24 hours En Femme

My wife is on a trip this weekend with the older kid. I'm at home taking care of the baby. I thought this would be an ideal time to spend as femininely as possible! The baby wouldn't know the difference.

My plan had been to head over to Target after dropping off my beloved family at the airport. There I would find some casual leggings and a sports bra that I could wear throughout the day. I had toyed with the idea of wearing a dress, but I worried that the baby might be a little confused by it. I could, however, wait until he went to sleep, then cavort around in a dress and heels to my girlish little heart's content!

That's exactly what I ended up doing. Since my last store excursion, which was almost disastrous in how anxious I felt, and how much time I spent staring at bathing suits trying not to look creepy, I learned not to give any fucks. Somehow, having the baby with me in a shopping cart made it all so much easier.

I took a bit of time choosing my sports leggings. It was hard to find exactly what I was looking for. I struggle to explain it now, but I wanted something sleek and feminine, with sheer parts and/or a floral pattern. I wasn't sure if I wanted capris or full pants. I was hoping for something with straps on the calves. I also didn't want anything too obviously feminine, to avoid giving the baby something to remember. Black is best, but I wanted some zing, something bright, or at least something not too plain. I found a few with a floral pattern, but there were none in my size. I grabbed something light blue and gray, capris, and figured that would be good enough.

The sports bra was quick and easy. I wanted something strappy, and I found one with thin double criss-crossed straps. I was tempted to get one with a zipper in front, but the straps got the better of me.

Last week, I had seen some velvety little dresses on a rack near the front of the store. That's what had gotten me thinking about getting one. It looked perfect from what I could tell at a glance. Now that I was in the store, looking at it, my dream came true. This rack was right in the front of the store, on a busy walkway. People definitely saw me looking at dresses, and putting one in my cart. I didn't care!
I nearly left at that point, but I couldn't just wear a dress without tights! I went looking for the hosiery, but it wasn't with the intimates. None of the panties got my attention, but I did consider getting a shaping girdle. I finally found the hosiery. I was going to get plain black tights, but I was presented with such a glorious variety that I spent more time looking at my options.

Lo and behold, among the tights and pantyhose, were leggings! I found some that looked like they had sheer windows below the knees, and snagged them. I also found sweater tights to go with my dress. My mission was complete.

I headed home, and immediately put the baby down in his play pen, so I could go change. I had brought in my stash of girlie stuff, and laid it all out on the bed. I put on my trusty black panties, and squeezed into my new sports bra. It was a little tight getting it on, but it was comfy. Then I tried on the leggings.

The leggings are black polyester and spandex, with interesting panels of different textures. I've seen women wearing similar leggings, and have longed to wear some myself. They're nice and tight, and very comfortable. I wasn't sure whether I should keep the sports capris, but I figured I'd try them on anyway. They're more comfortable than the leggings, by far, but somehow less appealing. It's so hard to choose! I think I want them both! I figure I'll wear the capris tomorrow, since I have most of the day until I pick up my wife and kid from the airport.

I spent the day with my baby, wearing a boring old t-shirt over my sports bra, but otherwise going about my day, only dressed in women's clothes (except for the t-shirt). I wasn't brave enough to go out like this, unfortunately. I decided to put some pants on over my leggings to take the baby out for a stroll. I found myself swinging my hips as I went. I worried a little that my bra was visible under my shirt. I also knew that nobody would notice, even if it were. I passed by several neighbors, and nobody seemed to notice anything at all. If they did, it wasn't apparent. In any case, I was too comfortable to care!

I put the baby to bed for the night, and changed into my lovely velvety dress, with my sweater tights and ridiculous glittery wedges. I've been hanging around the house, doing laundry, with this outfit on. I went outside a couple of times in it to take out some trash. I don't care if anyone sees me! In fact, I almost want the world to see me like this, because I feel so comfortable!

I've had a serene experience so far. The plan is to sleep in my pink nightie, then wake up and put on my sports bra and capris, and spend most of the day en femme again. By noon, I will have spent 24 hours dressed in women's clothes. This is something I've fantasized about for years! And finally, I've been able to do it!

Fiction: Forbidden Knowledge

When I was a boy, I learned to think of everything to do with women to be forbidden.  I feared it, as did all of my peers.  It was improper for boys to ever see girls' underwear.  There were very strict social norms against boys having anything at all to do with feminine things.  This makes sense: as a child, you're still trying to form a sense of identity, and gender is one of the most immediately comprehensible aspects of it.  It's like a lifebuoy that we cling to, to assure us of who we are.

So imagine what it must have been like to have to wear girls' tights for a school play, so our kindergarten teacher could have us all dressed like flowers.  Now, suddenly, it was ok for boys to wear girl clothes.  But deep down, I knew that it was subversive.  It was even comical, but not so embarrassing since all the boys had to do it.  

I, for one, had tasted the forbidden fruit, and I wanted more.  It planted a seed in my head which in a few years' time, when puberty started to hit, would grow like a weed.

It is forbidden for men to wear women's clothes.  Those who do are cast out of polite company.  It's simply unacceptable, deviant, and perverse.  But why?

First, it was pantyhose.  They seemed innocent enough, since I had already effectively worn some in kindergarten.  But this time, it was more serious.  I wanted to.  And when I did, it felt so good.  I learned about how it feels to have sheer nylons on my legs.  This knowledge is forbidden to boys and men.

From there, my thirst for knowledge only expanded.  I knew full well that it was perverse, and at that young age, at the beginning of puberty, sexual matters are secret; so I did this entirely out of sight.  Nobody would ever know.  I felt guilty about it, too.  But I always wanted more.  Then I fantasized about wearing other forbidden things.  There was far more forbidden knowledge to be learned, and I needed to gain some experience in order to fully appreciate it.  I developed an elaborate fantasy about how I'd have to wear pantyhose hundreds of times before I would be permitted to wear leotards, and those thousands of times before I could wear a bathing suit, and so on.  This was partly a way to rationalize that I did not have access to these things, and would have to leave it to some distant, unimaginable future.

Soon enough, I did try on a leotard.  But before that even happened, I borrowed my mother's swimsuit.  Now I was in trouble.  There was no turning back, and I knew it.  I was deeply ashamed, but that didn't stop my intense cravings.  I would look at pictures of sexy girls, and imagine wearing their bikinis.  Now I was actually stealing things from people, and keeping it hidden in my room.  Just about every day, I would masturbate in something girlie.  Meanwhile, I was slowly becoming a man.

By now, my desire for lingerie was overpowering, yet it remained always out of my reach.  Eventually, I did steal some panties, and wore them often.  I was gaining lots of knowledge and experience.  I could put on a bikini in the dark under my bedsheets.  But it was seldom good enough.

I was so confused.  Sometimes, I would wonder if I were actually a girl, and whether my parents and doctors had made some terrible mistake and made me a boy.  But I knew this wasn't so.  At the same time, I was shyly obsessed with images of girls in lingerie and swimwear.  I fantasized all the time that they would force me to become like them.

