Last night, after a rare lovemaking session with my wife, during which I fantasized about being the woman, I drifted to sleep remembering my old fantasies about becoming a lesbian.
I dreamed about T__ dressing me up in a pink bralette and panties, in good humor. I think I even had on a blonde wig for a while. I was happy and relieved that she accepted me like this. I put on a t-shirt and pants over it so that others wouldn't know, and I asked T__ if my bra straps were visible. "Of course your bra straps are visible, everybody can see them, silly!" she answered, not at all bothered by it. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the wide, satiny straps on my shoulders, not even close to being concealed by the unusually wide neck of my t-shirt. In retrospect, I know that women's t-shirts are often cut that way, so I suppose I might have been wearing one of those. In the dream, however, the point was to cover up my feminine undergarments, but even still I wasn't much bothered that my bra straps showed, because T__ was on board. My mother was visiting, and I still didn't want her to know, so I did hide from her, but I wasn't stressed out about it. I think I realized that I couldn't prevent her from seeing me, so I just happily went about my business, bra straps exposed for all the world to see. Then I met a famous woman singer/songwriter who doesn't really exist, and fawned all over her, telling her what a huge fan I was of her music, and how much influence she had on me in my early adulthood. I was ever conscious of my femininity, and happy and free and proud of it, even as I chatted with this famous person.
It was a wonderful feeling, and I'm still bathing in its afterglow!
Showing posts with label underwear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label underwear. Show all posts
Fantasy: Caught and Tested
Surfing around, I've found advice board postings where people ask what to do about their teenage son who they caught wearing lingerie or something. One suggestion that seems common is to buy him something similar so he doesn't have to steal from his sister or mom, and see what happens. The rationale is that he'll get what he wants, and be satisfied with experimenting with it.
So, what if...?
Man, I wish. So when my mother found my stash (which consisted of her bathing suit and leotard and tights) she could have gotten this advice. She would have given me her bathing suit that I had stolen, and which had really gotten me most interested in wearing girl clothes. Or she would have bought me a new one. I would have been utterly mortified, even though she would have given it to me secretly. But I would totally have worn it.
Now, with a signal that it's ok, I'd have become curious about other things. I was already fantasizing about bikinis and lingerie. I would have sheepishly asked for a bikini eventually. She would initially refuse, but she'd feel bad, and give in, and buy me something modest. I'd have been disappointed slightly, but hey, it's still a girlie bikini!
I'd wear that one a lot, then ask for a skimpier bikini. This time, I show her a specific one. She gets it for me, and asks if I want to wear underwear, too, full time, if I want to be a girl. I of course refuse, clinging to my maleness. I think about it while wanking in my new string bikini, and regret my answer.
After a while of feeding these fantasies, I would admit that I'd love to wear panties. So now we'd go together to get panties. Mostly modest ones, cuz she'd try to discourage me. But I'd push the limit as much as I dare. I'd now be wearing panties all the time, and be very confused about what this means as far as my own sexuality. Given how much I love it, I'd surely conclude that yes, I'm a girl in a boy's body, and come out as such. Now all of a sudden, I'm in therapy, and wearing skirts and dresses.
Given how permissive therapists can be about this stuff, they'd encourage me to drop all attachment to my maleness, and embrace my feminine urges. I'd start hormone therapy, and grow boobs and get all girlified. I'd be wanking almost constantly now.
Eventually, I'd get the surgery, and become a girl. Luckily, I started in puberty, before it was too late, so I look passable.
So, what if...?
Man, I wish. So when my mother found my stash (which consisted of her bathing suit and leotard and tights) she could have gotten this advice. She would have given me her bathing suit that I had stolen, and which had really gotten me most interested in wearing girl clothes. Or she would have bought me a new one. I would have been utterly mortified, even though she would have given it to me secretly. But I would totally have worn it.
Now, with a signal that it's ok, I'd have become curious about other things. I was already fantasizing about bikinis and lingerie. I would have sheepishly asked for a bikini eventually. She would initially refuse, but she'd feel bad, and give in, and buy me something modest. I'd have been disappointed slightly, but hey, it's still a girlie bikini!
I'd wear that one a lot, then ask for a skimpier bikini. This time, I show her a specific one. She gets it for me, and asks if I want to wear underwear, too, full time, if I want to be a girl. I of course refuse, clinging to my maleness. I think about it while wanking in my new string bikini, and regret my answer.
After a while of feeding these fantasies, I would admit that I'd love to wear panties. So now we'd go together to get panties. Mostly modest ones, cuz she'd try to discourage me. But I'd push the limit as much as I dare. I'd now be wearing panties all the time, and be very confused about what this means as far as my own sexuality. Given how much I love it, I'd surely conclude that yes, I'm a girl in a boy's body, and come out as such. Now all of a sudden, I'm in therapy, and wearing skirts and dresses.
Given how permissive therapists can be about this stuff, they'd encourage me to drop all attachment to my maleness, and embrace my feminine urges. I'd start hormone therapy, and grow boobs and get all girlified. I'd be wanking almost constantly now.
Eventually, I'd get the surgery, and become a girl. Luckily, I started in puberty, before it was too late, so I look passable.
Diary: If You Can't Beat 'Em...
I think I only do this when I’m lonely. I feel bad about myself, so I give up and turn myself into a girl. It’s a symptom of a more general lack of self-confidence. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
As always, I’m talking about utter feminine abandon. Not even a tiny shred of masculinity remains. More feminine than a real woman.
It’s always the mental part that intrigues me. So many aspects of it turn me on. I like the idea of deception, of being tricked into becoming a girl; or rather, being tricked or forced into making that initial discovery, which makes everything else inevitable. There must be a conscious decision to fully embrace femininity, and do it so gladly that masculinity becomes embarrassing. There must be a moment when a man decides, after pondering for a minute, an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year, or a decade, that he likes the idea of turning into a girl, and pursues it as fully as he can for at least as long as he can keep from coming. While the deception might lead to the birth of the idea, it is this moment of abandon that makes it so exciting.
The hero must realize, no matter how briefly, that yes, it would be very sexy to put on women’s underwear, because it will surely and irrevocably corrupt his manhood and turn him into a beautiful, sexy, gorgeous girl. He must realize that he wants, at that moment, nothing more than to become absolutely female, even if it means casting aside his masculinity forever.
That’s the one flaw in so many of the stories I’ve read. Our man becomes a woman by treachery and deceit. Or by force. Or by hypnosis. Even though it’s exciting, the real beauty of the idea is that of wanting to. I certainly don’t need any hypnosis to want to turn myself into a girl. Why should my hero?
All it takes is the seed of the idea for my man to start that steady ascent to womanhood. Once it crosses his mind, it consumes him, and he becomes female.
As always, I’m talking about utter feminine abandon. Not even a tiny shred of masculinity remains. More feminine than a real woman.
It’s always the mental part that intrigues me. So many aspects of it turn me on. I like the idea of deception, of being tricked into becoming a girl; or rather, being tricked or forced into making that initial discovery, which makes everything else inevitable. There must be a conscious decision to fully embrace femininity, and do it so gladly that masculinity becomes embarrassing. There must be a moment when a man decides, after pondering for a minute, an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year, or a decade, that he likes the idea of turning into a girl, and pursues it as fully as he can for at least as long as he can keep from coming. While the deception might lead to the birth of the idea, it is this moment of abandon that makes it so exciting.
The hero must realize, no matter how briefly, that yes, it would be very sexy to put on women’s underwear, because it will surely and irrevocably corrupt his manhood and turn him into a beautiful, sexy, gorgeous girl. He must realize that he wants, at that moment, nothing more than to become absolutely female, even if it means casting aside his masculinity forever.
That’s the one flaw in so many of the stories I’ve read. Our man becomes a woman by treachery and deceit. Or by force. Or by hypnosis. Even though it’s exciting, the real beauty of the idea is that of wanting to. I certainly don’t need any hypnosis to want to turn myself into a girl. Why should my hero?
All it takes is the seed of the idea for my man to start that steady ascent to womanhood. Once it crosses his mind, it consumes him, and he becomes female.
Fiction: Massive Forced Feminization: The Veteran
So many of the other men are protesting against the very idea of compromising their manhood. The lingerie we are supposed to wear is absolutely gorgeous. It's just the type of thing I would have bought for my own, private, pleasure. But this is in public. They want me to wear it. I can't resist. I've never done this in front of anyone before, but I really like where this is going.
As soon as I slide into the panties, a rush of excitement almost makes me faint. I'm standing between two girls! I'm willingly putting on the same underwear as they are! How wonderfully, beautifully, arousingly exciting! I giggle nervously as I make eye contact with the pretty brunette to my right while putting on the exquisite bra just as easily as she did.
It's always been so difficult for me. I love girls so desperately. I worship their shape, their attitude, their softness. They make me swoon with desire. But I love them so much that I often feel the need to be like them. I never feel more intense a sexual rush than when I put on women's underwear and pretend that I'm turning into a girl. I have kept this secret most vigorously. Until now.
As I look around, I can tell by their faces that some of the other men are closet pansies just like me, but even now, with their fantasies fulfilling before their eyes, they still refuse to admit it. I can't conceal my joy, and I'm not even bothering to. I'm grinning from ear to ear, and fondling my new garments. They want to turn me into a girl!
The pretty brunette turns out to be Nancy. "How do you like your new panties?" she asks.
I blush and giggle like a schoolgirl. "I like them. A lot."
"They're really pretty on you. How do you like the idea of becoming a girl?"
"I can't wait!"
As soon as I slide into the panties, a rush of excitement almost makes me faint. I'm standing between two girls! I'm willingly putting on the same underwear as they are! How wonderfully, beautifully, arousingly exciting! I giggle nervously as I make eye contact with the pretty brunette to my right while putting on the exquisite bra just as easily as she did.
It's always been so difficult for me. I love girls so desperately. I worship their shape, their attitude, their softness. They make me swoon with desire. But I love them so much that I often feel the need to be like them. I never feel more intense a sexual rush than when I put on women's underwear and pretend that I'm turning into a girl. I have kept this secret most vigorously. Until now.
As I look around, I can tell by their faces that some of the other men are closet pansies just like me, but even now, with their fantasies fulfilling before their eyes, they still refuse to admit it. I can't conceal my joy, and I'm not even bothering to. I'm grinning from ear to ear, and fondling my new garments. They want to turn me into a girl!
The pretty brunette turns out to be Nancy. "How do you like your new panties?" she asks.
I blush and giggle like a schoolgirl. "I like them. A lot."
"They're really pretty on you. How do you like the idea of becoming a girl?"
"I can't wait!"
Fiction: Massive Forced Feminization
I thought of something today that never occurred to me before. The element of coercion always must enter into the equation in a good transformation story, but I've never pushed it to the limit. I don't think it has ever been a matter of life or death. I'm imagining my exploration of every possible scenario, and I must admit that I never once thought of the threat of instant death as a factor in aiding the decision. That's a problem with the long unfinished story above: the motivation is highly suspect.
Another element of fantasy that crossed my mind is the victim's visceral desire to retain at least some vestige of his manhood throughout as a safety net. He starts off slowly, careful not to expose himself too much to womanhood, always keeping on some article of men's clothing. However, femininity's hold only strengthens with each experiment, to the point where he's fully feminized except for, say, a masculine wristwatch, or some even more insignificant thing. He maintains the delusion that this tiny article of clothing keeps him from totally succumbing to womanhood, even as the evidence mounts against his belief. Eventually, in the throes of passion, he casts aside his last remaining link to masculinity, and the theory is reversed: from that moment on, he cannot bear to be without some article of women's clothing, no matter how insignificant, as a pledge to his newly avowed femininity.
