Trans-transsexual?

Over the years, my understanding about my compulsion for feminizing myself has evolved. Over the same time period, transsexualism has become more and more mainstream, and many things have changed with social acceptance as well as how it's understood by science. 

I've been thinking of myself as a cross-dresser. I met with a sex therapist, who told me unequivocally that I am not transsexual, and that I don't have gender dysphoria. I simply have a sexual fetish for making myself feminine, which is very common.

Some of you reading this might have a powerful negative reaction: this sounds suspiciously like autogynephilia, which has been emphatically discredited for years. I'm certainly trans, you'd say, and I'm being misled and prevented from becoming my true female self!

Well, I'm not here to argue one way or the other. The truth is, I don't know: am I truly a woman in a man's body? Am I in denial?

It's always been an extremely sexual thing for me. In all but the most private settings, I'm a man. There's nothing feminine about the way I present myself. My family and my career are built on a masculine identity. These are incredibly valuable to me. Over the years, I've come to think of my sexual inclination to be female as a benign delusion, which quickly dissipates when I fulfill it -- the "pink cloud" as it were. But there's no question that at times I intensely wish I were female. I ponder how I could make it real. The closest I've come is to wear women's clothes occasionally.

So basically, by the current conventional wisdom, I'm definitely trans. If I look deeper than my sexual fulfillment, I am indeed a woman. I've rationalized away my dysphoria. I should embrace my true feminine self, and come out as the woman I've always been, but have been afraid to let out.

This is highly appealing to me at one level, but unacceptable due to the risk on my family and career.

It occurred to me the other day that the conventional wisdom has a flaw, which many have pointed out: gender is a continuum, not a binary. It's highly complex. However, for anyone wanting to transition to womanhood, there's a requirement to present as a conventional representation of a woman. It's necessary to prove that you can live your life as what most people would consider a female public identity. But what if I don't want my feminine identity to be public? I do want to be female, but I also want my family and colleagues to continue to think of me as male. Why can't I be female in private, and present myself as male when I choose? Why is that not a valid option?

Basically, the ideal way forward for me would be to transition to female (complete with surgery, hormones, etc.), but in public, continue to show my male persona. Nobody in public needs to know what sort of genitals I have! If I ever do want to go out in public as a woman, I could do that, too, whenever I want. I'd certainly want to present as female at times.

So I guess this makes me a transsexual woman with a male public persona, or a transsexual transsexual.

Realistically, my wife and kids would strongly object to this, so it's not feasible. But someday, perhaps...

The important thing would be that I'd be physically female, regardless of my clothes and outward presentation. This idea is highly appealing to me, because it strikes me as much more achievable than transitioning and presenting as female all the time.

Why isn't this option more widely available and accepted? Don't force me to fit into your neat little box!

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.

Fiction: Forbidden Knowledge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fiction: How I Turned Into A Girl

Innocent beginnings

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

Tentative experiments

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

Shocking fantasies of being utterly feminized

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

Experiments become more daring

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

The collection

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

Busted

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

Purge

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

The inevitable relapse binge

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

Denial and abandon

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

Caught again

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

Acceptance

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

The gift

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

The realization of the enormity

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

Busted – for good

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

Manipulation

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

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

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

Exposure

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

Slavery

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

Privation

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

Emancipation

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

A taste for cock

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

My fate was sealed from the very first moment

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

Fantasy: Teen Transformation

Wow, has it ever been a long time.  I got distracted thinking I could be in love with a girl.  Somehow the urge didn’t strike me at all for almost 2 months.  But now, I am heavily in its throes.  I have discovered teens.  They are so young and innocent and lithe.  They’re so sexy, especially when they wear heels, because they are just getting used to their sexual potency.  They still look awkward.  But they’re so incredibly feminine and hot.  That is my fantasy now: to be one of these awakening hotties.  I want to experience that same discovery, the same way.  I want to turn into a teenaged girl.

I had a story once about a woman who seduces a teenaged boy, and turns him into a girl, just for fun.  It reminds me of my own sexual awakening.  I wasn’t very hairy when I started turning myself into a girl.  I dreamed of wearing bikinis.  Hell, I actually did wear bikinis.  I imagined it turning me irrevocably into a girl.  I worried that it would actually work.  I prayed that it would actually work.

I just put on my silver bikini.  I am alone at home for a week.  I can lounge around the house in girlwear the whole time.  

The whole idea is happy capitulation.  I’m not much of a man, so I might as well work on my womanhood.