By early adulthood, I had been with girls, and secretly worn their underwear.  I started buying myself things, like lingerie and swimwear.  I had accumulated quite a collection.  I had learned more and more, to the point where I had become a sort of expert in feminine undergarments.  I fantasized about ordering lingerie online.  I made laundry lists for myself.

One girlfriend actually bought herself some lingerie and left it in my room, since she was afraid of what her mother would think.  I wore it at least 10 times more than she did.  When she and her family went away on vacation, and I was given the responsibility to water their plants, I took the opportunity to try on just about everything she owned.  No man should know so much about women's clothes.  Especially not what it feels like to wear them.

Relationships with women lasted long, but not forever.  I would start feeling guilty about wearing their underthings while their backs were turned.  I found myself focusing on my fantasies instead of finding new girlfriends.  Wearing lingerie and swimwear was so satisfying that I hardly needed any fulfillment from any woman.  I moved into my own place, and played with my outfits in secret, alone, just about every night.

I developed fantasies of becoming a girl.  I wrote all sorts of them down.  I read other people's fantasies, too.  I learned a lot about men who want to become women.  I bought a bustier, and a patent leather halter mini-dress.  I owned about 5 swimsuits.

I moved away to a different city, and began to spend lots of my extra cash on women's clothes.  I became obsessed with shoes.  I had decided that I knew enough about wearing girls' clothes that I could wear only them when I was home alone.  I would sleep in nightgowns.  I would wear skirts and corsets and stockings and pumps while cooking dinner, watching TV, or vacuuming.  My little French Maid's outfit was particularly fun for doing chores.  This is when I felt ultra-feminine.  I still wanted more.

I started wearing only women's underwear, all the time.  I wore them to work under my boy clothes.  In winter, I would wear a bra, which nobody could see because of my thick outer layers.  I threw away all my boy underwear in a moment of passion.

Soon I started keeping my legs shaven.  Then my chest.  It made the girl clothes feel so much sexier.

Then I found out about a certain questionable drinking establishment where men were encouraged to dress like women.  They provided change rooms and lockers, so you could travel there as a man, and conceal your true colours from the outside world.  Now I saw how much more I had to learn.  Some of my fellow patrons were gorgeous.  I was terribly manly looking.  I had some competition.

As I improved my womanly looks, I learned to spurn the advances of men.  For God's sake, I'm not gay!  Sure, I fantasized often and guiltily about furthering my forbidden knowledge, but apparently I wasn't ready yet.  I longed for the taste of cock, which only women know.  Everything I learned about women made me want to know more.  But after years of happily pushing the limits, I had finally found a new and significant barrier.

People knew now that I was a transvestite.  I stopped caring.  I would wear androgynous clothes to work.  Sometimes I'd have a bit of makeup on.  It was difficult for a while, but I got used to it.  I hardly needed my male wardrobe anymore.

Determined to learn my lesson, I practiced with some dildoes.  I had misgivings about putting them in my ass at first, because most women don't do that, but I figured I'd hardly be feminine if I couldn't have a penis inside me.

Around this time, as I whimsically looked into how I could get a sex change, I discovered that some doctors make a distinction among transsexuals: those who genuinely are women trapped in men's bodies, and men who love to make themselves feminine.  The distinction is remarkably clear.  The former have always been outwardly feminine, and have no trouble pretending to be girls.  The latter are actually very masculine, typically engineers, policemen, soldiers, or other masculine professions, and struggle to come off as women.  Furthermore, the former want to be women so they can have sex with straight men.  They are thoroughly homosexual.  The latter are interested in women only, although they fantasize about sex with men, there is never any emotional connection.  These doctors further posit that the latter should never be allowed to have sex changes, because they really are men through and through.

Recognizing myself as being firmly in the latter camp, I began to doubt my fetishes for stockings and panties and corsets and swimsuits and fellatio.  But I couldn't prevent them.  I envied those who were allowed to become girls.

Unable to resist, I finally sucked my first cock at my favourite bar.  It was a terrible fiasco, as these first attempts always were.  After almost vomiting at the end of it, semen all over my face and skirt, I vowed never to do it again, and stayed away for weeks.  But in retrospect, I became aroused at the thought that I had sucked dick, like a girl.  I had gained another piece of forbidden knowledge.  It comforted me to think that this practically made me a girl now.

They say that practice makes perfect, and I began to meet with a certain man to improve my technique.  I think I became quite skilled.  It was almost too easy to have him teach me how to take a cock in the ass.  By now I wanted to be as gay as possible, because it made me feel so feminine.  When he pounded my ass and came inside it, I could only think of how feminine I was.

Now I became serious.  I had sexy piercings on my belly button, my nipple, and my tongue.  I was ready to learn the final forbidden lesson: what it feels like to have a penis in my own vagina.  The thought excited me to no end.  I was nervous when I made the first appointment.  Lucky for me, the doctor didn't believe in this hogwash about autogynophiles.  I would begin to live as a girl full-time, without exceptions, and take hormones after a year.  A year after that, I would have the surgery and have a small piece of my small intestine cut out and my sensitive parts attached to it, to make it look and feel like a pussy.

It was hard to come out to my family, but eventually, they accepted it.  Work was sensitive, but at least they were prepared for it.  It felt good to be dressed like a girl all the time.  I had a few sexual adventures, too.  I was overjoyed to start taking the hormones, until taking so many pills became a drag.  I had waited so long to fill in my brassieres, and finally, it was happening.

My mind began to change.  I was much more emotional.  I thought about stopping, but I persevered.  After all these years of gaining feminine knowledge forbidden to men, I was finally really beginning to feel like a girl.

I still knew, though, that I was an autogynophile.  Deep down I knew that I am fundamentally attracted to women, not men.  Yet the thought of my own vagina was far too tempting.  I needed this last bit of forbidden knowledge.

At last, the surgery was done, and I became a woman.  It was months of visits and bandages and stitches and ointments before I could use my new body.  In spite of decades of preparation and longing, nothing could adequately prepare me for the reality of it.  I was aroused by the knowledge that I now had a pussy, but at first I couldn't even touch it.  My arousal felt so strangely displaced.  It hurt at first, terribly, because of the surgery around such sensitive parts.  But eventually, it healed, and I learned to find my clitoris.  It felt like somone had exposed the head of my penis to a nuclear blast.  Later, I discovered that deep inside my new vagina are the nerves that were once on the shaft of my penis.  It took days of desperate experimentation, but I eventually discovered a truly feminine orgasm.

This drastic reconfiguration of my cock, which had foolishly led itself to its own demise, was incredibly disturbing.  I cursed myself for mutilating my most precious body part.  I wanted to fuck girls with my dick again.  I realized that I could never do it again.  I cried a lot those days.