Now, let's combine the stories into my epic. We have about 120 test subjects, all of whom have answered a short survey. Half are women, who will act as coaches and control subjects. All will be forced to become ultra-feminine. The questions are as follows:
This yields 120 possibilities. Many are mundane, and need not be explored. Others are incredibly fascinating. So here goes:
The test subjects, all 150 of them, are lined up in the gymnasium. Each is naked. Each has an armed guard pointing a rifle at him or her. In front of each is a matching bra and panty set, off-white, silk, lace-trimmed, and very feminine. Each is instructed to put them on.
"Put on the underwear," blares the voice over the PA, "or die."
Are they really going to shoot me if I don't put on this underwear? They must be joking. Some of the others - mostly the women - are putting it on. I can't move.
"What the fuck is this?" shouts the guy to my left. "I ain't putting this shit on! No way!"
A few others join the protest. I want to, but I'm petrified with fear.
"This is an order. Put on the underwear, or DIE!" repeats the voice on the PA. Most of the men remain naked. We seem to be arranged in alternating genders: boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, girl. Thus I have a beautiful woman on each side of me. Both of them giggled as they put on their underwear. They look incredibly hot in this lingerie, and I can't reconcile the idea of actually putting on the same panties and bra, right in front of them.
"What are you waiting for?" says the one to my right. "They'll kill you if you don't put it on!"
"You don't seriously expect me to wear that, do you?"
"Would you rather die than sacrifice your precious manhood for just one second?" Some of the men are making quite a commotion. "It's not so bad! Look at me! Doesn't this look great on me?" She's right: she looks fantastic.
"Um, I hate to tell you, but I'm not built like you." The shouting intensifies over to my right.
"Oh, come on! You'll look so cute in that bra!"
Several loud popping noises make everyone cringe, and the room goes silent. Just a bit to my right, one of the protesting men has been shot in the head. "This is your last warning. I will count to three. Anyone not wearing lingerie when I finish will be shot. One."
I urgently scramble for the panties and bra. I am wearing them before the voice says...
"Two."
"See? It's not so bad, is it?"
"Three."
A few more shots ring out. Only three more men, out of the fifty or so protesters, have fallen to the ground dead. All the rest are now wearing a very sexy matching panty and bra set, a beautiful woman on each side wearing the exact same thing.
"Ladies! Welcome to femininity training! For some of you, this is a new experience. The vast majority of you have done this before. Some of you are participating under duress. At the end of this course, you will all be gorgeous, ultra-feminine, and proud of it! Remember that at every step of the way, our guards will assist you in your decisions. You all look so pretty in your new underwear! I look forward to seeing you all blossom into the sexy women you were all meant to be!
"Those of you who now think of yourselves as men: turn to your right. The woman you see will be your training partner. Being more experienced with womanhood, she will guide you through your training. You have all been carefully matched to maximize both of your learning experiences. Remember! The women are also here to train! You will become ultra-feminine together!
"Those women whose designated partners have been killed will be your instructors. They, too, have been carefully selected for their role. They were deliberately matched up with men who would rather die than discover the glory of girlhood. They are already far, far advanced in the ways of womanhood, and will have much to teach you all. Treat them with respect.
"Now please take your partner's hand, and begin your first lesson from the book in front of you. All classes are public, but your personal development may continue in private.
"Enjoy!"
I am dumfounded. How can I possibly become ultra-feminine? How did I get myself into this?
"Hey there, cutie pie!" gushes the gorgeous woman to my right. "Looks like we're partners!"
She is ridiculously curvaceous, slim, and beautiful. She is unquestionably one of the sexiest, most beautiful women I have ever seen. She has long blonde hair and emerald green eyes. Her skin is delicate and smooth. She looks like she could be a model. And we are wearing the same panty and bra set.
"What's your name?" she asks.
"Rob."
"So from now on," she giggles, "I guess it's gonna be Bobbie."
I say nothing.
"Oh, come on! It'll be fun! You're gonna love being a girl!"
"I can't fucking believe this."
"What?"
"I was forced to put on lingerie at gunpoint, and you're telling me this is gonna be fun?!?"
"Didn't you want to be here?"
"No."
"You mean. . . you don't even want to be a girl?"
"No."
"Yeah, right."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"For somebody who doesn't want to be a girl, you sure put that bra on like an expert."
"Excuse me?"
"And look at you! Your boner is practically busting out of those panties!"
I blush with shame. "I'm talking to a gorgeous woman! Why else would I have a boner?"
Now she blushes. "Thank you," she says demurely. "But that's gonna have to stop if we're to make a girl out of you."
My guard prods me with his rifle. "Get on with the lesson you two!"
"Alright, let's get on with this," I offer, not wanting to get shot.
The coursebook begins with an introduction to the programme. We will be introduced to every conceivable type of woman's garment. We will be required to wear some item of women's clothing at all times. We will learn how to put on a bra properly, and how to properly care for delicate silks and satins. We will learn proper feminine mannerisms. And we will learn proper sexual techniques. My heart misses a beat as every detail comes to light.
The first lesson consists of learning how to properly put on a bra. I must keep on my panties as I practice with the bra. My partner, whose name is Cindy, is obviously an expert. It takes me little time to get the hang of it.
"So how did you know how to do that already?" she asks.
"I've seen enough girls getting dressed to have gotten a good idea."
"Seeing and doing are two different things."
"Not in this case."
Now I must prance around in my new underwear, and affirm my desire for womanhood. Those who fail to comply are threatened with death.
"I love being a girl," I recite. "I love being ultra-feminine."
After several repetitions of this, we begin to explore the details of our underwear, and how certain features make it sexy. This consists of identifying features, and exploring them on both Cindy and me.
"The lace on the waistband gives a delicate appearance to the soft skin of the lower belly." I practically come all over Cindy's hand as we explore my panties.
The class ends with everyone, including the women, going up on stage and reciting these same affirmations in front of everyone.
"You did great!" says Cindy, after I'm done. I have to admit, I was very convincing. I had my hand on my hip, and did a twirl after my affirmation. Very feminine.
"Thanks."
"Do you mean it?"
"I kinda have to, don't I?"
"I can tell. You meant it."
"I have a gun pointed at my head."
"Admit it: you've done this before."
"Gimme a break."
"Admit it! You've worn girls' clothes before!"
"Never!"
"I can tell! And you enjoy it!"
"No way!"
"You might as well tell me. You're gonna be a girl anyway, so it's not like I'll think any less of you if you admit it."
"Well. . ."
"I knew it!"
"I've done it once or twice. It's no big deal."
"Which was it?"
"Huh?"
"Was it once or was it twice? Surely you can count up to two."
"It was more than once."
"Was it more than twice?"
"Maybe."
"Ooooo, so you're a sissy pantywaist already! And we've just barely started! How many times?"
"A few."
"Five? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? What did you wear?"
"I dunno."
"Come on! Tell me!"
"I dunno!"
"Is it more times than you can count?"
I blush. I try not to, but I can't help it.
"Did you like it?"
I must be purple now. "Kinda."
"Oh my God! You're an expert!"
"No!"
"So you just kinda liked it?"
I stop in my tracks.
"Cindy. Don't tell anybody. But I have always loved wearing girls' clothes, and I can't believe that I'm living out my most intense sexual fantasy. I love my new underwear! I feel so sexy in it! It's just so weird wearing it in front of so many people. I've always done it in private. Nobody was ever supposed to know. I never signed up for this. And now here I am, getting turned into a girl, for real! I just don't know if I really want to go through with it. I was perfectly happy being a man with a secret."
Another element of fantasy that crossed my mind is the victim's visceral desire to retain at least some vestige of his manhood throughout as a safety net. He starts off slowly, careful not to expose himself too much to womanhood, always keeping on some article of men's clothing. However, femininity's hold only strengthens with each experiment, to the point where he's fully feminized except for, say, a masculine wristwatch, or some even more insignificant thing. He maintains the delusion that this tiny article of clothing keeps him from totally succumbing to womanhood, even as the evidence mounts against his belief. Eventually, in the throes of passion, he casts aside his last remaining link to masculinity, and the theory is reversed: from that moment on, he cannot bear to be without some article of women's clothing, no matter how insignificant, as a pledge to his newly avowed femininity.
Now, let's combine the stories into my epic. We have about 120 test subjects, all of whom have answered a short survey. Half are women, who will act as coaches and control subjects. All will be forced to become ultra-feminine. The questions are as follows:
- Are you male?
- Do you like feminine things (i.e. flowers, lace, panties, silk, etc.)?
- Are you aware of your own femininity?
- How often do you explore your femininity (choose one of: never, rarely, occasionally, often, always)?
- Rate your interest in exploring your femininity in a controlled environment (choose one of: low, moderate, high).
This yields 120 possibilities. Many are mundane, and need not be explored. Others are incredibly fascinating. So here goes:
The test subjects, all 150 of them, are lined up in the gymnasium. Each is naked. Each has an armed guard pointing a rifle at him or her. In front of each is a matching bra and panty set, off-white, silk, lace-trimmed, and very feminine. Each is instructed to put them on.
"Put on the underwear," blares the voice over the PA, "or die."
Are they really going to shoot me if I don't put on this underwear? They must be joking. Some of the others - mostly the women - are putting it on. I can't move.
"What the fuck is this?" shouts the guy to my left. "I ain't putting this shit on! No way!"
A few others join the protest. I want to, but I'm petrified with fear.
"This is an order. Put on the underwear, or DIE!" repeats the voice on the PA. Most of the men remain naked. We seem to be arranged in alternating genders: boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, girl. Thus I have a beautiful woman on each side of me. Both of them giggled as they put on their underwear. They look incredibly hot in this lingerie, and I can't reconcile the idea of actually putting on the same panties and bra, right in front of them.
"What are you waiting for?" says the one to my right. "They'll kill you if you don't put it on!"
"You don't seriously expect me to wear that, do you?"
"Would you rather die than sacrifice your precious manhood for just one second?" Some of the men are making quite a commotion. "It's not so bad! Look at me! Doesn't this look great on me?" She's right: she looks fantastic.
"Um, I hate to tell you, but I'm not built like you." The shouting intensifies over to my right.
"Oh, come on! You'll look so cute in that bra!"
Several loud popping noises make everyone cringe, and the room goes silent. Just a bit to my right, one of the protesting men has been shot in the head. "This is your last warning. I will count to three. Anyone not wearing lingerie when I finish will be shot. One."
I urgently scramble for the panties and bra. I am wearing them before the voice says...
"Two."
"See? It's not so bad, is it?"
"Three."
A few more shots ring out. Only three more men, out of the fifty or so protesters, have fallen to the ground dead. All the rest are now wearing a very sexy matching panty and bra set, a beautiful woman on each side wearing the exact same thing.
"Ladies! Welcome to femininity training! For some of you, this is a new experience. The vast majority of you have done this before. Some of you are participating under duress. At the end of this course, you will all be gorgeous, ultra-feminine, and proud of it! Remember that at every step of the way, our guards will assist you in your decisions. You all look so pretty in your new underwear! I look forward to seeing you all blossom into the sexy women you were all meant to be!
"Those of you who now think of yourselves as men: turn to your right. The woman you see will be your training partner. Being more experienced with womanhood, she will guide you through your training. You have all been carefully matched to maximize both of your learning experiences. Remember! The women are also here to train! You will become ultra-feminine together!
"Those women whose designated partners have been killed will be your instructors. They, too, have been carefully selected for their role. They were deliberately matched up with men who would rather die than discover the glory of girlhood. They are already far, far advanced in the ways of womanhood, and will have much to teach you all. Treat them with respect.
"Now please take your partner's hand, and begin your first lesson from the book in front of you. All classes are public, but your personal development may continue in private.
"Enjoy!"
I am dumfounded. How can I possibly become ultra-feminine? How did I get myself into this?
"Hey there, cutie pie!" gushes the gorgeous woman to my right. "Looks like we're partners!"