The idea of turning a teenaged boy into a girl: it’s not too late, there’s still hope.  Puberty hasn’t fully set in yet, so maybe he’s still salvageable.  He starts off resisting.  He’s encouraged to model like jandmstars.com, with a gaggle of lovely but slightly older teenaged girls.  He’s only 13 or 14.  They take away all his clothes, and send him to the same wardrobe as the girls.  He must either remain naked, or put on something sexy and feminine.  He is surrounded by girls who have no qualms about stripping down and getting dressed all sexy in front of him.  They laugh and cajole him for being naked, and encourage him to join in the fun.  They’ll show him how to be comfortable.  He’s horribly embarrassed, very afraid of girls.  These are all 16 to 19 and stunningly gorgeous.  He’s afraid to stand up to them.  He’s skinny and lithe too.  His body could go either way yet.  

He’s afraid of even touching the girls’ clothes.  They’re far too sexy.  He’s never seen girlwear so intimate, so close.  The clothes themselves are fascinating and innately sexy.  The girls make every effort to show him all the prettiest things: bras and panties and garter belts and miniskirts and halter tops and stockings and heels and dresses.  He knows he can’t remain naked.  He hides himself with his hands.  There are no corners, no furniture to hide behind.  It’s like a nightmare to him.  But it’s very very real.

Eventually, when many of the girls are out of the room being photographed stripping and pouting and being beautiful, the few who remain in the changeroom with him goad him into at least touching a bikini, to get a feel for it.  He’s very interested, and unable to hide his interest.  He’s still trying to hide his nakedness.  He’s nervous about holding it in his hand.  “Does this make me gay,” he wonders?  I have to admit it’s very pretty, and very sexy.  I’d love to see it on each of these girls.  It would be so gay for me to wear it, even though they’re practically forcing me to.

Finally, he succumbs, mostly to hide his nakedness, but also fully aware that he’s being gay, and that his manhood risks being terribly compromised.  He puts on only the panties of a bikini, thinking that these in particular are the most boyish he’s seen, and that they won’t appear particularly feminine.  But they feel so different from his old jockeys.  They’re soft and smooth and tight and high-cut and elastic, like nothing he’s ever worn before.  The girls applaud with glee when he slides them up his hips.  “You look so cute and girlish now!” they squeal.  He turns livid with shame, but keeps them on.  At least now he isn’t showing them his tiny little prick that they so ruthlessly made fun of.

He refuses to put on the matching bra.  

Eventually, they all get to see him.  They all make comments about him coming to his senses and becoming one of the girls.  They congratulate him and compliment him on his little black bikini panties, but question him about why he’s running around topless.  Still, he steadfastly refuses to wear the bra.

Then his turn comes up for shooting.  The photographer angrily asks him where his top is, and complains that he could get in trouble for taking nude photos of teenaged girls.  Our boy protests that he’s not a girl, and the photographer compromises.  He insists that he cover his nipples on all the shots, and mostly concentrates on his backside.  As humiliating as it was to put on bikini panties in front of girls, posing like one for model photos was infinitely worse.  He was terrible at posing.  The poor photographer was getting terribly frustrated with him.  “If you’re gonna pretend to be a girl, at least move like one!  Come on, swing those hips!  Pout!  Show me what you’ve got!”

After the shoot, humiliated and broken, having given in and posed like a girl in bikini panties, our boy returns to the dressing room.  The girls all give him tips on how to be sexy like them, and how to pose and be pretty.  They’re all getting dressed to go home, and they ask him why he’s not.  He says he has no clothes, and they tell him to pick something from the wardrobe.  There is nothing but ultra-feminine girlwear to choose from, and he wisely, prudently, declines.  He remains in the changeroom to sleep all night, afraid to go out.  He keeps his bikini panties on, just in case.  He cries all night, terribly upset about how gay this makes him.  


The next day, the girls insist on him trying on something else.  Another bikini, at least, because they can’t allow him to wear the same thing on consecutive days.  Since he feels dirty, he reluctantly agrees.  He again tries to choose something at least a little bit boyish.  He sticks to solid colours and low-cut leg, but everything is so unquestionably feminine that he ends up in no better position than the day before.  The shoot goes much the same way.  He cries a lot.

That night he explores the wardrobe in great detail.  He tries to identify anything at all that he could wear and not give up his gender completely.  He fails utterly.  Instead he spends more time ogling the sexy outfits and masturbating about how pretty they are.