Armed with my new girlhood, and desperate to truly experience it, I trolled my old haunts for some action.  But none of my old boyfriends were interested anymore.  They were gay men, and fucking girls -- even formerly male ones -- did not at all appeal to them.  It took many depressing months of trying before I finally got one.  He was ugly and disgusting, but I needed to feel a penis inside me.  I hardly even took notice of him as he fucked me.  All I could think of was how incredibly sexy and feminine I felt and looked.  Now it was simply a matter of trying different positions.  Somehow, it was still never enough.  It dawned on me that I must be a lesbian.

At last I knew the price of my forbidden knowledge.  In the end, I am a man, no matter what my crotch looks like.  I am insatiably attracted to women.  I betrayed my gender, my identity, for a sympathetic fantasy about the object of my desire.  I was punished the moment I learned my first lesson when I was a young boy.  I was cursed with an insatiable desire to know everything that was forbidden to me from the beginning.  I should have been humiliated enough to stop long ago, at many different stages.  But instead I took it to this irreversible end.

And just the very thought of it makes me unfathomably horny.

Fiction: How I Turned Into A Girl

Innocent beginnings

It all started very innocently.  I was 5 years old.  We had a kindergarten class pantomime, in which all the children were to dress up as flowers.  Everyone had to get white tights as part of the costume.  All the boys got to wear girls' tights.  I don't know how anybody else felt about it, but I liked it.  In my primitive sexual mind, at that young age, I liked the way it felt on my penis.  That's when I learned that it's bad for boys to wear girls' clothes.  But the seed was planted.

Tentative experiments

Years later, I got up the nerve to borrow some pantyhose.  I had never forgotten my experience with the white tights.  I liked the idea of being dominated by a woman.  Before the pantyhose, I would fantasize that a woman was making me kiss her boots.  Somehow, I was heavily attracted to women.  But it was all very bad.  I knew somehow that it would be wonderfully naughty to be turned into a girl.  So I played with pantyhose.  At first I wore it over my underwear, for fear of it really making me a girl.  Pretty soon I was all naked inside it, unprotected from its sheer femininity.

Shocking fantasies of being utterly feminized

The fantasies became elaborate scenarios of metamorphosis.  And it had a lot to do with my own free will.  I would imagine resisting for as long as possible, but in the end succumbing to the extreme pleasure.  I imagined what it must be like to wear bathing suits, or even lingerie.  Just the thought of it made me incredibly horny.  I made excuses, believing that if I dared to go that far, there would be no turning back.

Experiments become more daring

I couldn't resist.  I moved on to whatever I had available.  I dared to put on a one-piece bathing suit.  It was heaven!  I knew I was in trouble, but while I wore it, I didn't care.  I wanted to go all the way, by wearing even panties and brassieres.  But I could only do it gradually, given that I had virtually nothing to work with at my immediate disposal.

The collection

I started to steal things from friends' sisters, from Mom.  I needed it.  Pretty soon I had a little collection that I thoroughly adored.  And I wanted more.  I fantasized about stealing underwear from clotheslines.  I had even acquired a bikini!

Busted

I had gotten too bold.  Mom found out.  She was shocked and didn't know what to make of it.  She quickly gathered her things that I had stolen, and I begged her not to let anyone know.  I swore to never do it again.

Purge

I was so ashamed of myself, that I even got rid of the things she didn't find.  I cursed myself for what I had done.

The inevitable relapse binge

I denied myself for so long that the urge to wear something female became uncontrollable.  I stole a bathing suit again, and fell off the wagon.  I binged more than ever with girls' clothes, and loved every second of it.

Denial and abandon

Then I would become ashamed and throw everything away again, vowing to never do it again.  But each time, I could only go so long.  Realizing that I was giving in only made me hornier, because it made me understand that every time I wear an article of girls' clothing, I become more and more addicted to it; which leads to the inevitable conclusion that at some point, I will become a girl from doing it so much.  This only fed the pleasure I got from it more, because the whole point was to make myself feel like a girl.  Then, as soon as I was done, my shame would lead me to renounce my habit yet again, and the cycle would start over.

Caught again

The next time I was caught, I was in the middle of masturbating with a bikini.  I was mortified.  Before, I had only had my stash of girlie clothes discovered.  By now I was in my mid teens, and I was seen by my parents wearing a bikini.  I was so embarrassed that I couldn't speak.  I covered myself up in my shame, and my parents tried to console me, rationalizing it to themselves more than anything.  I swore, once again, to quit forever, but I knew that I had a problem.

Acceptance

My problem wasn't that I was wearing girls' bathing suits and underwear; it was that I wouldn't admit to myself that I loved doing so.  This I discovered when having a little chat with my father.  I didn't tell him so, but he could certainly tell that I was not going to quit.  I would, however, keep it secret.

The gift

On my seventeenth birthday, I was shocked to discover lingerie under my pillow.  I had never been able to steal anything so sexy.  I knew that it didn't belong to my Mom.  Somebody knew of my habit, and was now actively condoning it.  I wore it under my boy clothes all day the next day to celebrate.  Only later did I find the note that was meant to be attached to it.  It read, “I just want to know, for sure, whether you have quit your dirty habit or not.  I know it must be very hard for you.  If you leave this under your pillow tomorrow, I'll know that you want to quit.  If not, then please take these.  I'd rather have you own your own than borrowing all the time.” 

The realization of the enormity

Things started appearing in my dresser at random intervals.  There were many pleasant surprises for me.  Within a year, I had a small collection of just about everything a girl could want.  I was wearing it almost every night.  Only when a girl became interested in me did I realize the enormity of what I was doing.  I couldn't possibly let her know about my collection, which sat openly in the top drawer of my dresser.  I could never tell her that I not only have worn fishnet stockings, a garter belt, a brassiere, many bikinis, and all sorts of satin and lace panties and nightgowns; but I also own some!  I thought of how my initial fears of becoming feminized were becoming totally true.  And I masturbated at the thought.

Busted – for good

By the time I went away to college, I had been with a few girlfriends, and always kept my secret to myself.  But I also secretly borrowed their things whenever the urge struck me.  I was incorrigible.  Annie outsmarted me, though.  She suspected that something was awry.  We were living together, and she noticed that some of her undergarments would shift.  She set up a hidden camera, and caught me red-handed putting on her bathing suit.  She confronted me with the video, and I was contrite, ashamed, and extremely fearful.  She threatened to tell everyone.  I begged her not to.  She relented, but things would change dramatically between us from that point on.

Manipulation

She majored in psychology.  She manipulated me like a handful of putty.  She immediately became dominant, with the threat of exposing my habit to the world hanging over my head.  She was curious more than anything else.  She wanted to understand what got into me.  She wanted to explore the phenomenon.  She had me dress up for her.  At first, it was extremely awkward.  She was only the third person to ever see me wearing women's underwear.  She asked me to go about my routine, and tell her what I was thinking.  I couldn't do it for days, but eventually, I succeeded.  I was wearing a bikini, and she decided to play along, rather than spectate.  We frolicked together, both of us wearing sexy women's swimwear.  I purred to her how I wanted to be just like her, how I wanted to be as sexy as her when I wore her bikini.  I told her that I longed to be worthy of the clothes I play with. 