She is ridiculously curvaceous, slim, and beautiful. She is unquestionably one of the sexiest, most beautiful women I have ever seen. She has long blonde hair and emerald green eyes. Her skin is delicate and smooth. She looks like she could be a model. And we are wearing the same panty and bra set.
"What's your name?" she asks.
"Rob."
"So from now on," she giggles, "I guess it's gonna be Bobbie."
I say nothing.
"Oh, come on! It'll be fun! You're gonna love being a girl!"
"I can't fucking believe this."
"What?"
"I was forced to put on lingerie at gunpoint, and you're telling me this is gonna be fun?!?"
"Didn't you want to be here?"
"No."
"You mean. . . you don't even want to be a girl?"
"No."
"Yeah, right."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"For somebody who doesn't want to be a girl, you sure put that bra on like an expert."
"Excuse me?"
"And look at you! Your boner is practically busting out of those panties!"
I blush with shame. "I'm talking to a gorgeous woman! Why else would I have a boner?"
Now she blushes. "Thank you," she says demurely. "But that's gonna have to stop if we're to make a girl out of you."
My guard prods me with his rifle. "Get on with the lesson you two!"
"Alright, let's get on with this," I offer, not wanting to get shot.
The coursebook begins with an introduction to the programme. We will be introduced to every conceivable type of woman's garment. We will be required to wear some item of women's clothing at all times. We will learn how to put on a bra properly, and how to properly care for delicate silks and satins. We will learn proper feminine mannerisms. And we will learn proper sexual techniques. My heart misses a beat as every detail comes to light.
The first lesson consists of learning how to properly put on a bra. I must keep on my panties as I practice with the bra. My partner, whose name is Cindy, is obviously an expert. It takes me little time to get the hang of it.
"So how did you know how to do that already?" she asks.
"I've seen enough girls getting dressed to have gotten a good idea."
"Seeing and doing are two different things."
"Not in this case."
Now I must prance around in my new underwear, and affirm my desire for womanhood. Those who fail to comply are threatened with death.
"I love being a girl," I recite. "I love being ultra-feminine."
After several repetitions of this, we begin to explore the details of our underwear, and how certain features make it sexy. This consists of identifying features, and exploring them on both Cindy and me.
"The lace on the waistband gives a delicate appearance to the soft skin of the lower belly." I practically come all over Cindy's hand as we explore my panties.
The class ends with everyone, including the women, going up on stage and reciting these same affirmations in front of everyone.
"You did great!" says Cindy, after I'm done. I have to admit, I was very convincing. I had my hand on my hip, and did a twirl after my affirmation. Very feminine.
"Thanks."
"Do you mean it?"
"I kinda have to, don't I?"
"I can tell. You meant it."
"I have a gun pointed at my head."
"Admit it: you've done this before."
"Gimme a break."
"Admit it! You've worn girls' clothes before!"
"Never!"
"I can tell! And you enjoy it!"
"No way!"
"You might as well tell me. You're gonna be a girl anyway, so it's not like I'll think any less of you if you admit it."
"Well. . ."
"I knew it!"
"I've done it once or twice. It's no big deal."
"Which was it?"
"Huh?"
"Was it once or was it twice? Surely you can count up to two."
"It was more than once."
"Was it more than twice?"
"Maybe."
"Ooooo, so you're a sissy pantywaist already! And we've just barely started! How many times?"
"A few."
"Five? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? What did you wear?"
"I dunno."
"Come on! Tell me!"
"I dunno!"
"Is it more times than you can count?"
I blush. I try not to, but I can't help it.
"Did you like it?"
I must be purple now. "Kinda."
"Oh my God! You're an expert!"
"No!"
"So you just kinda liked it?"
I stop in my tracks.
"Cindy. Don't tell anybody. But I have always loved wearing girls' clothes, and I can't believe that I'm living out my most intense sexual fantasy. I love my new underwear! I feel so sexy in it! It's just so weird wearing it in front of so many people. I've always done it in private. Nobody was ever supposed to know. I never signed up for this. And now here I am, getting turned into a girl, for real! I just don't know if I really want to go through with it. I was perfectly happy being a man with a secret."
Diary: Sissy Scoring System, Tweaked
After playing around with the scheme above, I have come up with a preliminary score template, which I have stored in the same folder. I have come to the conclusion that I must consider swimsuit bikinis as brassieres and panties. There really is very little difference. I have historically ranked underwear ahead of swimwear, but I now realize that that is simply absurd. Why should my wonderful pink string bikini rank less than mom's gitch? Just because it's not technically underwear? That's just not right. The fact is, it's shaped just like a bra and panties, and it serves a similar purpose. Why not just score the top and bottom each as underwear items, adding or subtracting points based on the material, the coverage, etc. just as I would for any other type of underwear? It makes much more sense this way.
Actually, I got an epiphany today, which changes the way I've thought of my feminine escapades for the last 20 years. Throughout these pages, and intractably imprinted on my mind, has been the idea of a hierarchy of women's clothes. It starts with pantyhose, on through swimwear, and ends at lingerie. One was forbidden, in my fantasies, from ever skipping ahead to a garment he isn't ready for. There was always a problem, because part of the fantasy involved doing just that - and hoping for the most effeminate consequences possible. How can you really deny me wearing white cotton panties even though I've worn string bikinis more times than I can count? It would surely be a letdown to graduate to the next level.
I realized today that the hierarchy came into my mind only as a way of protecting myself, back in the days when I tried to deny my passions. I worried then that if I went right ahead and wore a swimsuit before I was ready for its incredible femininity, I would lose control. This, of course, worked as both deterrent and incentive, depending on my state of mind. I could succumb to a swimsuit, and thank my stars that I hadn't dared to get into some lingerie, which would surely have destroyed my manhood; or perhaps while succumbing to that same swimsuit, and pray fervently for some lingerie, so that I could become that much more feminine.
It still stands as a very powerful fantasy. It has always been at odds with starting right at the top with lingerie, as other powerful fantasies call for.
Actually, I got an epiphany today, which changes the way I've thought of my feminine escapades for the last 20 years. Throughout these pages, and intractably imprinted on my mind, has been the idea of a hierarchy of women's clothes. It starts with pantyhose, on through swimwear, and ends at lingerie. One was forbidden, in my fantasies, from ever skipping ahead to a garment he isn't ready for. There was always a problem, because part of the fantasy involved doing just that - and hoping for the most effeminate consequences possible. How can you really deny me wearing white cotton panties even though I've worn string bikinis more times than I can count? It would surely be a letdown to graduate to the next level.
I realized today that the hierarchy came into my mind only as a way of protecting myself, back in the days when I tried to deny my passions. I worried then that if I went right ahead and wore a swimsuit before I was ready for its incredible femininity, I would lose control. This, of course, worked as both deterrent and incentive, depending on my state of mind. I could succumb to a swimsuit, and thank my stars that I hadn't dared to get into some lingerie, which would surely have destroyed my manhood; or perhaps while succumbing to that same swimsuit, and pray fervently for some lingerie, so that I could become that much more feminine.
It still stands as a very powerful fantasy. It has always been at odds with starting right at the top with lingerie, as other powerful fantasies call for.
Diary: Sissy Scoring System
I want to get scientific here for a moment. I've discussed the possible scenarios when a man is presented with women's underwear, but I've never done it right. I will rectify this shortly. First, I want to enumerate the possible outcomes when a man becomes aroused by his own femininity.
First, he might ignore it, either by thinking of something else and masturbating to that, or by not masturbating at all.
Second, he might simply fail to fulfill it because of extenuating circumstances. For example, he has no opportunity to masturbate before his passion abates.
Third, he succumbs to it in spirit, and masturbates naked or even in his own masculine clothes, reveling in pictures of his own womanhood.
Fourth, he fulfills his fantasy when he ejaculates clad in something girlish.
The first is a crime. Inadmissible under any circumstance. The second is unfortunate, but he gets points for having wanted to be a girl. The third is charming, better than the second, but not quite good enough. The fourth is the truest man of all.
Wait, there's something missing here: there are really more variables. What happens to the poor sap who manages to slip into a bikini, but who doesn't get the chance to blow his load? What if he does a whole fashion show with his girlfriend's wardrobe, fully intending to come in everything, but can only handle one or two outfits? And none of this takes into account doing anything in public.
So we have 1 constant: the passion to make himself feminine, or desire; and 3 variables: physically ejaculating, or success; physically wearing women's garments (we won't get into point values for specific types here), or dressing; and publicly displaying his penchant for girlishness, or exhibition. Thus the first scenario touches on only the constant; the second scores the same for lack of any action; the third scores points for success, and nothing more; the fourth achieves both success and dressing, and therefore wins. However, the man who publicly dresses as a woman for the thrill of appeasing his femininity, must score equally well if he does not eventually find success in his effeminate state. Also, points would certainly vary for the garments worn in each circumstance.
Beautiful, no?
So now we can tally up a score for each incident of effemination. The total score is what really counts, but the statistics are kept for the purpose of showing a balance of tendencies. As in baseball, where a pitcher can win many games and strike out many batters, but also allow many runs; while another can lose constantly striking out as many batters, and allowing fewer runs. The pitchers' totals may be the same, but they have slightly different profiles. Likewise, someone who privately wears lingerie and comes every time might tally up the same number of points as someone who walks around in dresses in public, but never dares to masturbate en femme.
The tricky part of all this is assigning an arbitrary point value to specific types of garments. There are endless varieties of women's clothes, and they all count for something. But even different types of panties must necessarily score radically differently. Surely a g-string is worth more than mother's total-coverage briefs! The value should be awarded based on a comparison to exact artifacts of clothing, which have constant values associated with them. The fit must also factor in (take tight over loose any time, but too small is no good either - ideally it should fit perfectly, as if you really could take on the shape of a woman). For a start, we'll take a pair of plain white cotton bikini briefs always to be worth 100 points. Add 10 points for lace trim. Add 25 points for exotic colours. Lose 15 points for silly, childish prints of teddy bears. A matching brassiere is worth 100 bonus points. So I award Bobbi over there the full 200 points for the matching cotton bra and panties, and give him another 15 for the lace in the bra. Unfortunately, he loses 25 because they're not really bikini briefs, but regular briefs, and are slightly larger. Candi, on the other hand, scores a massive 150 for his black satin bikini, and another 125 for a white satin brassiere; but he loses 50 points for the contrast.
Clearly, I need to establish the benchmarks in general categories. I would need a minimum and maximum amount of points for a type, identify examples of the two extremes and the median, and specify point values for frills or problems. This will take an awful lot of work. Hopefully, I can backtrack and rank my own outfits and experiences.
It also occurs to me that success should have a bonus if it involves another person or persons. Perhaps a points system similar to that for dressing is in order. The starting number of points would be for simply coming. More points for having someone masturbate you; more yet for sucking cock; still more for swallowing; etc. Also, the length of time of dressing and the extent of exhibition should factor in: number of people who know, multiplying each article of clothing they know about, multiplied by points for time (1 for 0-15 mins, 2 for 15-60, 3 for 1-4 hours, etc.).
Now we may return to our original problem: the scenarios when a man is confronted with women's underwear.
This time we can use our points system to accurately gauge the man's state of mind; only here desire is a variable, not a constant. Thus a man who has never even noticed his feminine side would start at 0, while a man who had pondered it twice would have 2 points. I would have thousands upon thousands.
Problem solved. Now to the new problem: scoring.
First, he might ignore it, either by thinking of something else and masturbating to that, or by not masturbating at all.
Second, he might simply fail to fulfill it because of extenuating circumstances. For example, he has no opportunity to masturbate before his passion abates.
Third, he succumbs to it in spirit, and masturbates naked or even in his own masculine clothes, reveling in pictures of his own womanhood.
Fourth, he fulfills his fantasy when he ejaculates clad in something girlish.