The next day, he chooses yet another boyish panty.  He’s running out of options.  He’s getting along pretty well with the girls.  They feel for him, but are clearly trying to get him to give up his manhood.  He lets them talk him into putting on the matching bra this time.  He feels better for it, because the girls are very proud of him.  He knows he’s taken a huge step in the wrong direction, but he is happier for it.  He poses with enthusiasm.

Over the next few days, he becomes expert in putting on brassieres.  He still sticks to bikinis, because he doesn’t want to be too adventurous.  He knows that he’s getting used to wearing bikinis, and it frightens him.  He feels sexy when he poses.  It shows in the photos.

Now he becomes aware that he wants to try on sexier, more feminine clothes.  He gets horny thinking about wearing a bikini with a floral print on it.  He suppresses the idea with shame.  He thinks he must continue to resist, but knows that he can’t continue to fight when he’s modeling a different swimsuit every day.  Most importantly, he doesn’t want any of the girls knowing that he’s getting used to it.  He steadfastly believes that his ordeal will soon end, and he will be back wearing his own boy clothes in no time.  

At night, he begins trying on everything he can think of.  He can’t help it.  It’s so incredibly gay of him, but he loves it.  He realizes that every second he spends wearing a bikini makes him gayer and gayer.  But it feels so cool.  He does this secretly for weeks.  He allows himself to wear more an more feminine bikinis during the day, when people are around.  They can tell that he’s giving in, but he won’t admit it.  He sometimes reverts to boyshorts when overcome by shame at his nightly explorations.  He still cries at night.

Then he gets caught.  Nobody is angry.  They are happy and proud.  He is humiliated.  They showed up an hour earlier, because of the shift to standard time, which he was unaware of cloistered in the women’s change room for so long.  They catch him in a cute and sexy little minidress, over top of a matching lingerie outfit and heels.  They make him wear it all day.  Busted.

From then on, they become much more insistent about what he models.  Lingerie, swimwear, club wear.  He is always reluctant, insisting that it was a mistake.  But he looks better and better as a girl.  He knows it, too.  And he blushes when he becomes aware of it.  He likes it.

At last, he has a heart-to-heart with the prettiest of the models, on whom he’s developed a crush.  She convinces him to admit that he’s incredibly flaming gay, that he adores dressing up like her and her friends, and that he desperately wants to be a girl.  “It’s not too late, you know.  At your age, you can start taking hormones and you’ll hit puberty just like we did – that is, as a girl.  By the time you’re our age, you’ll have your own boobs, all natural, and your waist will be perfectly proportional.  You’ll look so killer in all these outfits!”

“But I’ll have to commit myself to being gay.  I don’t want to be gay!  I can’t just give up my manhood!”  He blushes at the thought of it, because it excites him enormously.

She offers him his clothes, and a chance to leave as he came: a teenaged boy.  

“Can I take a couple of panties with me, at least?  Nobody has to know that I’m wearing them.”

“Will you wear girls’ panties all the time?” she asks, pointedly.

He smiles coyly and blushes.  “Why not?”

“Wouldn’t you rather just go all the way, and wear all girl clothes all the time?”

“I’m still a boy.”

“Not anymore.”

He thinks about it for 48 hours, and decides to return to his boyhood.  The girls refuse to let him take any souvenirs.  He must leave dressed completely as a boy.

He finds himself looking at girls differently.  He wants to wear their clothes.  It drives him mad that he has no panties, no bikinis, no dresses, no stockings, no heels.  After a couple of weeks, he can take no more.  He spends some of his modeling income on some lingerie.  He makes a fool of himself in a lingerie store buying it.  Who ever heard of a 14-year-old boy buying lingerie for his girlfriend?  He wears it that night and every other day, but wants more.  He similarly buys swimwear, and wears it in secret.  He gets more underwear, too.  He proudly wears it as often as he can, as proof to himself that he can get away with it.

As much as he tries to hide his femininity, it somehow exudes from him.  Other boys call him a faggot, and question his manhood.  He blushes when they accuse him, lending them more ammunition.  He can’t fight back knowing that he’s wearing lace under his jeans.  How gay of me, he thinks.  He finds himself attracted to boys.  

He begins to notice signs of puberty.  He’s getting hairier, ever so slightly.  It clashes horribly with his underwear.  He longs to wear a skirt again, and to make up his face.  

