 minutes.

I jolted myself back to my senses.  I had to resist!  I could not allow myself to cave in!  I reached for the garter and was about to throw it into the fire when the alarm sounded warning of an attack.  I got dressed as quickly as I could and rushed out of my quarters to engage the enemy.

We were hopelessly outnumbered, and we were caught totally by surprise.  We fought hard for maybe 2 hours before we were overrun and captured.

I saw that all my men were led into semi-private areas where they were being seduced into wearing women’s underwear.  They were all trained to resist to the death.  I was led to a completely private dressing room filled with lingerie and sexy dresses and swimwear.  Milla was there waiting for me.

She stripped off my uniform.  “Did you honestly think that we wouldn’t know?” she asked, pointing at the garter on my left leg.  I blushed.  

“As you know, all our captives are shown the ways of women’s clothes.  I’m going to leave you here by yourself for an hour.  How you emerge will decide the fate of all masculinity the world over.”
She slunk out of the room, leaving me there alone.

I couldn’t resist my overpowering urge to try on some lingerie.  I desperately needed to get some panties on.  But then I got distracted by the bikinis.  Knowing that I had only an hour, I flung off my panties and got myself into a gorgeous little string bikini, and pranced around for a few minutes in absolute bliss.  Then I tried on some one-piece swimsuits just for the experience.  

Suddenly I realized what I would be subjecting my men to.  Either they were suffering the same glorious discovery as I was, or they were staunchly resisting with every ounce of manhood they had.  If I emerged from here in an hour wearing any article of women’s clothing, I would thereby destroy everything I held dear.  If I came out naked and proudly masculine, the men back home could take some of my courage and fight on.  But I had an entire hour!  I could do both!  I could make myself as girlish as I could for 59 minutes, and strip down again just in time…

Of course, if all my men are being effeminated anyway, I might as well enjoy myself.  Besides, why would I want the fight to continue?  I couldn’t consider this a defeat in any way, as I was so overwhelmingly overjoyed to be turned into a girl.

When Milla knocked on the door, I found myself in a slinky black nylon dress, fishnet stockings, pumps, and a lacy little thong.  I smiled lewdly at her as she took my hand to lead me out the door.  I pulled her out of the way, and sashayed out the door like a supermodel, more confident in myself than ever before.  The rustle of the dress against my hips was exquisite.  I was completely effeminate.  Every last one of my men still wore his uniform.  They had all fully resisted.

I was the only one who gave in, and I gave in more than any man in the history of this conflict.  I had betrayed my gender.  They all looked at me with horror.

I laughed with great gusto at them.  “I am a girl now!  Fuck all you men!”

Demoralized, they all became playboy bunnies.

The girls had plans for me, though.  I had been such a smashing success (I even started taking hormones that very day) that they figured I would be a perfect agent back in my homeland.  They sent me back undercover as a man to bring them down from the inside.  The only way I could agree to it was if I got to keep an article of women’s clothing on at all times.  I couldn’t bear the thought of being away from my flowery dainty girlie things.

I wore a slinky little black garter under my clothes as I seduced the male government into total absolute submission.

Diary: Hollywood

I spent this evening in Hollywood, enthralled by the multitudes of gorgeous, sexy women.  Now I’m wearing the outfit I bought a few weeks ago: my vinyl mini-dress, matching lace garter belt and thong, and fishnet stockings.  I didn’t see anyone wearing anything like this, but I desperately need some femininity.

I did come across one of the most exquisitely beautiful women I’ve ever seen.  She was slightly oriental, young, and wearing a form-fitting backless red formal dress.  Her body was perfect, and she carried herself like a model.  The slit in her skirt only came up just above her knee, but it revealed a stunning pair of legs.  Exquisite.  I should hang around there more often.  There are many sleazy lingerie shops along Hollywood Boulevard that I might thoroughly enjoy.