The first is a crime. Inadmissible under any circumstance. The second is unfortunate, but he gets points for having wanted to be a girl. The third is charming, better than the second, but not quite good enough. The fourth is the truest man of all.
Wait, there's something missing here: there are really more variables. What happens to the poor sap who manages to slip into a bikini, but who doesn't get the chance to blow his load? What if he does a whole fashion show with his girlfriend's wardrobe, fully intending to come in everything, but can only handle one or two outfits? And none of this takes into account doing anything in public.
So we have 1 constant: the passion to make himself feminine, or desire; and 3 variables: physically ejaculating, or success; physically wearing women's garments (we won't get into point values for specific types here), or dressing; and publicly displaying his penchant for girlishness, or exhibition. Thus the first scenario touches on only the constant; the second scores the same for lack of any action; the third scores points for success, and nothing more; the fourth achieves both success and dressing, and therefore wins. However, the man who publicly dresses as a woman for the thrill of appeasing his femininity, must score equally well if he does not eventually find success in his effeminate state. Also, points would certainly vary for the garments worn in each circumstance.
Beautiful, no?
So now we can tally up a score for each incident of effemination. The total score is what really counts, but the statistics are kept for the purpose of showing a balance of tendencies. As in baseball, where a pitcher can win many games and strike out many batters, but also allow many runs; while another can lose constantly striking out as many batters, and allowing fewer runs. The pitchers' totals may be the same, but they have slightly different profiles. Likewise, someone who privately wears lingerie and comes every time might tally up the same number of points as someone who walks around in dresses in public, but never dares to masturbate en femme.
The tricky part of all this is assigning an arbitrary point value to specific types of garments. There are endless varieties of women's clothes, and they all count for something. But even different types of panties must necessarily score radically differently. Surely a g-string is worth more than mother's total-coverage briefs! The value should be awarded based on a comparison to exact artifacts of clothing, which have constant values associated with them. The fit must also factor in (take tight over loose any time, but too small is no good either - ideally it should fit perfectly, as if you really could take on the shape of a woman). For a start, we'll take a pair of plain white cotton bikini briefs always to be worth 100 points. Add 10 points for lace trim. Add 25 points for exotic colours. Lose 15 points for silly, childish prints of teddy bears. A matching brassiere is worth 100 bonus points. So I award Bobbi over there the full 200 points for the matching cotton bra and panties, and give him another 15 for the lace in the bra. Unfortunately, he loses 25 because they're not really bikini briefs, but regular briefs, and are slightly larger. Candi, on the other hand, scores a massive 150 for his black satin bikini, and another 125 for a white satin brassiere; but he loses 50 points for the contrast.
Clearly, I need to establish the benchmarks in general categories. I would need a minimum and maximum amount of points for a type, identify examples of the two extremes and the median, and specify point values for frills or problems. This will take an awful lot of work. Hopefully, I can backtrack and rank my own outfits and experiences.
It also occurs to me that success should have a bonus if it involves another person or persons. Perhaps a points system similar to that for dressing is in order. The starting number of points would be for simply coming. More points for having someone masturbate you; more yet for sucking cock; still more for swallowing; etc. Also, the length of time of dressing and the extent of exhibition should factor in: number of people who know, multiplying each article of clothing they know about, multiplied by points for time (1 for 0-15 mins, 2 for 15-60, 3 for 1-4 hours, etc.).
Now we may return to our original problem: the scenarios when a man is confronted with women's underwear.
This time we can use our points system to accurately gauge the man's state of mind; only here desire is a variable, not a constant. Thus a man who has never even noticed his feminine side would start at 0, while a man who had pondered it twice would have 2 points. I would have thousands upon thousands.
Problem solved. Now to the new problem: scoring.
Diary: Innocently Stunning
Oh, how I love your body! Your smooth, delicate curves, your soft skin, the grace of your movements... I fantasize about how you look in your underwear, or when you wear a swimsuit, how every gorgeous curve spins and slips underneath. Isn't it funny how my desperate longing for your body has me trying to emulate it?
I have this picture in my mind of you doing something mundane, like ironing or dusting, while wearing nothing but a smile and your undies. You are innocently stunning. You have no idea how ridiculously sexy you are. I could point it out to you, and you'd look down at your scantily clad body, maybe blush a little, and continue what you're doing, just a little more self-consciously, acutely aware of your femininity, amazed again at its powerful grasp on me, but still focused on the mundane task at hand.
As I write this, I want to look down at my own scantily clad body, slipped into the same slinky undergarments, and experience the same surprise upon discovering exactly what you did. I want to feel that faint surprise at realizing that I am a woman wearing nothing more than a bra and panties, and that I am sexy and beautiful; and I want to continue my tedious task, happy and proud, acutely aware of my femininity, and promise to take full advantage of it as soon as I'm done.
Notice that the first sentence of the second paragraph is intended to be ambiguous: who's wearing your underwear?
I have this picture in my mind of you doing something mundane, like ironing or dusting, while wearing nothing but a smile and your undies. You are innocently stunning. You have no idea how ridiculously sexy you are. I could point it out to you, and you'd look down at your scantily clad body, maybe blush a little, and continue what you're doing, just a little more self-consciously, acutely aware of your femininity, amazed again at its powerful grasp on me, but still focused on the mundane task at hand.
As I write this, I want to look down at my own scantily clad body, slipped into the same slinky undergarments, and experience the same surprise upon discovering exactly what you did. I want to feel that faint surprise at realizing that I am a woman wearing nothing more than a bra and panties, and that I am sexy and beautiful; and I want to continue my tedious task, happy and proud, acutely aware of my femininity, and promise to take full advantage of it as soon as I'm done.
Notice that the first sentence of the second paragraph is intended to be ambiguous: who's wearing your underwear?
Fiction: Conditioning Experiments
I was desperate. I needed the money, or else I'd have been living on the street. I always laughed at people who volunteered for scientific experiments for a price. The scientists never told you what they were going to do to you. I figured I would be trying out some new drugs or something. I never expected them to do surgery.
I was so desperate that I let them do something to my cock. They gave me a local anesthetic, cut my piece on two sides, and put in some stringy wire thing. Then they stitched me up and told me not to engage in any sexual activity for 2 weeks, and to come back then.
Let me tell you, it was a nightmare to not allow myself any sexual gratification at all for that long. It doesn't seem long, but I probably thought about it more often just because they told me I couldn't do it. At any rate, I could barely notice that they had done anything to me. The stitches were very fine and small. The wire was so thin that I could only barely feel it under my skin. Regardless, however difficult it was to resist wanking or fucking for two weeks, they sure didn't prepare me for their little experiment.
They sat me down on a chair and tied up my arms. "Why the restraints?" I asked.
"Because we don't want you touching yourself at this point," explained a cute little blonde in a lab coat, as she wrote notes on a clipboard. "We need to test your thresholds, and you touching yourself would throw off our calibrations."
She disappeared, and I was left alone in the room looking at a dark mirror in front of me. It was like one of those cold, grey interrogation rooms in TV cop shows. I knew they were watching me from behind that one-way glass.
Suddenly, I felt a little twinge in my dick. Didn't know what to make of it. Then I felt it again, just as suddenly. I felt a bit embarrassed, and worried. I hoped that I hadn't reacted too strongly, knowing that they were watching my every move.
Gradually the twinges became more persistent, and I knew that they were doing something to me. It felt like a slight pressure on my cock. It felt quite pleasant in fact. I was getting aroused.
The sensation in my dick grew more and more pronounced. It felt like something oscillating within me. It felt like a phantom was giving me a hand job. I must have turned purple, because I was horribly embarrassed. A bunch of scientists were watching me try to keep a straight expression as they fiddled with my shaft with their remote control. I squirmed in my seat. I longed to touch myself, just as the cute little blonde had warned. I wonder if I would have dared knowing that I was being watched.
Pretty soon, I didn't even care. I felt so horny from the pulsation in my penis that I would have jerked off right in front of them. I started doing a little dance in my chair, gyrating my hips instinctively. It was growing to a fever pitch. Pretty soon the pressure and pulse was enough that I didn't even think I'd need to touch my dick. I was beginning to feel orgasmic. I couldn't contain my pleasure. I was breathing heavily, sweating, swinging my hips, moaning. It must have looked like I was fucking a ghost. It felt incredible. I didn't even need to move! Pure gratification.
Then I came all over myself, and collapsed into my chair. But the pulses wouldn't stop. In fact, they kept getting stronger. Moments later, I was right back in my state of ecstasy, in spite of the initial discomfort. I came all over myself again.
And again.
And yet again.
After the fifth time, I think I passed out. My cock hurt like hell from all the work. It couldn't handle any more. They unstrapped me and handed me a clean pair of pants and underwear, and sent me to the showers. Or rather, they rolled me to the showers, because I couldn't walk.
A week later, as scheduled, they ran the same experiment. I was still sore from the week before. This time, I lasted only four times, but man I was enjoying this experiment. The sensation was almost as good as the best sex, I kid you not. Or at least I thought so then. I was scheduled to continue attending for six more weeks, and my resistance got stronger and stronger. It was like working out a muscle for strength training. I learned to control my orgasms like an expert. I could hold out for at least an hour before coming. Imagine the most intense sex you've ever had, and stretch out the peaks for an entire day. This was much better than sex.
At the end they gave me my last paycheque and sent me on my way. I had tried to pick up the little blonde, but she was probably pretty grossed out by what I had been through. I felt like I could be the greatest lover a woman had ever known. She looked totally uninterested when she shot me down. Oh well.
It didn't take long for me to spend that cash. Lucky for me they asked me if I wanted to come back for a longer experiment. I jumped at the chance. This time the experiment would go for six months. Six months! Getting jerked off for six months, and getting paid for it! How could I resist? I signed all the forms without even looking at them.
It turned out that I had to move in to their facility. I didn't even have to go home anymore. It seems the experiments were going to require constant monitoring. It wouldn't be once a week anymore, but daily! I was really beginning to like this. Then they sprang their first stunt on me.
They weren't strapping me down anymore. Instead, they sat me at a table, where they placed a closed box, and left the room. Inside it was a pile of dead grasshoppers. They told me to eat one. I couldn't believe it. I felt nothing in my dick. Nothing at all. They told me to open the box. When I did, I felt them zap me something soothing and nice. As soon as I let go of the box, it stopped. Right away, I knew what they were up to. They wanted to see how far I would stoop before giving in to my sexual desires. Believe me, I tried to hold out. It felt like hours, but apparently it was only 42:51. It tasted awful, but the orgasm was phenomenal! I felt cheap and disgusting, manipulated into doing something so revolting.
This went on for a week before they got to the real point of their experiment. They had made me eat shit, smear it all over myself, lick the floor of a filthy latrine, drink toilet water, you name it. I was totally enslaved. I couldn't resist anything that they wanted me to do. I began to despise them. Even the cute little blonde.
I was supposed to have the weekend off. They still needed to monitor me though, apparently, and the cute little blonde drew the short straw and had to watch me all weekend. I think she had it all planned out.
In the middle of breakfast, the unmistakable pulse worked its way through my pyjamas. This remote control worked from the other side of the building! I ran back to the lab, cock throbbing with pleasure, ready to throttle the bitch. When I got near her, she flipped a knob and I sank to my knees in agony. The bitch! She made me crawl to her, only alleviating the pain as I did her bidding. She gave me an instant, super-intense orgasm when I finally complied and licked her feet.
"Now, let there be no question about who's boss around here, OK?" she sneered.
I nodded meekly in reverence to her power over me. I had to do everything she said.
She made me wear women's underwear. She rewarded me sweetly for it, too. She made me Nair off all my body hair, put on makeup, and become a complete sissy boy for her. And she rewarded me sweetly at every step. I didn't want to. But I had to. It felt so incredibly good.