She tried different tricks, but it became part of the routine.  I would cavort around in lingerie for her every night, under threat of being exposed to the world.  She soon discovered how uncomfortable I became about the whole situation when I wasn't horny.  She had me tell her that I wanted to shave my legs while I was hot with desire, and she talked me into doing it, in spite of the fact that it would be terribly easy for anyone to notice.  I was so horny that I enjoyed doing it, in spite of the consequences.  After I came, she asked me if I would wear makeup, and she couldn't get me to agree to it without threats.

This led to a phenomenal escalation of my habits, which, as long as I was still aroused, I gladly agreed to.  Before I knew it, I had beautiful long hair, easily stylable into a feminine look; I had become an expert at applying makeup; I kept most of my body hair shaven at all times; and I could walk in high heels.  She only let me come just before I went to sleep.  I said all sorts of incriminating things.  I signed documents attesting to my desire to become a girl.  I professed my dissatisfaction with my lack of womanhood to her video camera.  I was giving her more and more material to incriminate me with, to the point where it became almost moot.  I swore to her, on tape and on signed documents, that I gladly give up my own penis in a heartbeat, and even suck someone else's and swallow all the semen.

Exposure

The weight of her threats lay in my desire to keep my femininity secret.  Unfortunately for me, not only had the changes to my appearance become noticeable during the day, but I became indifferent to my reputation as a man.  I was wearing women's underwear under my clothes, to keep me horny all day long.  I felt so good that I wanted people to know what I was wearing.  Many people suspected it.  Eventually, there was no doubt: Annie coerced me into dressing up as skankily as possible with her, and going for a walk in public.  I agreed readily, but became extremely nervous when we actually went outside.  Everyone recognized me.  In a way, I felt extremely sexy and proud; in other ways, I felt deeply embarrassed.  But I got used to it.  Within weeks I was clubbing in my girl clothes.  Luckily, I could still fight.  I was still manly enough for men to want to kill me.

Slavery

With the threat of exposure nothing more than a quaint memory, Annie found other ways to manipulate me.  She made me realize just how deep my desire to be female really went.  I had always kept it to a subtext that I wouldn't even admit to myself, but she hypothesized correctly that I wanted to fuck boys.  She would get me so hot and horny that I would be practically female; then she introduced me to some gay man she knew from college, and encouraged me to explore my urges.  She made me feel so thankful to her that her threats had changed: now she threatened to take away my girlishness.  I became her sissy slave.  I would stay home and be her maid, and she would bring home boys for her own pleasure, and show me off to them as her creation.  I was permitted to suck cock from time to time, and even to get a dick rammed up my ass.  I was a time of great and exciting discovery for me.  But she wouldn't allow me to enjoy it as much as I could have.

Privation

Soon she realized that her hold on me was entirely based on preventing me from having orgasms.  She kept me tied in a penis constraining device so that I would behave better.  I was extremely horny at all times, and I became an insatiable cock whore.  She kept me in her power by promising more cock.  But I was not allowed to come!  I physically could not ejaculate.  I so desperately wanted to. 

Emancipation

I broke my bonds from her at last and came wildly for days.  She was appalled, and threatened to deny me from getting any more cock.  But I discovered that I was fully able to get some by myself.  I was now passable enough to get it, or else brave enough to go to a gay bar and bag myself some easy action.  I laughed when she threatened to expose me.  My transformation was now complete!  I hadn't worn any article of men's clothes in many months, even in public; and I bought my own lingerie and club wear.  I was a little tramp!  I moved out in a huff and got my own place.

A taste for cock

I ditched all my men's clothes that I was no longer wearing.  I became a fixture at gay bars.  My parents found out, and disapproved.  I laughed in their faces, too. 

My fate was sealed from the very first moment

So now I'm scheduled for my pre-operation hormones.  I'm growing my own breasts, and giving up my worthless penis for a glorious pussy.

Fiction: Massive Forced Feminization: Impervious

I couldn't help but laugh when they explained why they expected me to put on the panties and bra they laid out in front of me.  "Do you actually believe that you can turn me into a sissy faggot boy just by making me wear panties and a bra?  Don't you realize just how much man you're dealing with here?"

"Just put it on," ordered the mousy little bitch to my right.  

"Ha ha!  This is hilarious!  Or should I say, hysterical!"  I put on the panties, prancing around like a sissy, just to show them how little this affected me.  "Look at this," I said, pointing to my stiffening cock.  "I told you you can't contain this kind of manhood.  I'm bursting out all over!"  She had to help me put on the bra, which had to be stretched to the limit and attached at the last clasp because of my muscular pecs.  "Am I supposed to be humiliated by this?  Ha!  I'll pop out of this get-up like the incredible hulk any second now!"

Such a ludicrous idea!  Somehow, wearing women's underwear is supposed to make me feminine in some way.  My body is far too masculine to be compromised by any kind of clothing.  If anything, wearing panties and bras accentuates my manhood, because it looks downright incongruous on me.  It just shows off my muscles and my - if you'll allow me the boast - rather large dick, which bulges right out of the panties.

Wendy, the mousy little bitch who is supposed to personally coach me into becoming a woman, snickers at me.  How they expected this skinny, flat-chested, homely cunt to teach me anything about womanhood when she clearly knows little about it herself, I'll never understand.  Hell, even Heidi Klum couldn't put the slightest dent in me.  If anything, she'd throw herself at me and beg me to show her what a man I am.

"Your manhood has been compromised already.  It's no joke.  You're already turning into a girl as we speak, even if you don't know it.  Every moment you spend wearing women's clothes contributes to your growing femininity.  You'll be begging for more within a week, I guarantee."

"I'm sure, cupcake.  Just bring it on.  I beg you!"

"You won't be laughing for long.  Just you wait!"

Wendy cracks me up.  That night, after a whole day of her explaining to me how I will gradually learn how to wear things like pantihose and garter belts and bikinis like a proper girl, I fucked her harder than she's ever been fucked before.  And she liked it, too.  We were expressly forbidden from fooling around, but I had to show her who's boss.  She fought like a wildcat at first, but it didn't take long for her to start participating fully.  She did some pretty dirty shit, I don't mind telling you.  Now she stares at me like she can't wait for some more.

When she gives me pantyhose to wear the next day, I'm a little surprised that she is still allowing this charade to continue.  We're in the same huge auditorium as before, and again, some of the other, less confident guys are bellyaching about how they don't want to be girls.  It makes me laugh how these fucking pansies haven't got the balls to put on a pair of pantyhose, just to show these bitches how pointless it is to even attempt this madness.  I slip into them, joking and laughing just as I did before.  I sure don't feel any more feminine.  The full-length mirror they supplied for us still shows a massive hulk of a man, with a big fat cock bulging under his tights.  I'm still buff.  I laugh.

"You like how this looks on me, babe?"  Wendy grins salaciously as she stares at me.  She doesn't look too bad when she's salivating over me.  Not to mention that she, like me, is wearing nothing but a pair of brown pantyhose.  