I wish I could describe exactly what it is that femininity does to me.  I can’t even describe what it is.  The way women move, the way they carry themselves, has so much to it, and yet I can’t even put my finger on how it differs from men.  And why do I love it so much?  Maybe it’s a certain innate delicacy to their every gesture.  Their limp-wristed, butt-wiggling walk.  The way their feminine features, from their soft, smooth, hairless skin; their slender arms, shoulders, necks; their soft, rounded bottoms; the exquisitely slim curves of their waists; their round perfect breasts; all billowing out from them without their even knowing it. 

And here I am, wearing a fucking dress.

The appeal is so ridiculously strong.  I want to be even more feminine right now.  I want to make myself utterly female.  It’s not good enough that I’m wearing sexy lingerie and sex wear; no, I am fantasizing about wearing my corset bra.  I need that extra layer of womanhood.  I need something to accentuate my breasts, and taper down my soft, soft, slim, sexy waist.  I want to abandon myself to it.

There, that’s much better.

I love brassieres.  I love the way the part under the arms looks.  I love the way the straps (I’ve removed them from my corset bra because this outfit looks much better without them) accentuate the delicacy of female shoulders.  And of course, the titties.  

Considering how much I worship women, is it really any wonder that I can’t resist the urge to pretend to be one?  Given the chance to dress up like a girl, I can’t imagine how a normal man wouldn’t be overwhelmed with temptation.  I love how lingerie makes me feel so sexy.  I imagine myself as a girl.  I imagine myself recklessly, remorselessly, unhesitatingly abandoning my manhood.

The fantasy is this: I love a girl.  I want to be her.  I tell her as much when I make love to her.  Finally, I beg to wear her clothes.  I know she disapproves, but I beg her, and promise to do anything at all for her if only she lets me wear her panties.  And so she does, but I must serve her every whim.  She allows me the privilege of wearing her panties.  I become her slave bitch.  She insists that I forsake any pretense of manhood if I want to wear her clothes.  I have to get my own wardrobe, and dispose of all my male clothes.  I am no longer allowed to wear anything the least bit masculine.  Only lingerie, dresses and skirts, and high-heeled shoes.  I must completely abandon my manhood.  But I already want this, even though I’m afraid to go out in public that way.  Eventually my desires prove far stronger than my humility.  So she insists that I bring her men to replace me.  And I do.  And I get men of my own, too.  I become a complete transsexual.  And I love every second of it.

Fiction: Massive Forced Feminization, Part 3

[Some candidate learns about women’s clothes, and becomes unbearably curious]

I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.  I’m not supposed to touch any of her things without her permission.  But damn it, I didn’t get to explore her bathing suit enough.  It’s so fascinating, and I need to know more about it.  I just want to look at it, admire it, marvel at how beautiful it is, and how beautiful it makes her.  Imagine the grades I’ll get if I check it out!  Nobody has to know.

He snuck to her dresser, hunched over as if to avoid being seen, even though he was alone in a room without windows.  His heart raced as he carefully and quietly opened each drawer, and pawed through the incredible variety of lingerie and swimwear.  So many possibilities!  A particularly sexy pair of black panties caught his eye.  He had never had a chance to explore lingerie before.  His hands shook as he took them out of the drawer and admired them.  He quickly folded them up again as close to their original format as he considered the consequences of his actions.  He was not ready for panties yet.  He would also have to skip past her phenomenal bikinis.  He finally found what he was looking for in the third drawer, among plenty of other utterly feminine unmentionables.

He drew the white and red swimsuit out of the drawer and held it in front of himself.  He could see where the fabric was built to emphasize waist, hips, crotch, and breasts.  The material was so soft to the touch that he longed to feel it on Susan’s body again, as he had in class.  He touched his face with it and luxuriated in the texture.  How wonderful she looks in it, he thought.  How wonderfully it caresses her perfect female body.  He felt keenly privileged to be in such close proximity to something so powerfully feminine.  Then with a sudden pang of guilt, he blushed and stuffed it back into Susan’s dresser.