She punished me quite a bit before I finally sucked her boyfriend's cock. I resisted that for days, actually. Finally, when I succumbed, she rewarded me with the most intense erotic sensation I have ever felt. I sucked with complete relish as she fucked me remotely. The more passionately I sucked, the more pleasure she granted me. She finished me off as I finished licking the slimy mess from his thighs and balls that spilled out of my mouth when I couldn't swallow it fast enough.
I was so desperate that I let them do something to my cock. They gave me a local anesthetic, cut my piece on two sides, and put in some stringy wire thing. Then they stitched me up and told me not to engage in any sexual activity for 2 weeks, and to come back then.
Let me tell you, it was a nightmare to not allow myself any sexual gratification at all for that long. It doesn't seem long, but I probably thought about it more often just because they told me I couldn't do it. At any rate, I could barely notice that they had done anything to me. The stitches were very fine and small. The wire was so thin that I could only barely feel it under my skin. Regardless, however difficult it was to resist wanking or fucking for two weeks, they sure didn't prepare me for their little experiment.
They sat me down on a chair and tied up my arms. "Why the restraints?" I asked.
"Because we don't want you touching yourself at this point," explained a cute little blonde in a lab coat, as she wrote notes on a clipboard. "We need to test your thresholds, and you touching yourself would throw off our calibrations."
She disappeared, and I was left alone in the room looking at a dark mirror in front of me. It was like one of those cold, grey interrogation rooms in TV cop shows. I knew they were watching me from behind that one-way glass.
Suddenly, I felt a little twinge in my dick. Didn't know what to make of it. Then I felt it again, just as suddenly. I felt a bit embarrassed, and worried. I hoped that I hadn't reacted too strongly, knowing that they were watching my every move.
Gradually the twinges became more persistent, and I knew that they were doing something to me. It felt like a slight pressure on my cock. It felt quite pleasant in fact. I was getting aroused.
The sensation in my dick grew more and more pronounced. It felt like something oscillating within me. It felt like a phantom was giving me a hand job. I must have turned purple, because I was horribly embarrassed. A bunch of scientists were watching me try to keep a straight expression as they fiddled with my shaft with their remote control. I squirmed in my seat. I longed to touch myself, just as the cute little blonde had warned. I wonder if I would have dared knowing that I was being watched.
Pretty soon, I didn't even care. I felt so horny from the pulsation in my penis that I would have jerked off right in front of them. I started doing a little dance in my chair, gyrating my hips instinctively. It was growing to a fever pitch. Pretty soon the pressure and pulse was enough that I didn't even think I'd need to touch my dick. I was beginning to feel orgasmic. I couldn't contain my pleasure. I was breathing heavily, sweating, swinging my hips, moaning. It must have looked like I was fucking a ghost. It felt incredible. I didn't even need to move! Pure gratification.
Then I came all over myself, and collapsed into my chair. But the pulses wouldn't stop. In fact, they kept getting stronger. Moments later, I was right back in my state of ecstasy, in spite of the initial discomfort. I came all over myself again.
And again.
And yet again.
After the fifth time, I think I passed out. My cock hurt like hell from all the work. It couldn't handle any more. They unstrapped me and handed me a clean pair of pants and underwear, and sent me to the showers. Or rather, they rolled me to the showers, because I couldn't walk.
A week later, as scheduled, they ran the same experiment. I was still sore from the week before. This time, I lasted only four times, but man I was enjoying this experiment. The sensation was almost as good as the best sex, I kid you not. Or at least I thought so then. I was scheduled to continue attending for six more weeks, and my resistance got stronger and stronger. It was like working out a muscle for strength training. I learned to control my orgasms like an expert. I could hold out for at least an hour before coming. Imagine the most intense sex you've ever had, and stretch out the peaks for an entire day. This was much better than sex.
At the end they gave me my last paycheque and sent me on my way. I had tried to pick up the little blonde, but she was probably pretty grossed out by what I had been through. I felt like I could be the greatest lover a woman had ever known. She looked totally uninterested when she shot me down. Oh well.
It didn't take long for me to spend that cash. Lucky for me they asked me if I wanted to come back for a longer experiment. I jumped at the chance. This time the experiment would go for six months. Six months! Getting jerked off for six months, and getting paid for it! How could I resist? I signed all the forms without even looking at them.
It turned out that I had to move in to their facility. I didn't even have to go home anymore. It seems the experiments were going to require constant monitoring. It wouldn't be once a week anymore, but daily! I was really beginning to like this. Then they sprang their first stunt on me.
They weren't strapping me down anymore. Instead, they sat me at a table, where they placed a closed box, and left the room. Inside it was a pile of dead grasshoppers. They told me to eat one. I couldn't believe it. I felt nothing in my dick. Nothing at all. They told me to open the box. When I did, I felt them zap me something soothing and nice. As soon as I let go of the box, it stopped. Right away, I knew what they were up to. They wanted to see how far I would stoop before giving in to my sexual desires. Believe me, I tried to hold out. It felt like hours, but apparently it was only 42:51. It tasted awful, but the orgasm was phenomenal! I felt cheap and disgusting, manipulated into doing something so revolting.
This went on for a week before they got to the real point of their experiment. They had made me eat shit, smear it all over myself, lick the floor of a filthy latrine, drink toilet water, you name it. I was totally enslaved. I couldn't resist anything that they wanted me to do. I began to despise them. Even the cute little blonde.
I was supposed to have the weekend off. They still needed to monitor me though, apparently, and the cute little blonde drew the short straw and had to watch me all weekend. I think she had it all planned out.
In the middle of breakfast, the unmistakable pulse worked its way through my pyjamas. This remote control worked from the other side of the building! I ran back to the lab, cock throbbing with pleasure, ready to throttle the bitch. When I got near her, she flipped a knob and I sank to my knees in agony. The bitch! She made me crawl to her, only alleviating the pain as I did her bidding. She gave me an instant, super-intense orgasm when I finally complied and licked her feet.
"Now, let there be no question about who's boss around here, OK?" she sneered.
I nodded meekly in reverence to her power over me. I had to do everything she said.
She made me wear women's underwear. She rewarded me sweetly for it, too. She made me Nair off all my body hair, put on makeup, and become a complete sissy boy for her. And she rewarded me sweetly at every step. I didn't want to. But I had to. It felt so incredibly good.
She punished me quite a bit before I finally sucked her boyfriend's cock. I resisted that for days, actually. Finally, when I succumbed, she rewarded me with the most intense erotic sensation I have ever felt. I sucked with complete relish as she fucked me remotely. The more passionately I sucked, the more pleasure she granted me. She finished me off as I finished licking the slimy mess from his thighs and balls that spilled out of my mouth when I couldn't swallow it fast enough.
Diary: I Want To Be Effeminated
I don't know what it is about it, but I need to wear women's underwear. The desire is overpowering. I want to be effeminated. Girls look so good in those outfits, and I just want the privilege of looking that way, too. I want the tits, I want the soft, hairless skin, I want the delicate curves, I want the round little empty crotch. I want to be enveloped in lace and silk and flowers and little skinny straps and dainty elastics.
OK, enough of that.
A couple of stories that I read on dragscape show a certain pattern. Both purport to be true. One I sort of believe, the other not for a second. The stories, in fact, are virtually identical:
I know that I'll never do it, but I've fantasized about taking hormones and becoming a girl. I'd grow tits, and my waist would shrink a bit, and I'd lose my body hair, and I'd get filled in and soft in all the right places. I didn't mean it that way, but that, too, I suppose, is part of the charm.
In the scenario above, it's clear that the guy really wants to be a girl. He could stop the whole thing at any time by just putting his foot down. He acts like he has no choice, but he really does. It's part of the thrill, even. He knows that he can pull out of it, but he doesn't because he knows deep down that he really, really wants to be a girl.
A couple of stories that I read on dragscape show a certain pattern. Both purport to be true. One I sort of believe, the other not for a second. The stories, in fact, are virtually identical:
- man marries woman
- woman discovers man's secret desire to dress up in her undies
- woman brings him shopping, humiliates him by having him try on skirts and lingerie
- man throws out all of his male clothing at woman's prompting
- man starts taking hormones to become a woman (at woman's prompting)
- woman loses all interest in man, and forces him to become her maid
- man becomes pretty much a woman from all the hormones, and starts sucking dick
I know that I'll never do it, but I've fantasized about taking hormones and becoming a girl. I'd grow tits, and my waist would shrink a bit, and I'd lose my body hair, and I'd get filled in and soft in all the right places. I didn't mean it that way, but that, too, I suppose, is part of the charm.
In the scenario above, it's clear that the guy really wants to be a girl. He could stop the whole thing at any time by just putting his foot down. He acts like he has no choice, but he really does. It's part of the thrill, even. He knows that he can pull out of it, but he doesn't because he knows deep down that he really, really wants to be a girl.
Diary: Yearning for a Bikini
After all these years, I still can't figure it out. Why the Hell do I keep yearning for women's underwear?
There is simply no way to explain it. It's just the most arousing thing I can imagine. Feeling a woman's body in sexy underwear or swimwear, and discovering that that body is mine. Being forced to become a woman. Right now, I desperately want a bikini.
There is simply no way to explain it. It's just the most arousing thing I can imagine. Feeling a woman's body in sexy underwear or swimwear, and discovering that that body is mine. Being forced to become a woman. Right now, I desperately want a bikini.
Fantasy: Hair of the Dog
How about this scenario: I am me. I wear women's underwear every now and then just for fun, but it stays in the closet. I'm found out by my girlfriend, who dumps me. I am alone, and ashamed. I truly loved her, and I feel awful about her leaving me. And I miss her lingerie, too. So I vow to never wear women's clothes again.
Of course, as always, I fail. I know that it's impossible to change this proclivity. I keep succumbing to the urge. Until one day, I finally decide to do something drastic about it. So, I say to myself, you want to wear women's clothes for fun, eh? Well, we'll see how fun it is if you wear them all the time. So I start wearing women's underwear exclusively, hoping that I'll get sick of it and stop. Only it has the opposite effect. I wear it all the time, and I get so used to it, that I can't do without it. I come out of the closet forever as a girl, just because it's just too fun to give up.
Of course, as always, I fail. I know that it's impossible to change this proclivity. I keep succumbing to the urge. Until one day, I finally decide to do something drastic about it. So, I say to myself, you want to wear women's clothes for fun, eh? Well, we'll see how fun it is if you wear them all the time. So I start wearing women's underwear exclusively, hoping that I'll get sick of it and stop. Only it has the opposite effect. I wear it all the time, and I get so used to it, that I can't do without it. I come out of the closet forever as a girl, just because it's just too fun to give up.
Fiction: The Ultimate Sexual Experience, Part 3
[Part 1] [Part 2]
That's pretty well how I spent the next week or so. I wore lingerie all day and all night. They treated me like a girl. They did their best to make me feel like a girl. And at the end of every day, we all cuddled together, wearing sexy lingerie. The first few days, I was tentative about choosing which outfit to wear. Presented with a matching bra and panty set, a teddy, or a nightgown, I had to pick one. "What do you want to wear today?" they would ask. How could I say that I wanted to wear any of it? Why would I want to wear women's underwear at all? How could I go about choosing, anyway? Still, I felt that I did have a preference: I feel turned on looking at one or another of them. I suppose that there's something sexy about women's underwear in and of itself. They kept pestering me. "See? He likes the matching bra and panties." "Wouldn't you rather wear the teddy?" "Leave him alone! He obviously wants the bra and panties!" I couldn't stand it. But somehow they could tell which one turned me on the most. And they gave it to me. And they made me wear it.