"Oh, yeah," she says.  "Very pretty."

Of course, she has to say things like that, because the armed guards will shoot us both if they think I'm not co-operating.  I've seen it happen.  They mean business.

"So, there you go.  I'm wearing pantyhose.  What's next?  Bring it on.  I'm not afraid."

"You're not ready to move on yet," she says softly.

"So what?"

"You've got to follow your regimen."

"What, you don't think I can handle more than this?  Ha ha ha!  It's not gonna make the slightest bit of difference, babe, just do your worst."

"Even if I wanted to, I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"I'm not the one who gets to decide."

"Who does?  Them?" I ask, pointing at the armed guards.

"No, silly, the supervisors."

"You mean those really hot bitches walking around checking everybody out?  Man, I'd like to bang one of them!"

Wendy looks hurt.  Stupid bitch!  I've got her right in the palm of my hand! 

"Yes.  Them.  They'll give me the next garment for you to wear when they think you're ready."

"When they think I'm ready, eh?  So obviously, I'm still way too butch for them, eh?  I'll bet they want a piece of me.  They ain't never seen a body like this before, I'll bet."

"I think you look cute in pantyhose.  They probably think you need more practice."

"Right.  This is supposed to make me feminine.  I forgot."

"Don't worry, Charlie darling, they will."  We both burst into belly laughs at this. 

That night, she wore a sexy little nighty to bed, and made sure as Hell that I'd see her in it.  She's turning out to be quite the randy little bitch.  When I came to her, she tore off my pantihose, like she couldn't wait to get to the manly goodness inside.  I bounced her off my cock for four hours, and she still couldn't get enough.  So much for me turning into a woman.

This went on for a good two weeks.  Over that span of time, she became hotter and hotter, to the point where she was no longer the skinny, mousy cunt I first met, but a gorgeous, curvaceous, sex-starved vixen.  Every day, she got a new outfit, and joked about how soon I'd get to wear the same stuff.  The second day, she got to wear some exercise tights.  Then she wore nothing but bathing suits for three or four days.  When she got to wear bikinis, I really started to get hot for her, rather than just fucking her out of spite.  Now she's wearing lingerie every day, and she's moving like a runway model.  Good God, is she ever hot now.

Meanwhile, I get almost nothing to eat.  I feel weak, and I'm wasting away.  As hot as she is, I just can't keep up with her in bed anymore.  I mean, I'm still very manly, and she's totally hot for me, but I need some kind of nourishment to keep me going.  I'm still wearing pantyhose, and I'm wondering when they'll start testing me harder.  They can starve me all they want, I'm still as much a man as ever!  No amount of women's underwear is gonna change that.  Still, I think I'm one of the only men left in the group still wearing pantyhose.

Today, Wendy finally gives me a sports bra and tights.  They're pink, just like the ones she wore on our second day together.  

"Geez, it's about time!" I tell her as she hands them to me.

"What's the matter?" says Wendy, teasingly.  "Have you been looking forward to this?"

"Of course not!  I was just wondering when. . ."

"I told you you couldn't hold out for long!  This is priceless!"

"Fuck you!  I don't want to wear this!"

"Why not?" she purrs.  "It's not going to affect your manhood or anything, is it?"  She slides her incredibly sexy body against me as she says this, and caresses my crotch.

"I told you!  They can throw anything they want at me, and it's not going to matter!  Look at me!  I'm the model of masculinity!  This is nothing to me!"

"Well, you've sure got me fooled."

"Ha!  I'll show you!  Watch me put this on!"

"That's exactly what I mean.  You can't wait!"

"We'll see about that tonight, won't we sugar?"

"We probably will."  

While she would usually have made a comment like that with that sexy glint in her eye, now it seems totally sarcastic.

"You love it when I bone you all night long.  I'm more man than you can handle."

"Seems to me that's just not true anymore.  When's the last time you outlasted me, sugar?"

She's right.  I'm too starved to do much with her anymore.  The last few nights, she came to me.  In fact, last night, she held me down and straddled me while I was still wearing my pantyhose.  I was too weak to throw her off.  

"All right then," I countered.  "I'll prove it to you.  I could wear the sexiest clothes you've got, before your precious supervisors think I'm ready.  And it's not going to have the least effect on me.  I'll fuck the living shit out of you right after.  And there won't be anything you can do about it."

"Oh yeah?  Well I'll bet that's just a ruse to get into my panties - literally - and that you're turning into a sissy just like I told you you would from the very beginning."

"OK, let's bet then."

"What's in it for me?"

"It's a win-win proposition.  When I win - sorry - IF I win, then you get boned by a hardcore piece of man who has proven his incorruptibility.  If you win, then you can go ahead and do your worst to me, and I won't care because I won't be much of a man anymore.  But we both know that's impossible, so look forward to riding my cock, honey."

She grins maliciously and sexily.  "It's a deal."

After that first day in leotards, I noticed that I had lost an awful lot of bulk.  I was now quite slender - not in a feminine way, but still slender.  I strutted around all day proving to her that leotards were nothing to me, and that not even her sexiest outfit could do anything to affect my manhood.  In fact, I got a sense of freedom and power as I proudly showed the world how much I could take.  I could feel my cock harden as I thought about how easily I would win this bet.  I was so tired that night that I couldn't do much to stop her from having her way with me again.  I don't know how many times I came in those tight little shorts, but I felt vindicated by the fact that my ever-powerful semen was soiling these precious feminine garments. 

I spent the next few days wearing different one-piece bathing suits.  They felt so tight against my torso, and so soft.  She had me shaved so that I could feel the smooth skin on my legs rubbing together.  I paraded around, proclaiming my victory, feeling even stronger than I did the first day.  I couldn't wait to try on a bikini - or better yet, lingerie! - and show Wendy just how pointless her efforts were.  Each night, Wendy stormed into my bed and made me come in my bathing suit several times.  I refused to take it off, because it gave me such a rush to so successfully establish my manhood.

After about a week of this, I had to ask her when I could wear a bikini.  I had been thinking about it non-stop for days.  I wanted to move along as quickly as possible with this bet, and show her just how much contempt I have for the whole concept of feminization.  I could just imagine how powerfully sexy I would feel in a string bikini.  So little fabric to contain so much manhood!  I was so confident that I would handle it as easily as I had everything else, that it made me horny to think about it.  I literally shook with anticipation.

"I'm not allowed to let you wear a bikini yet," she explained.  "The supervisors don't think you're ready."

"Yeah, they can tell that their little games aren't working.  Obviously, I'm still far too much a man for them to risk losing with one of their top cards."

"Actually," she grinned, "it's the complete opposite.  They think you're turning too fast.  They want to let you savour every second of your feminization."

"Too fast!" I squealed, putting my hands on my bathing suit clad hips, "How can they possibly think that I'm feminizing at all, much less too fast?"  I could feel my cock start swelling in visceral resistance to the very idea of me becoming feminine.