[The next day, he took it out again and couldn’t help but masturbate while looking at it, the whole time imagining the power of femininity.]

[Soon thereafter, he began to look ahead to the topics of other lessons.  He masturbated – guiltily – to bikinis, then lingerie.  But it still wasn’t enough.  There was something much more sinister, and not altogether consciously acknowledged.]

His grades increased as his extra-curricular activities increased.  He made sure to not give away his cheating habits in class, at the risk of being punished, or worse, ostracized by the other men, who didn’t share his interest in the subject matter.  He could never admit to being as fascinated with women’s clothes as he was.  Still, they all suspected because of his grades, and his uninhibited enthusiasm.

He understood more than anyone, he knew, the power of women’s clothes.  They enhance to terrible levels the beauty, and therefore power, of women, which the entire class had necessarily accepted as paramount.  To understand women’s clothes is to understand their power; and with understanding of that power comes the possibility of wielding it.

He had begun to rub his penis against her lingerie when he examined it, and thoroughly trembled in its phenomenal potency.  He began to imagine it on himself, and blushed with a happy guilt.  He knew that its power was such that he could not ever jeopardize his manhood by willingly wearing it.  But he also desperately yearned to feel the power throughout his body.  He tingled with excitement when he imagined himself daring to put it on.  He could not dare.  The stakes were too high.

One day, after months of developing his taste for his tutor’s clothes, and becoming aware of everything in her closet, he took the plunge.  He mitigated his risk by experimenting first with something innocuous, barely sexy, but still unquestionably feminine, and he kept on his own underwear.  When he slid the pantyhose up his legs, he could feel its girlishness overpower his body and his mind.  Even this mildly enticing garment made him completely aware of its incongruity with his own body.  I am wearing women’s clothes, he thought, as he luxuriated in the tight stretchiness of the fabric on his legs and over top of his underwear.  Thank God I’m wearing my own underwear, or else I’d completely lose my manhood!  He couldn’t believe how good it felt to be wielding even this most harmless of female weapons.  It radically enhanced his own femininity, and he reveled in it.


He shed Susan’s pantyhose rapidly as soon as he felt himself ejaculating, and turned livid with shame.  It was one thing to fondle her underwear when she wasn’t around, but quite another to actually wear it.  Having learned the properties of pantyhose, he also knew that they would not retake their clean shape after having been worn and stretched out.  He would have to hide them, and pray that somehow Susan wouldn’t notice their absence.  Boy, he vowed, I’m never doing that again!

After the fifth or sixth time that he succumbed to the temptation of his secret pantyhose, and overcome with desire to further explore the rapturous rush of femininity he had been enjoying, he threw caution to the wind and wore them without underwear.  For the first time, women’s clothing that he had dressed himself in touched his genitals directly.  He danced and pranced in his geometrically augmented girlishness, breathlessly thanking God that he was at least still wearing his masculine t-shirt to at least anchor part of himself in manhood.  Below the waist, he was a girl as far as he was concerned, and milked the thrill of wearing girls’ clothes for all its worth.  I’m wearing girls’ clothes, he thought to himself, and I love it!  At that moment he longed to eradicate his manhood, and allow the sublime power of femininity transform him inexorably into a girl.  Every swing of his hips felt like a feminine movement that titillated him much more than sex ever had.  He could almost feel the pantyhose forcing his body into a more feminine shape.

When he was done, he rolled them off his hips with disgust.  What was he becoming?  He swore never to even touch Susan’s clothes again, except in class, when he had to.

[He continues to experiment, being drawn towards more serious stuff.  He follows the same pattern with the bathing suit, starting by keeping on his underwear, and gradually abandoning everything but his watch, which he firmly believes is the only thing keeping him male.]