My hands would shake as they got hold of them. Normally, I would be unhooking these, or slipping them off of female hips. I always did love the feel of silk and satin, and the feminine look of lace. I always did love the look of feminine underwear. I was getting a very close look at it, and it was bringing back all sorts of memories of sexual encounters when I would be looking at sexy girls wearing things just like this. The panty and bra set was femininity itself. Something about its shape, about the lacy trim, about the delicate elastic, all of it made me quite horny. I held in my hands a most potent symbol of female sexuality: the style and design of the outfit is made to highlight feminine sexual traits. It's made to make girls look even sexier than they are. And I had to put it on my masculine body, a body that has been in contact with countless hordes of females wearing just this kind of sexy outfit.
They always had to push me into putting it on. I mean, there I stood with a powerful female sexualizing tool in my hands, and I just couldn't make the connection to my own body. They just couldn't connect in my mind. They would snap the whip at me to get me going. I was so confused. I didn't really know how to go about putting it on, except for what I had seen the girls do here, and everything else I'd seen over the years. I just stepped into the panties like I would my own underwear. Except I hesitated. In part, I didn't want to stop looking at the girlish garment I was sliding up my legs, particularly the crotch. But I had to go up, all the way to my own crotch. It looked just awful contoured on my male body. But it was still feminine. It hugged around my hips and butt just like it would on any woman.
Next, and most difficult, was the bra. I didn't even know how to begin. Danielle had to show me the first time, because she didn't want me fooling around for too long. I guess she thought that I was procrastinating. She took me through it step by step. I couldn't help but stare at her incredible body as she showed me how to put on a bra. She started off by holding it up straight, and right side up, so that the top was on top, and the outside facing away from her. I did the same. Then she grabbed each end and wrapped it around her waist, with the two ends at the front. I did the same with mine. She clasped the two little hooks. I clasped my two little hooks. It felt tight and smooth around my waist. Then we turned them around together, in unison, and pulled our bras up by the shoulder straps, putting our arms through them as they came up. I was so embarrassed when I realized that we both snapped the shoulder straps when we got them on. I did it completely by accident.
Then, when I had it on, they told me to feel my underwear against my skin, until they had me dirty dancing like a girl in front of them. I felt so incredibly horny with all this girlishness around me. I couldn't get over having something so feminine on the source of my masculinity. I wanted to feel every bit of that femininity all over me. The outfit seemed to feed on my every move, seemed to become more and more feminine with every undulation of my hips. Every touch reminded me of what I was wearing, and how girlish it made me. Femininity was rubbing off on me. I was moving more and more like a girl, and it felt better and better. I think they could tell that I wasn't hamming it up anymore. I could feel the panties and bra making me more girlish by the second, and I couldn't resist. Worse, I was relishing it. It just felt so good, I wanted more and more. I knew what was happening to me, and with every second, I wanted it more. While I wore that bra and those panties, I wanted to besmirch my manhood. I wanted that outfit to effeminate me. I wanted to feel like a girl.
Those girls were smart. They knew what was going on. I didn't, yet. They didn't let me come until the end of the day. As I came, I experienced the most intense sexual experience of my life, and I knew it. After I came, I was so incredibly degraded. I wasn't a girl. It was all an illusion. I had worn women's underwear all day, looking like a freak, and wanting desperately to be feminine. They had devastated my manhood; or rather, they had made me do it all by myself. I never said to them how I felt all day, but there's no mistaking my actions. I willfully pranced around like a girl. I looked forward to wearing more lingerie as I did it. I had abandoned manhood that day. They knew that I had. They also knew that there was no turning back. I hoped beyond hope that there was a way out.
I lay there in a pool of my come when I realized this. I was still male, still wearing women's underwear. They kept me from taking it off. I resolved then and there that I would never let them take me for a ride like that again. I would not play their game the next morning. If they insisted, I would leave.
The next day, as you no doubt know, didn't go quite as I had planned it. I was forced to choose another outfit for that day. I was still wearing the bra and panties from the day before. Oh, how weak I was! I didn't have the guts to tell them off. They were still so beautiful. They brought out the undies again, and I was captivated again. It was far worse than the day before. I had a definite desire to wear a pretty, lacy teddy. I tried to deny myself. I really did. But they could tell that I wanted it. I needed no help putting it on.
The next day, I had resolved the same thing as before. I practically wept when I slipped into another gorgeous panty and bra set. I didn't want to stop. I was feeling so good when I wore their underwear. I so desperately wanted to never take it off. Until I came. Then I never wanted to see women's clothes again. Then the next morning, I wouldn't be able to resist another shred of silky panty. Pretty soon, I wasn't just pointing at just anything to get the ordeal over with; I was begging to wear specific items of women's clothing. At first, they would each bring something out, and I would take a long time to waffle it over before they finally figured it out. Within a week, I was whispering coyly that I wanted the black silk teddy, or the red lace panty and bra. "Ummm, could I please have the, uh," I would start, stuttering, mumbling.
"You'll have to speak up, Pamela would say.
"I'd like the, uh, the black silk teddy."
"You'd what?"
"I want the black silk teddy," I would say louder, blushing.
"Why, what for?" they would ask.
"I want to wear it," I would whisper.
"Why?"
"Because it feels nice."
"What do you mean it feels nice?"
"It feels sexy."
"Hmm. You're right. It sure does feel sexy, doesn't it? But it's made for girls to wear. You're not a girl, so you're not allowed to wear it."
"Please let me wear it."
"But you're not a girl. You have to be a girl to wear it. Do you want to be a girl?"
I would hesitate for a few seconds. Then I would blush and say, almost inaudibly, "yes." They had me.
"Well, in that case, we'll let you wear it."
And I slipped into it and reveled.
After that it got easier and easier. I had nothing to be shy about anymore. They offered me lingerie to wear, and I chose it. It was all I wore, and all I wanted to wear. Except when I came. When I came, I wanted to crawl into a hole. But I even got used to that; or rather, I came to terms with it. Somehow.
But my new-found hobby ended abruptly one morning. The girls came in as they had for the past two weeks, but didn't offer me anything to wear.
There was something dangerous about the situation. I had no direct access to women's underwear anymore. As far as the girls were concerned, I didn't have to wear lingerie anymore. They just wanted to have sex now.
It was very difficult the first day. I was clumsy. I couldn't just fuck the shit out of them anymore. I wanted them to stay in their underwear, so that I could play with the elastics. It was such a let-down from the days previous, when I, too, pranced around in silky panties and bras. I still wanted to dress up. I mean, it was just so fun. But it never came into the program. I was embarrassed to ask. But I was desperate.
"When do I get to wear your undies again?" I asked.
"Oh," answered Pamela, "That's over now. We want to move on to something else."
It didn't sound like I'd ever wear women's clothes again.
I couldn't sleep anymore. A part of me was extremely relieved that this problem I had had been taken out of my hands. I wouldn't be pressured into wearing women's clothes again, so I would never do it again. I would never damage my manhood again, because I had no access to women's clothes. Yes, at one point I was very thankful of that.
It didn't last very long. The girls weren't even mentioning it anymore. I felt ashamed. I couldn't ask them, because I would be completely embarrassed. Yes, even though I was there for the ultimate sexual experience, and even though they were whores, I was afraid, deathly afraid to ask. They would think less of me, I thought.
I had to take matters in my own hands. Every night, I needed it more and more. I sweated in my bed thinking about it, dreaming of wearing something girlish. I felt like I was missing something. I dreamed of wearing bikinis and one-piece swimsuits. They had never let me wear any before. I wanted to, desperately. I felt that I could never be completely effeminated if I never wore it. I fantasized that wearing a woman's bathing suit would push me that much further over the edge, and make me that much more effeminate.
The plan was so simple. Three gorgeous sluts lived here in the same house with me. All I had to do was sneak into their bedrooms, and steal whatever I wanted. I planned it for days. They just wanted to have sex, but I was staking out the room.
I waited until nightfall. I needed that bathing suit. I was sweating again. I had left Danielle on the couch, where she fell asleep. I carefully snuck into her room.
Once inside, I gave myself little time to act. I hurried to her dresser, and rifled through her drawers. I found a very nice silky smooth swimsuit, very sexy and high cut. I stuffed it down my boxers and shuffled back into my room.
It took me a few minutes to put it on. First, I wanted to make sure that no one was coming. Then I examined it, to relish in all of its wonderful girlishness. I put it on in the dark, under my covers. It was incredible. I felt so effeminate. It was everything I had wanted it to be. I could feel my masculinity choke in the tight spandex. I rubbed my crotch against the covers as I felt my body all over. The whole time I thought to myself that this was going too far, that I could never recover my manhood now. I mean, I had worn all sorts of lingerie before, and I had been masturbated in it and came in it, but it was always at the insistence of others. If I'm forced to do it, I can't be totally responsible for my actions, no matter how much I like it. But this time, no one forced me. I wanted it, and I went out and got it. Nobody even knows about it. And this very thought that I am damaging my masculinity beyond repair makes me feel even more effeminate, gives me even more pleasure, makes me want to obliterate my gender. I don't ever want this feeling to stop; it feels so much better than sex. Maybe this is how a girl feels when she's fucking...
Suddenly, I'm stopped dead in my tracks when someone opens my door. Claudia is sneaking in here for some reason. She thinks I'm asleep. I lay still as a log. She looks around a little, turns around, and walks out, closing the door behind her. My heart pounds like a jackhammer. But I slowly resume, and work my way back to a fever pitch, thankful that I hadn't been caught. How wonderful it must be, I imagine, to be a woman! And I affirm to myself my desire to become a girl, and come all over myself and the swimsuit.
Now I'm in trouble. I can't bring this back to Danielle's dresser in such a condition. It's filthy, and she'll know immediately what happened to it. But I can't avoid replacing it, or else she'll miss it. And Lord knows, I don't want anyone to know about this now. I don't want to be a girl anymore. I just can't understand how I got myself into this situation.
Clearly, I must take the chance that she won't miss it. I can't put a dirty bathing suit back into her drawers. I have to either destroy it or hide it. Again, I can't destroy it without risking getting caught. I stuffed it under my mattress.
As much shame as I felt after that experience, the very next night I wanted more. All day I worried that Danielle would notice her missing bathing suit, or that someone would find it under my mattress. I couldn't stop thinking about how much pleasure I had derived from my little crime. And no one seemed to have noticed. Sure, I was embarrassed after, but so what? I had to expect that, considering what I had done. And what had I done? I had worn women's clothes and liked it. Immensely. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to relive the experience. I wanted to be a girl again. So that night, I dug it out from under my mattress and masturbated again.
Again, the same result. I was always ashamed. It was like being brought down from a daydream, except that there was that shame, that gruesome shame, that made me regret my pleasure. I knew that it was unnatural at the time, and I treasured it for that reason. It made me so much hornier to think that I wanted to dress like a girl, and that it's socially unacceptable for me to do so. Imagine what it would do to my image as a macho stud!
Unfortunately, I started getting sick of the bathing suit. I needed more! I dreamed of wearing lingerie again, and wearing a garter belt and stockings for the first time. Soon, I had a basic collection under my mattress. And no one seemed to be the wiser. All day, I fantasized about wearing what the girls were wearing. Sex didn't interest me so much anymore, except that my girls wore such sexy underwear. It was only a matter of time until I got busted.
I had never felt so much shame in my life. Pamela caught me one night while wearing her lingerie that I had stolen. She noticed that it had gone missing, and all three of the girls staked me out. I was fully into it when they knocked on my door.
"Yes," I answered, because they knocked loudly and persistently. I could never have slept through that.
"R__! Quick! Come out! There's a fire!"
I was shitting bricks. I couldn't come out now, dressed like a girl. "Hold on!" I answered. "I have to get dressed. There was probably a hint of a moan in my voice. I was trying to pull off my panties, unable to get past the garter belt, when they all burst in and tore the covers off my bed. My secret was exposed, for all to see. And they all giggled at me.