"Look at you!" Wendy laughed, "you're wearing a girl's bathing suit, and you're begging me for a bikini!  You're a flaming drag queen!  You can't possibly believe that you're not feminizing at least just a little!"

"Ha!  Then why do I have such a massive boner if I'm turning into a girl?"

"Because you love every second of it!"

"As if!"

"The merest suggestion of you becoming more feminine than you already are excites you like nothing else!"

At this moment I became acutely aware of how my pink swimsuit caressed my crotch, and how softly the spandex stretched across my flanks and chest.  I swung my hips at her girlishly and challenged her: "Ok, so why don't you prove it?  We do have a bet, you know."

"I don't need to prove anything.  I've been having my way with you every night since this started.  I can't believe you don't realize that you're practically a girl already."

"I'm not even close!  I'm still more man than you can handle!  You can't even keep your hands off me!"

"That's because," she purred, "making you my little swimsuit model turns me on."

"Right, because I'm so manly in spite of your efforts."

"Okay," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Just get me a bikini, and I'll prove it to you."

"I can't do that.  I told you already."

"I know you can't wait to get your hands on me.  Just think of how much more of my skin will be exposed."

"I'm really not allowed to."

"Does anybody have to know?"

"Well, how are they not going to know when you're strutting around the place like a princess wearing a higher-grade garment than you're supposed to?"

"We can do it at night," I offered, sliding up to her seductively, like she would.  Only in a manly sort of way.

"Well. . ."

"Come on.  You know you want to."

"Yeah.  It would be fun.  I'll lend you one of mine.  But I swear, if you tell anyone about this, I'll fucking kill you!"

That night, as promised, she presented me with her gorgeous light blue spandex bikini.  I was a little bit disappointed that it wasn't a string bikini, but it came a close second.  I hooked my thumbs under my one-piece's bra straps and stripped it off, sticking out my chest a bit, and slid it down my smooth legs.  I immediately snatched the panties out of her hand, and put them on.  I needed no help with the bra, having seen her put them on so many times. 

"Oh my God!" she giggled.  "You're putting it on like an expert!"

I could only grin.  At last, I had fulfilled my goal of proving my manhood in a bikini.  The cool air lightly touching my exposed skin attuned me my outfit.  I gently caressed the shimmering spandex on my hips, which I began to gyrate in sheer sexual triumph.  The rush of victory was even sweeter than I had imagined.  Here I stood -- no, danced -- in a sexy little bikini, my fat cock pulsating beneath the tight little cloth.  I felt myself all over like a stripper, absorbed into my contempt for the feminization program.  Every swing of my hips made me feel that much more free.  I felt waves of sexual energy pulsing through me, more powerful than ever before.  Yes, I was being tested with an incredible amount of femininity, yet I still felt more powerfully sexy than I ever dared imagine possible.

Wendy got up from her bed, wearing her nightgown, and danced with me sensuously.  I shivered with ecstasy when she caressed and snapped my bra strap and pantywaist.  I trembled at the thought of how complete my victory would be if I wore her nightgown.

I came so many times that night that I lost count.  I fell asleep exhausted, still wearing her bikini, and covered in my own semen. 

When morning came, and I had to put on a new one-piece swimsuit, I was reluctant to part with my bikini.  Wendy convinced me that if I wanted more nights like those, I would have to co-operate, or risk getting stuck with a much less lenient coach than her, and never skip levels again.  I looked forward to proving to the entire world just how easily I could put on a bikini, and not become the slightest bit corrupted by it.  I longed for the day when I would wear one in public, and shock everyone with my stunning manhood.  

Unfortunately, the supervisors consistently refused to promote me to bikini class, laughably maintaining that I still seemed to be reveling so much in my one-piece suits that it would be criminal to prevent me from enjoying them for as long as I could.  Most of these pansies who actually were turning into girls only had to wear one-pieces for three months at most.  They were all gallivanting around in club wear, looking practically indistinguishable from their coaches.  Weaklings!  I'll bet they envied the tenacity of my manhood!  More likely, they longed for a good piece of my manhood in the same way as Wendy.

Little did any of them know just how far I was going every night, without feeling the slightest effect.  If anything, my masculinity increased exponentially with every nightly test.  In fact, I had gone at least as far as the biggest pansy of all, who by now was gorgeous like a supermodel, and prettier than even some of the supervisors.  I, too, have worn the sexiest lingerie under little black minidresses; I, too, have sashayed around like a runway model in three-inch heels and fancy evening dresses; I, too, have experienced wearing every conceivable article of women's clothing.  The only difference is that I am still so very much a man -- more than I ever was.  I never once doubted my masculinity, but these nightly tests proved it more convincingly than any number of sexual conquests ever could.

Over the six months since I first wore a bikini, I slowly convinced Wendy to allow me to try just about everything in her wardrobe.  At first, I was obsessed with proving that I could withstand any of her bikinis.  This quickly became almost tiresome in its lack of challenge, much as the one-piece swimsuits had, so I insisted on her testing me with actual underwear.  The endless varieties of women's undergarments provided me with so many countless opportunities to prove myself anew.  Just when I thought I had done it all, I discovered to my great joy a new garment that I had completely forgotten about.  Through all of this, I never failed to triumph with ever-increasing success.  I suspect that I began to wear out Wendy somewhat with my irrepressible manhood.

I could only laugh when, six months after my first illicit forays into bikinis, the supervisors decreed that I was ready for a change.  The very night before, I had snuck out to the dance club with Wendy for the umpteenth time, having chosen my very own wardrobe of a tight red patent leather minidress over a matching lace panty, bra, and garter belt, black fishnet stockings and knee-high boots.  I even put on my own makeup!  I loved to go out like this, and watch all the men ogle me in wonder at how even in this ultra-feminine getup, my manhood wasn't the least bit compromised.  I got such a rush out of taunting them by mocking the girls I danced with, mimicking their every move.  To put on a bikini in public, finally, after so easily conquering the ultimate in feminine clothes at a busy outside dance club, struck me as the most preposterously weak attempt to corrupt me into womanhood -- particularly since bikinis were by now old hat.

Still, I did rather enjoy it.  After all these months of secretly testing my manliness, it felt great to finally get a chance to do it in public.  I got a great kick out of showing up the supervisors.  To go off-campus completely in drag was one thing; wearing a bikini in public is quite another.  All day long I taunted them, hinting at their dismal failure to put the slightest dent in my masculinity, even after more than half a year of wearing nothing but women's clothes.  They could only smile wickedly, knowing how massively I had defeated them.  "We'll see about that," they warned.

When I got back to my room with Wendy, I stripped out of my bikini and slipped into my sexiest nightie.  I was tired from the late carousing of the night before, and only wanted to sleep.  My nightgown, so silky and tight, flaring out at my hips over top of my delicate lace-trimmed matching silk panties, felt so comfortable as it reassured me of my unblemished masculinity.  If this nightie couldn't turn me into a girl, after wearing it to bed at least three times a week for the last four months, then nothing could.  Wendy looked a little bit nervous, clearly shaken by the ease with which I wore a bikini in public all day.  There was so little left for me to do.  I had proven myself masculine under the most severe duress.  The only thing I hadn't done was parade in lingerie publicly.  My forays into the outside world dressed like a club girl had exposed me to even more than the feminization program ever could.  I thought about coming out publicly the next morning in a baby doll and garter belt, against all the rules, just to proclaim my final victory.  Yes, that would prove to them all how indomitable was my manhood!