Now that he had established that he could wear a swimsuit and nothing else, and without Susan finding out, he began to rationalize his growing habit.  This is the way to wield feminine power without being female!  The sense of power it gave him to wear that swimsuit was unequalled by anything he had ever imagined.  He couldn’t even just enjoy wearing the swimsuit alone: he began fantasizing about how much more extreme it would be to wear a bikini, or lingerie, a garter belt, stockings.  He knew when he wore it that it made him undeniably feminine, and he realized as he reveled in his girlishness that he wanted to be completely female.  However, every time he stopped, he felt shame and disgust, knowing that he was destroying his manhood.  He blushed frequently in class now as he studied different aspects of Susan’s womanhood, remembering suddenly that he had imagined himself in the bikini she was wearing.  Then his shame would work itself up to a fever pitch again.


When he finally tried it on – just the panty – he did not attempt to protect himself with his own underwear.  He tingled with excitement as he recognized the recklessness of his newest experiment.  But he did not dare wear the matching bra, even though he had fantasized about it so many times.  Now he knew that wearing the panty was just an expression of his desire to touch something feminine with his cock.  He was not becoming dangerously effeminate, as he had feared.  It was all just about comfort.  When he succumbed to wearing the bra as well only the third time, he knew he could never wear a bikini without both pieces, and let the girlishness overwhelm him as he had always wanted.

Throughout all of this, he steadfastly kept on at least one article of male clothing, even if it were as insignificant as a wristwatch.  In fact, his wristwatch had become the only thing he bothered to keep on as he began unabashedly borrowing Susan’s underwear.  

[He eventually admits to his male friends that his secret to success in class is his wearing his tutor’s clothes.  The gasp in horror, as he explains to them that it’s the best way to keep ahead, because they had all heard rumors by now that the whole plan was to turn them all into girls.  He argued that his extra-curricular activities would prepare him for any such feminization, and that he would come out more manly than all of them – all while secretly knowing and loving the fact that he knew he would be the first to become a girl.  They dare him to prove his daring, and he agrees gives them a glimpse of the string bikini under his prison jumpsuit, which he wore in honour of the day’s bikini class.]

His experiments increase in elaborateness to the point where he tries on garter belts and teddies and corsets with only the slight concern for his manhood that he keeps on his wrist.  He prances around the bedroom wearing Susan’s fishnet stockings, a garter belt and matching thong underneath a tight little black vinyl dress when suddenly she walks into the room, without a word, and looks at him casually as if she knew all along.

“You know there are cameras in here, don’t you?  I’ve known about your secret since the first day you put on my pantyhose over your gitch.”  X is speechless.  He feels ridiculous and ashamed in her clothes, and wishes he could cover himself up.

“It’s not what you think,” he offers feebly.

“X, you’re wearing a dress and lingerie!  You’re turning yourself into a girl!  What do you think is going on here?”

“It’s not making me feminine or anything.  See, I’m still wearing my watch!”

But he knows that he’s done for.  He realizes how weak his position is.  He can feel his penis becoming flaccid in Susan’s lacy panties.  His cause is hopeless.

“Give me the watch.  It’s time for you to give in completely, and admit that you want to be a girl.”  She beckons for the watch.

“What happens to me when I take it off,” he asks.

“Nothing.  You’ll just finally be dressed completely 100% like a girl.  You’ll be admitting that nothing can help you now.  You will be completely abandoning any claim to manhood forever.  Now give it to me.”

X looks stupidly at his wrist.  A surge of emotion rushes up to his head, and he can feel his face swelling with blush.  His crotch tingles as he lets Susan’s words sink in.  He had always been terribly tempted to abandon himself that completely to womanhood, but steadfastly maintained his rule.  Now it was about to be broken, and he felt nothing but excited exhilaration about it.  He could not allow his manhood to disintegrate so totally.  It would be treason against all men.

“Just think of how pretty you’ll look in your own wardrobe when you get to wear dresses all day long in public.  Give me the watch!”

X’s hands trembled as he unbuckled the watch and let it slide off his wrist and into his hand.  He sashayed playfully to Susan, and dropped the watch in her hand.