They made me get out of bed. I stood in front of them, even more self-consciously than ever before, wearing a black satin bra and panty set, garter belt, and stockings. They had never made me wear a garter belt or stockings. I stood there wearing both, and everyone in the room knew that I had put on the whole outfit of my own initiative. And everyone in the room knew that I had worn it for my own private pleasure, and not to entertain anyone but myself. They stood across the room, staring at me, decked out all effeminately. They tsked, pointed, commented to each other. I wanted to hide. They had me cornered. I wanted to take everything off, but I knew it was no use. They already knew. There was nothing I could do. Finally, they spoke to me: "Oh, R__! We thought you were so macho and sexy and masculine! And now, now, you're dressing up like a girl!"
That comment made me blush. I was so ashamed. I curled up in the corner, mortally embarrassed. The girls all came to comfort me there on the floor.
"Why did you do it?"
I couldn't answer. They kept cajoling me, trying to get an answer out of me. They seemed sincerely concerned and sorry.
"Is it because you're gay?"
"Is it because you have some kind of fetish?"
"Were you doing this all along?"
They didn't even understand me. They had introduced me to it, but they had no idea that this had happened because of them. I started to cry.
"There, there, R__. There there."
Danielle took me in her arms, and I wept on her shoulder. "It's okay, R__. It's okay. We don't mind. We just wish you had asked us, that's all. We don't like you stealing from us."
"That's right," cooed Claudia. "It's okay. Don't worry, R__, we're not mad at you."
I sobbed some more. I was a freak, and they knew it. I still hadn't taken anything off.
"Maybe you should talk about it," urged Pamela.
I looked Danielle in the eye, still crying, and could see how honestly she cared about me. She really did feel sorry for me. She really did forgive me. So did Pamela and Claudia. And that's when it all came out.
"I just wanted to be sexy!" I cried. "You girls get to strut around in all this sexy stuff, and I wanted to feel sexy too!" I buried my head into Danielle's shoulder again.
"There, there!" She giggled. "It's okay. I'm glad you think we're sexy. But why did you want to wear our undies? How does that make you feel sexy?"
"I dunno," I sobbed. "It just does."
"You know, R__," Claudia whispered in my ear, "you do look kinda cute in that outfit."
I giggled. I was tickled. "Really?"
"Oh, R__! You're adorable!"
"You really mean it?"
"We sure do!"
"So you don't mind?"
"Well, we'd rather you wore your own lingerie."
"My own lingerie?"
"What, don't you want to wear sexy underwear all the time?"
"Yes."
"Then you'll need your own wardrobe, won't you?"
"I guess."
"Cool! That means we get to go shopping!" The girls all whooped and giggled together.
"You'll buy me some lingerie?" I asked, incredulously.
"No, silly, you'll buy your own. We wouldn't want to pick it for you. You know what you like."
"But I can't go into a lingerie store and buy undies for myself. They'll think I'm a weirdo!"
"Why would they?"
"Because I'm a man, and I'm buying all sorts of stuff!"
"What makes you think they'll think you're a man?"
"What do you mean?"
"You do want to be a girl, don't you?"
I hesitated.
"Well?"
"I guess."
"Then we'll have to make you into a girl."
With that, they all picked me up off my feet, and walked me to the bathroom. For the first time, I saw myself in the mirror. I was a pretty gruesome sight, with my body hair sticking out all over the place, and my misshapen body distorting the femininity of the lingerie I wore. In contrast to the girls, I looked just repulsive.
"Let's get you naked," said Pamela, as she snapped the catch on my bra. Before I knew it, I was stripped naked. "We've got lots of shaving to do," said Claudia, coming towards me with a razor and some shaving cream.
When they were done, and I stepped into my stolen lingerie, I couldn't recognize myself. Suddenly, I had very pretty, effeminate legs. My belly was beautiful, even though my waist was too large in proportion to my hips. My body looked almost female. "Wow! We're almost there!" giggled Danielle.
Then I slipped into a tight mini-dress and the girls made up my face. I stuffed my bra with foam and toilet paper, and my tits looked really pretty. Not only did I feel sexier than ever, I even looked like a beautiful girl. I couldn't stop posing. Then they gave me a pair of pills.
"What are these?" I asked.
"Those are female hormones. You take enough of those, you'll have real tits and a nice waist."
My heart pounded as I tossed them into my mouth and swallowed. This time, there really was no turning back. It wasn't just fantasy: it wouldn't end when I come. I was about to buy myself a wardrobe of women's clothes, and I had popped pills that would transform me into a girl. I was very excited. I knew that I could never be a man again, and that very thought made me hornier and hornier, and made me want to never look back.
So there I was, standing a good foot taller than Danielle, Pamela, and Claudia, my muscular build almost bursting out of a mini-dress. I was dressed like a girl, from inside out, down to the very underwear. I had shaven off all my body hair. I wore makeup and styled my hair. I, who once prided myself on being a great macho stud, now pranced in public as a woman, to go shopping for feminine wardrobe, yet. I, who had striven my entire life to be the most masculine man alive, had just willingly taken pills that would infuse me with female hormones that would metamorphose my proud manly body into a sleek, slender, girlish body.
And how did I feel about it?
Fantastic!
It was then that I knew how right this was. I stepped out in public as a girl, and I felt sexier than I ever had as a man. For all those years, I had wanted to be the master of the female body. I wanted to show womankind what pleasure was all about. But I really knew nothing. These women had shown me. I, who had done everything imaginable with so many different women. They showed me the ultimate sexual experience, and I was hooked. Only now could I truly begin to know how to please a woman, because I would be a woman.
That's pretty well how I spent the next week or so. I wore lingerie all day and all night. They treated me like a girl. They did their best to make me feel like a girl. And at the end of every day, we all cuddled together, wearing sexy lingerie. The first few days, I was tentative about choosing which outfit to wear. Presented with a matching bra and panty set, a teddy, or a nightgown, I had to pick one. "What do you want to wear today?" they would ask. How could I say that I wanted to wear any of it? Why would I want to wear women's underwear at all? How could I go about choosing, anyway? Still, I felt that I did have a preference: I feel turned on looking at one or another of them. I suppose that there's something sexy about women's underwear in and of itself. They kept pestering me. "See? He likes the matching bra and panties." "Wouldn't you rather wear the teddy?" "Leave him alone! He obviously wants the bra and panties!" I couldn't stand it. But somehow they could tell which one turned me on the most. And they gave it to me. And they made me wear it.
My hands would shake as they got hold of them. Normally, I would be unhooking these, or slipping them off of female hips. I always did love the feel of silk and satin, and the feminine look of lace. I always did love the look of feminine underwear. I was getting a very close look at it, and it was bringing back all sorts of memories of sexual encounters when I would be looking at sexy girls wearing things just like this. The panty and bra set was femininity itself. Something about its shape, about the lacy trim, about the delicate elastic, all of it made me quite horny. I held in my hands a most potent symbol of female sexuality: the style and design of the outfit is made to highlight feminine sexual traits. It's made to make girls look even sexier than they are. And I had to put it on my masculine body, a body that has been in contact with countless hordes of females wearing just this kind of sexy outfit.
They always had to push me into putting it on. I mean, there I stood with a powerful female sexualizing tool in my hands, and I just couldn't make the connection to my own body. They just couldn't connect in my mind. They would snap the whip at me to get me going. I was so confused. I didn't really know how to go about putting it on, except for what I had seen the girls do here, and everything else I'd seen over the years. I just stepped into the panties like I would my own underwear. Except I hesitated. In part, I didn't want to stop looking at the girlish garment I was sliding up my legs, particularly the crotch. But I had to go up, all the way to my own crotch. It looked just awful contoured on my male body. But it was still feminine. It hugged around my hips and butt just like it would on any woman.
Next, and most difficult, was the bra. I didn't even know how to begin. Danielle had to show me the first time, because she didn't want me fooling around for too long. I guess she thought that I was procrastinating. She took me through it step by step. I couldn't help but stare at her incredible body as she showed me how to put on a bra. She started off by holding it up straight, and right side up, so that the top was on top, and the outside facing away from her. I did the same. Then she grabbed each end and wrapped it around her waist, with the two ends at the front. I did the same with mine. She clasped the two little hooks. I clasped my two little hooks. It felt tight and smooth around my waist. Then we turned them around together, in unison, and pulled our bras up by the shoulder straps, putting our arms through them as they came up. I was so embarrassed when I realized that we both snapped the shoulder straps when we got them on. I did it completely by accident.
Then, when I had it on, they told me to feel my underwear against my skin, until they had me dirty dancing like a girl in front of them. I felt so incredibly horny with all this girlishness around me. I couldn't get over having something so feminine on the source of my masculinity. I wanted to feel every bit of that femininity all over me. The outfit seemed to feed on my every move, seemed to become more and more feminine with every undulation of my hips. Every touch reminded me of what I was wearing, and how girlish it made me. Femininity was rubbing off on me. I was moving more and more like a girl, and it felt better and better. I think they could tell that I wasn't hamming it up anymore. I could feel the panties and bra making me more girlish by the second, and I couldn't resist. Worse, I was relishing it. It just felt so good, I wanted more and more. I knew what was happening to me, and with every second, I wanted it more. While I wore that bra and those panties, I wanted to besmirch my manhood. I wanted that outfit to effeminate me. I wanted to feel like a girl.
Those girls were smart. They knew what was going on. I didn't, yet. They didn't let me come until the end of the day. As I came, I experienced the most intense sexual experience of my life, and I knew it. After I came, I was so incredibly degraded. I wasn't a girl. It was all an illusion. I had worn women's underwear all day, looking like a freak, and wanting desperately to be feminine. They had devastated my manhood; or rather, they had made me do it all by myself. I never said to them how I felt all day, but there's no mistaking my actions. I willfully pranced around like a girl. I looked forward to wearing more lingerie as I did it. I had abandoned manhood that day. They knew that I had. They also knew that there was no turning back. I hoped beyond hope that there was a way out.
I lay there in a pool of my come when I realized this. I was still male, still wearing women's underwear. They kept me from taking it off. I resolved then and there that I would never let them take me for a ride like that again. I would not play their game the next morning. If they insisted, I would leave.
The next day, as you no doubt know, didn't go quite as I had planned it. I was forced to choose another outfit for that day. I was still wearing the bra and panties from the day before. Oh, how weak I was! I didn't have the guts to tell them off. They were still so beautiful. They brought out the undies again, and I was captivated again. It was far worse than the day before. I had a definite desire to wear a pretty, lacy teddy. I tried to deny myself. I really did. But they could tell that I wanted it. I needed no help putting it on.
The next day, I had resolved the same thing as before. I practically wept when I slipped into another gorgeous panty and bra set. I didn't want to stop. I was feeling so good when I wore their underwear. I so desperately wanted to never take it off. Until I came. Then I never wanted to see women's clothes again. Then the next morning, I wouldn't be able to resist another shred of silky panty. Pretty soon, I wasn't just pointing at just anything to get the ordeal over with; I was begging to wear specific items of women's clothing. At first, they would each bring something out, and I would take a long time to waffle it over before they finally figured it out. Within a week, I was whispering coyly that I wanted the black silk teddy, or the red lace panty and bra. "Ummm, could I please have the, uh," I would start, stuttering, mumbling.
"You'll have to speak up, Pamela would say.
"I'd like the, uh, the black silk teddy."
"You'd what?"
"I want the black silk teddy," I would say louder, blushing.
"Why, what for?" they would ask.
"I want to wear it," I would whisper.
"Why?"
"Because it feels nice."
"What do you mean it feels nice?"
"It feels sexy."
"Hmm. You're right. It sure does feel sexy, doesn't it? But it's made for girls to wear. You're not a girl, so you're not allowed to wear it."
"Please let me wear it."
"But you're not a girl. You have to be a girl to wear it. Do you want to be a girl?"
I would hesitate for a few seconds. Then I would blush and say, almost inaudibly, "yes." They had me.
"Well, in that case, we'll let you wear it."
And I slipped into it and reveled.