Just as I finalized my plan, the door burst open.  Sandra, the head supervisor, came storming in, and flicked on the lights.  I yelped as I jumped up in my bed, holding my sheets in front of me.

"Aha!  I knew there was something funny going on!"

Wendy looked at me sheepishly from her bed, a shy little grin tugging at one corner of her mouth.  "Sorry Charlotte," she said.

"Get out of bed!" ordered Sandra.  

Finally the showdown, I thought.  I threw away the sheets, and strode gloriously right up to her.  I did a little pirouette in front of her, and showed off my outfit.  "What do you think of this?" I asked her defiantly.
She stared at me, shocked at my bravery.  "Wendy," she said, chuckling, "you've done a fantastic job with this one!  She doesn't even realize how gorgeous she is, does she?"

"No," giggled Wendy, "she still thinks she's ultra-masculine."

The supervisors and other girls and pansies who had come out of their rooms at the commotion began to titter and laugh at this.

"Don't play your games with me," I said, "you've lost.  Do you know how many times I've come in this nightie?  There's nothing your feminization project can do to even hint at spoiling my manhood."

"Well, that's what we're here to prove," retorted Sandra.

"Go ahead.  I've done it all.  Isn't that right Wendy?  I go clubbing in skank wear.  I sleep in sexy lingerie.  And I still haven't been the least bit affected by it.  I'm more man than you can handle.  I'll bet you're fantasizing about me riding you like a hobby horse right now."

"Oh goodness!  You have no idea what's in store for you now, do you?  Oh my, this is precious!  Come on out of your room!  Let's go to the auditorium!  Let's watch you prove your manhood to us all once and for all!"

"Gladly!"

With that, we strutted to the main hall, which quickly became packed.  Much to the consternation of the supervisors, I strutted up and down the stage in my nightie, giving everyone a great look at just what they were up against.  They didn't stand a chance!  I would now show everyone that I was incorruptible.  I relished the thought.  What would they make me wear?  Was it not enough that I strutted so confidently in front of them all in probably one of the sexiest garments around?

Suddenly a hush came over the crowd, as Sandra took a microphone and introduced me.

"As you know, this is Charlotte.  Isn't she just gorgeous in her little nightie?" 

The crowd roared its approval.

"But there's a problem!  Somehow, Charlotte imagines that she's still somehow manly!"

Peals of laughter.

"Even better!  She actually thinks -- and I'm not kidding -- that she's proving herself to be the ultimate man by being the most dedicated, most aggressive sissy of you all!"

The crowd is in tears with laughter.  I'm getting terribly upset.

"Charlotte has ben led to believe that she's breaking all the rules by wearing everything she wants in private.  She thinks that she's been proving her manhood all this time, that her being held back in one-pieces for a record six months is somehow testament to her victory!"

At this point, I lunge for the microphone and grab it from Sandra's hands.

"All you bitches," I begin, "are about to find out what a real man is.  I've worn everything you could possibly imagine.  I've gone further than even your garment classes will show you.  And I AM STILL MASCULINE!  Look at how horny I am!  Look at how hard my cock gets when I wear this stuff!  Throw your worst at me!  I'll show you all that nothing you can do to me will stop me from being a man!  As a matter of fact, all that you're doing to me is making me even more manly!  So come on, do your worst, I can't wait to try it on!"
The crowd goes wild, hooting and hollering.  They don't think I can make it either.  Clearly, they know more than I do about what's in store.

"BRING OUT THE BOY!" screams Sandra, bereft or her microphone.  She draws my attention to one side of the stage, where a burly young man comes strutting right for me.

Sandra grabs the mic from my hand.  "Well, Charlotte, are you ready for your ultimate test?  You remember Trevor from the Dance Club, don't you?  Well, he thinks you're cute.  Why don't you show him just how much femininity you can handle?"

I had been tormenting Trevor for as long as I had been going to the Dance Club.  He looked like quite a mack artist, and I could tell by the way he looked at me that he envied my bravery, and wished he could so confidently prove his own manhood.  I danced at him as femininely as I could, just to rub it all in.  Was I going to have to fight him to prove my masculinity?  Was this going to be a beauty contest?  A contest of conquest?
Trevor surprised me by grabbing my waist.  He was fully clothed, and I was still wearing just my nightie.  "Good God, are you ever sexy," he said.  "Let's give these people a show!"

Before I could respond, his lips locked passionately onto mine, and I understood.  At first, I pushed him away, but he was much stronger than me, what with my starvation diet and lack of strength training.  But there was more.  Something about the way he caressed my ass made me realize what kind of contest this was.  I melted into him, and kissed him back.

We necked for a full five minutes.  I trembled when he squeezed my nipples, which had become so much more sensitive since I began hormone therapy six weeks previously.  I had partly forgotten the crowd.  I found myself concentrating on his massive chest, and his throbbing crotch.  They didn't think I would do it, did they?  I was going to give them more than they ever expected.  He let me throw him down onto the bed that they had rolled out behind us, and undid his pants.  I helped him out of them entirely, straddled him, and rubbed my panties against his massive cock as he pulled off my chemise and tweaked both of my nipples.

Inwardly, I laughed, knowing how complete my victory would be.  Surely they expected me to shy away from this last challenge.  What was more feminine than having sex with a man?  I knew that I could fuck and suck Trevor all night if I had to, manly as he is, and my manhood would still be completely intact.  The enthusiasm with which I went down on him and sucked him dry would surely have completely destroyed a lesser man than I.  I bet Trevor would die of shame if anyone knew he sucked cock.  I did it with the greatest joy that I have ever known, because I knew that I had nothing to fear.  The crowd cheered wildly when, Trevor momentarily spent, I got up out of bed, grabbed the microphone, and gargled his semen so that the entire auditorium could see what I had done.  I licked my hands and face clean, made a big show of taking off my panties, and jumped right back into bed.

We did it missionary style first, which was so much fun that I quickly forgot to be dismayed that Trevor didn't mind my having a penis.  I took solace in knowing that having his huge cock in my ass proved me to be the braver.  That knowledge made every stroke that much more pleasurable, and I came two or three times as he rode me.  

We proceeded to try several different positions, each drawing oohs and aaahs from the audience.  I fucked Trevor silly, in the most feminine way imaginable.  This was the ultimate test in femininity.  I had now been tested to the maximum.  I had performed sexual feats that many women have only ever fantasized about.  When we were done, we slept together, spooned, and I dreamed of how even though I won my bet hands down, tested to the extreme, and even though I had absolutely nothing left to prove, would stick around here forever, just for the chance to prove my manhood every day like I did tonight.

"So," asked Wendy, "explain to me again how sucking cock so enthusiastically makes you in any way masculine?"

"How many times do I have to explain this?" I lisp, exasperated, mocking her most feminine mannerisms almost out of habit.  "The more feminine you try to make me, the more my manhood comes through.  I told you from the start that only a pansy of the highest order would be afraid of wearing girls' undies, because his very conviction that it will somehow taint his manhood will make it happen.  I'm not afraid, so I can take whatever you throw at me, and laugh about how ineffective it is."

"So how come you wear nothing but girls' clothes now?  How come you only have sex with men now?  For that matter, how come men even want to have sex with you if you're not ultra-feminine?"

"Ha!  Isn't it obvious?"

"It sure is!"

"They're clearly so intimidated by my manhood that they'll even submit to being my bitches!"

Wendy bursts into a fit of convulsive laughter.

"What the Hell?  You're just jealous because I haven't fucked you in more than a year.  I wouldn't fuck men if I didn't have to keep proving to you stupid bitches that you can't effeminate me."

"Charlotte, you're such a riot!"

"Oh, shut up."

"Look at you!  You've been on hormones for so long that you've grown perfect 34C boobs!  You've permanently electrolyzed away all your body hair!  You even have a sexy, curvy waist!  And to top it off, you wear designer lingerie full time, and enjoy sucking dicks more than most real women!  Why don't you just accept the fact that you've become a girl in every way but one?"

"Am I going to have to fuck you now to prove my manhood?  Is that what this is about?" I said this coquettishly -- again out of habit -- in a way that would have made any man melt in his shoes.  I've gotten very good at this.

"You probably can't even get it up anymore, what with all the hormones.  Anyway, let's just say I'm not attracted to you.  I like my men a little more masculine than you."

"You know that's not even possible."

Wendy rolls her eyes.  There is simply no way to convince her.  Or at least, the reverse psychology methods aren't going to convince me, either.  "Enough of this nonsense," she says.  "Let's get down to business.
"Surely you've noticed that all of your classmates have by now been through the final surgery to succumb completely to womanhood.  You, in spite of your superstardom, still have that last vestige of your manhood.  The time has come for you to make up your mind.  We've held you back long enough.  Do you want to be a girl?"

My jaw dropped.  "You're offering me surgery?"

"Yes."

"What if I refuse?"

"Then you win.  You get to go back to what you were before."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you give back all your feminine attire, are given back all your male possessions, and walk out that door the same way you walked in it more than two years ago, before the first time you ever tasted womanhood."

"So this is your final test, is it?"

"This is no test.  We know you'll go for surgery.  Everyone does.  There are no exceptions.  Just so you're under no illusions, it's irreversible.  They chop off what's left of your little prick and sculpt it into a totally convincing, fully orgasmic clitoris, vagina, and labia.  Your precious manhood will be gone forever."

She's definitely got me now.  I'm getting horny as she speaks, somehow convinced that I could take this challenge, this final, irrevocable challenge, and feel the most intense surge of manhood I've ever known, in spite of my lacking a penis.  I can already imagine what it must feel like to have a hard cock sliding into my very own pussy, and I tremble at the thought.  I don't think I've ever been so aroused in my entire life.  How can I reconcile this paradox? 

Having a woman's genitalia sounds incredibly appealing as a way to prove once and for all that I am unalterably masculine, that nothing anyone can do can in any way so much as dent my manhood.  But it is permanent -- which makes it all the more appealing.  How could I even imagine that I had proven my manhood if submitting to the ultimate in feminization stood the remotest chance of being reversible? 

Yet I would lose the very thing that makes me a man!  Even though today I tuck and hide it as convincingly as possible to make my crotch look appropriately feminine in lingerie, how can I justify lopping it off entirely?  The prospect of my crotch not only looking feminine, but actually being feminine, fills me with eager anticipation.  Clearly, by agreeing to surgery, I become unambiguously female. I fully abandon my manhood, forever.  


So why am I so giddily eager to go through with it?

Can I have been so completely wrong?  Could it be that every time I became excited about a new femininity challenge, and every time I gloated triumphantly about so easily withstanding it, I in fact celebrated the flowering of my girlhood?  

I remember back now to my eagerness for swimwear.  I never once believed that it could affect me.  Those one-piece suits were so absurdly sexy to me, so incongruous against me.  But those nights when Wendy straddled me to ecstasy as I wore them, I revelled in them.  I felt so incredibly sexy!  Could I have been mistaken about the origins of that feeling?  Could it be that I was overwhelmed not with masculinity, but femininity?  The same feeling burns in me now, imagining how so perfectly female I could look in a one-piece swimsuit if I went through with surgery.

Good Lord!  Could I have mistaken the rush I felt when I gave my first blow job for masculinity?  I actually thought myself more manly for sucking dick!  And taking it in the ass!  Oh, how masculine I felt then!  I was so proud to have a big fat cock sliding in and out of my asshole.  And I love it!  I love when I get fucked by men!  And all for that same feeling of what I called masculinity!  I knew that no man would dare do these things, because it would destroy his manhood.  I was so convinced of my own, that I had no idea that I was succumbing to total, absolute, uninhibited womanhood each and every time I came.

I am so far gone now that having a cunt instead of a dick seems like an overwhelmingly good idea.

But I can't let them win.  I still have that pathetic, shrivelled little stub between my legs.  I can still salvage my manhood.  They told me I can choose to go back.  They won't win.  I will not let them turn me into a girl.
I leap out of my chair and jump onto Wendy.  Or at least I try to, but the 3-inch heel on my sandal breaks, and I crumple pathetically to the floor.

"So you've made up your mind?" she asks, giggling.

"I'm not a girl!"

"No, but we can correct that, don't worry."

"I'm a man," I whimper.

"There, there, Charlotte, it won't be long now."

I am weeping in a fetal position at her feet.

"Get it?  It won't be long now!  Ha ha!"

I pull myself up and stand Wendy up beside me.  She's not laughing anymore.  She looks worried.  I have her hands in mine.  She is absolutely stunning in her little blue minidress, and with her hair up in a messy bun.  But she's not turning me on.  I kiss her on the lips.  Nothing.  I have my arms around her, and I'm caressing her face and neck with kisses.  Nothing.  

"Aw," she says.  "It'll be OK, Charlotte.  Don't you worry."  She pats me on the back as I smother her with kisses, feeling absolutely no arousal.

She lets me push her gently onto the bed, where I pump my pelvis uselessly, listlessly, between her legs.  I am licking my tears off her cheeks, her neck.  I pull up her dress, revealing her fantastic belly, her glorious lace-clad breasts, and her precious, precious undies.  I have learned from a true expert.  She's gorgeous.  But it just doesn't feel right for me to be between her legs.  I just want her to hold me, as she is, and console me. 

"See, Charlotte?  You're one of us, now.  Just wait till you feel what it's like to be for real."

This makes me feel better.  "Does it hurt?" I ask.

"A little bit.  But that's part of the fun."