After that it got easier and easier. I had nothing to be shy about anymore. They offered me lingerie to wear, and I chose it. It was all I wore, and all I wanted to wear. Except when I came. When I came, I wanted to crawl into a hole. But I even got used to that; or rather, I came to terms with it. Somehow.
But my new-found hobby ended abruptly one morning. The girls came in as they had for the past two weeks, but didn't offer me anything to wear.
There was something dangerous about the situation. I had no direct access to women's underwear anymore. As far as the girls were concerned, I didn't have to wear lingerie anymore. They just wanted to have sex now.
It was very difficult the first day. I was clumsy. I couldn't just fuck the shit out of them anymore. I wanted them to stay in their underwear, so that I could play with the elastics. It was such a let-down from the days previous, when I, too, pranced around in silky panties and bras. I still wanted to dress up. I mean, it was just so fun. But it never came into the program. I was embarrassed to ask. But I was desperate.
"When do I get to wear your undies again?" I asked.
"Oh," answered Pamela, "That's over now. We want to move on to something else."
It didn't sound like I'd ever wear women's clothes again.
I couldn't sleep anymore. A part of me was extremely relieved that this problem I had had been taken out of my hands. I wouldn't be pressured into wearing women's clothes again, so I would never do it again. I would never damage my manhood again, because I had no access to women's clothes. Yes, at one point I was very thankful of that.
It didn't last very long. The girls weren't even mentioning it anymore. I felt ashamed. I couldn't ask them, because I would be completely embarrassed. Yes, even though I was there for the ultimate sexual experience, and even though they were whores, I was afraid, deathly afraid to ask. They would think less of me, I thought.
I had to take matters in my own hands. Every night, I needed it more and more. I sweated in my bed thinking about it, dreaming of wearing something girlish. I felt like I was missing something. I dreamed of wearing bikinis and one-piece swimsuits. They had never let me wear any before. I wanted to, desperately. I felt that I could never be completely effeminated if I never wore it. I fantasized that wearing a woman's bathing suit would push me that much further over the edge, and make me that much more effeminate.
The plan was so simple. Three gorgeous sluts lived here in the same house with me. All I had to do was sneak into their bedrooms, and steal whatever I wanted. I planned it for days. They just wanted to have sex, but I was staking out the room.
I waited until nightfall. I needed that bathing suit. I was sweating again. I had left Danielle on the couch, where she fell asleep. I carefully snuck into her room.
Once inside, I gave myself little time to act. I hurried to her dresser, and rifled through her drawers. I found a very nice silky smooth swimsuit, very sexy and high cut. I stuffed it down my boxers and shuffled back into my room.
It took me a few minutes to put it on. First, I wanted to make sure that no one was coming. Then I examined it, to relish in all of its wonderful girlishness. I put it on in the dark, under my covers. It was incredible. I felt so effeminate. It was everything I had wanted it to be. I could feel my masculinity choke in the tight spandex. I rubbed my crotch against the covers as I felt my body all over. The whole time I thought to myself that this was going too far, that I could never recover my manhood now. I mean, I had worn all sorts of lingerie before, and I had been masturbated in it and came in it, but it was always at the insistence of others. If I'm forced to do it, I can't be totally responsible for my actions, no matter how much I like it. But this time, no one forced me. I wanted it, and I went out and got it. Nobody even knows about it. And this very thought that I am damaging my masculinity beyond repair makes me feel even more effeminate, gives me even more pleasure, makes me want to obliterate my gender. I don't ever want this feeling to stop; it feels so much better than sex. Maybe this is how a girl feels when she's fucking...
Suddenly, I'm stopped dead in my tracks when someone opens my door. Claudia is sneaking in here for some reason. She thinks I'm asleep. I lay still as a log. She looks around a little, turns around, and walks out, closing the door behind her. My heart pounds like a jackhammer. But I slowly resume, and work my way back to a fever pitch, thankful that I hadn't been caught. How wonderful it must be, I imagine, to be a woman! And I affirm to myself my desire to become a girl, and come all over myself and the swimsuit.
Now I'm in trouble. I can't bring this back to Danielle's dresser in such a condition. It's filthy, and she'll know immediately what happened to it. But I can't avoid replacing it, or else she'll miss it. And Lord knows, I don't want anyone to know about this now. I don't want to be a girl anymore. I just can't understand how I got myself into this situation.
Clearly, I must take the chance that she won't miss it. I can't put a dirty bathing suit back into her drawers. I have to either destroy it or hide it. Again, I can't destroy it without risking getting caught. I stuffed it under my mattress.
As much shame as I felt after that experience, the very next night I wanted more. All day I worried that Danielle would notice her missing bathing suit, or that someone would find it under my mattress. I couldn't stop thinking about how much pleasure I had derived from my little crime. And no one seemed to have noticed. Sure, I was embarrassed after, but so what? I had to expect that, considering what I had done. And what had I done? I had worn women's clothes and liked it. Immensely. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to relive the experience. I wanted to be a girl again. So that night, I dug it out from under my mattress and masturbated again.
Again, the same result. I was always ashamed. It was like being brought down from a daydream, except that there was that shame, that gruesome shame, that made me regret my pleasure. I knew that it was unnatural at the time, and I treasured it for that reason. It made me so much hornier to think that I wanted to dress like a girl, and that it's socially unacceptable for me to do so. Imagine what it would do to my image as a macho stud!
Unfortunately, I started getting sick of the bathing suit. I needed more! I dreamed of wearing lingerie again, and wearing a garter belt and stockings for the first time. Soon, I had a basic collection under my mattress. And no one seemed to be the wiser. All day, I fantasized about wearing what the girls were wearing. Sex didn't interest me so much anymore, except that my girls wore such sexy underwear. It was only a matter of time until I got busted.
I had never felt so much shame in my life. Pamela caught me one night while wearing her lingerie that I had stolen. She noticed that it had gone missing, and all three of the girls staked me out. I was fully into it when they knocked on my door.
"Yes," I answered, because they knocked loudly and persistently. I could never have slept through that.
"R__! Quick! Come out! There's a fire!"
I was shitting bricks. I couldn't come out now, dressed like a girl. "Hold on!" I answered. "I have to get dressed. There was probably a hint of a moan in my voice. I was trying to pull off my panties, unable to get past the garter belt, when they all burst in and tore the covers off my bed. My secret was exposed, for all to see. And they all giggled at me.
They made me get out of bed. I stood in front of them, even more self-consciously than ever before, wearing a black satin bra and panty set, garter belt, and stockings. They had never made me wear a garter belt or stockings. I stood there wearing both, and everyone in the room knew that I had put on the whole outfit of my own initiative. And everyone in the room knew that I had worn it for my own private pleasure, and not to entertain anyone but myself. They stood across the room, staring at me, decked out all effeminately. They tsked, pointed, commented to each other. I wanted to hide. They had me cornered. I wanted to take everything off, but I knew it was no use. They already knew. There was nothing I could do. Finally, they spoke to me: "Oh, R__! We thought you were so macho and sexy and masculine! And now, now, you're dressing up like a girl!"
That comment made me blush. I was so ashamed. I curled up in the corner, mortally embarrassed. The girls all came to comfort me there on the floor.
"Why did you do it?"
I couldn't answer. They kept cajoling me, trying to get an answer out of me. They seemed sincerely concerned and sorry.
"Is it because you're gay?"
"Is it because you have some kind of fetish?"
"Were you doing this all along?"
They didn't even understand me. They had introduced me to it, but they had no idea that this had happened because of them. I started to cry.
"There, there, R__. There there."
Danielle took me in her arms, and I wept on her shoulder. "It's okay, R__. It's okay. We don't mind. We just wish you had asked us, that's all. We don't like you stealing from us."
"That's right," cooed Claudia. "It's okay. Don't worry, R__, we're not mad at you."
I sobbed some more. I was a freak, and they knew it. I still hadn't taken anything off.
"Maybe you should talk about it," urged Pamela.
I looked Danielle in the eye, still crying, and could see how honestly she cared about me. She really did feel sorry for me. She really did forgive me. So did Pamela and Claudia. And that's when it all came out.
"I just wanted to be sexy!" I cried. "You girls get to strut around in all this sexy stuff, and I wanted to feel sexy too!" I buried my head into Danielle's shoulder again.
"There, there!" She giggled. "It's okay. I'm glad you think we're sexy. But why did you want to wear our undies? How does that make you feel sexy?"
"I dunno," I sobbed. "It just does."
"You know, R__," Claudia whispered in my ear, "you do look kinda cute in that outfit."
I giggled. I was tickled. "Really?"
"Oh, R__! You're adorable!"
"You really mean it?"
"We sure do!"
"So you don't mind?"
"Well, we'd rather you wore your own lingerie."
"My own lingerie?"
"What, don't you want to wear sexy underwear all the time?"
"Yes."
"Then you'll need your own wardrobe, won't you?"
"I guess."
"Cool! That means we get to go shopping!" The girls all whooped and giggled together.
"You'll buy me some lingerie?" I asked, incredulously.
"No, silly, you'll buy your own. We wouldn't want to pick it for you. You know what you like."
"But I can't go into a lingerie store and buy undies for myself. They'll think I'm a weirdo!"
"Why would they?"
"Because I'm a man, and I'm buying all sorts of stuff!"
"What makes you think they'll think you're a man?"
"What do you mean?"
"You do want to be a girl, don't you?"
I hesitated.
"Well?"
"I guess."
"Then we'll have to make you into a girl."
With that, they all picked me up off my feet, and walked me to the bathroom. For the first time, I saw myself in the mirror. I was a pretty gruesome sight, with my body hair sticking out all over the place, and my misshapen body distorting the femininity of the lingerie I wore. In contrast to the girls, I looked just repulsive.
"Let's get you naked," said Pamela, as she snapped the catch on my bra. Before I knew it, I was stripped naked. "We've got lots of shaving to do," said Claudia, coming towards me with a razor and some shaving cream.
When they were done, and I stepped into my stolen lingerie, I couldn't recognize myself. Suddenly, I had very pretty, effeminate legs. My belly was beautiful, even though my waist was too large in proportion to my hips. My body looked almost female. "Wow! We're almost there!" giggled Danielle.
Then I slipped into a tight mini-dress and the girls made up my face. I stuffed my bra with foam and toilet paper, and my tits looked really pretty. Not only did I feel sexier than ever, I even looked like a beautiful girl. I couldn't stop posing. Then they gave me a pair of pills.
"What are these?" I asked.
"Those are female hormones. You take enough of those, you'll have real tits and a nice waist."
My heart pounded as I tossed them into my mouth and swallowed. This time, there really was no turning back. It wasn't just fantasy: it wouldn't end when I come. I was about to buy myself a wardrobe of women's clothes, and I had popped pills that would transform me into a girl. I was very excited. I knew that I could never be a man again, and that very thought made me hornier and hornier, and made me want to never look back.
So there I was, standing a good foot taller than Danielle, Pamela, and Claudia, my muscular build almost bursting out of a mini-dress. I was dressed like a girl, from inside out, down to the very underwear. I had shaven off all my body hair. I wore makeup and styled my hair. I, who once prided myself on being a great macho stud, now pranced in public as a woman, to go shopping for feminine wardrobe, yet. I, who had striven my entire life to be the most masculine man alive, had just willingly taken pills that would infuse me with female hormones that would metamorphose my proud manly body into a sleek, slender, girlish body.
And how did I feel about it?
Fantastic!
It was then that I knew how right this was. I stepped out in public as a girl, and I felt sexier than I ever had as a man. For all those years, I had wanted to be the master of the female body. I wanted to show womankind what pleasure was all about. But I really knew nothing. These women had shown me. I, who had done everything imaginable with so many different women. They showed me the ultimate sexual experience, and I was hooked. Only now could I truly begin to know how to please a woman, because I would be a woman.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)