Finally, after a few weeks of this, he snaps.  He goes to the mall as a boy, and goes shopping.  He doesn’t care who sees him.  He buys a pretty little outfit at Le Chateau, and happily explains that it’s not for his girlfriend, it’s for himself.  He can’t wait to put it on, so he wears it home.  He feels so girlish in it that he actually looks like a girl.  He shops around and buys himself an entire wardrobe of girl clothes.

The very next day, he returns to the modeling agency to get his job back.  He becomes one of the girls like never before.  He begins his hormone treatment and watches over the months as his body becomes more and more femininely proportioned.  

By the time he’s 18, he is a girl.  He’s been effeminating for four years.  His birthday present is surgery.  He then helps take on another young teenaged boy, and turns him into a girl, too, just like one of the original pretty models did for him.  

Fiction: Devotion

Heidi was my goddess.  I worshipped the ground she walked on.  I collected and catalogued every one of the 594,391 photos of her I could find.  I humbly deferred to her every whim.  She was sometimes difficult to please, but I did everything in my meager power to satisfy her in every way possible.

I stumbled upon her when she had a photo shoot in the desert hills in Southern California.  I knew instantly who she was, from all the swimsuit issues and lingerie catalogues and calendars and so on.  Somehow, I caught her eye, and she had me getting her water.  Her photographic entourage waited on her hand and foot, and I got caught up in it, too.

We became very close.  She was so vulnerable.  She wouldn’t let me touch her much at first.  She was afraid I would just fuck her and leave her, bragging about it to my friends for the rest of my life.  I assured her that wasn’t so.  Still, she resisted.  Who was I to argue?  If I had to be patient for this one, the woman of every man’s dreams, I would wait forever.

Nonetheless I struggled to get her to become intimate.  She always questioned my dedication, even after a few months.  I had only kissed her a few times, and gotten to rub lotion all over her body for some photo shoots.  I had seen her naked many, many times, as she was perfectly comfortable changing in front of me.  I even got to gather her discarded bikinis whenever she needed to change into a different one for the next series of shots.  

She got to trust me quite a bit.  We started spending some intimate time together.  She made me do all sorts of things to prove to her that I truly did love her.  But she never fully bought into them.  They usually involved me making a fool of myself publicly.  Every time, I acquiesced without hesitation.  If I could convince her without a doubt that I worship her, she would surely relent.  When I thought of my ultimate goal of winning her heart, it was easy to agree to do anything.

At first, I simply waited on her.  I got her absolutely anything she wanted.  But that was easy.  She then made me kneel and bow my head when I brought things to her, and I did.  Happily.  I so desperately wanted to be worthy of her!  She had me singing love ballads to her at the top of my lungs on the spur of a moment.  She only had to look at me a certain way, and I would stand on my head for her amusement.  The more she got me to humiliate myself, the more readily I would do it, just to prove my deep, passionate lasting affection for her.  

She must have thought I would have been horribly humiliated about wearing her bikini at one of her beach shoots, with hundreds of bystanders gawking at her.  It was one of the biggest crowds I had ever seen.  Usually, they keep these shoots private, because it makes everyone involved more comfortable, and more open.  This time the photographer wanted to capture the crowded beach as a counterpoint to his shockingly beautiful subject.  Even in a sea of people, she would stand out.  And so, feeling shy about the mob around her, she asked me, very publicly, if I would try on her swimsuits first, not only so she could see what they looked like on others, but to deflect some of the spotlight from her so she could concentrate on looking beautiful.  

I had some difficulty putting them on at first, but she had some of her aides help me.  By the end of the shoot, I had no trouble putting on a brassiere.  It felt funny at first, wearing her sexy bikinis.  I always thought of women’s underwear as being innately sexy.  She said I blushed when she told me how cute I looked.  I liked the snugness of the panties on my crotch, and the delicate way they caressed my butt and my hips.  I knew I looked ridiculous, and that the entire crowd was laughing at me, but I didn’t care.  I was pleasing Heidi Klum!  I was the focus of her attention, after the photographer.  I was publicly humiliated, just for her, and I didn’t care.  I even made several of the local papers, and some worldwide news wires.  The world would henceforth forever question my virility, but I honestly did not care.  It was a worthwhile sacrifice for my Heidi.


Still, she questioned my commitment.  She was convinced that I would want to get back into my clothes the instant the shoot was over, so I could reclaim some of my dignity.  I proved her wrong.  I dared to beg her to allow me to continue wearing her bikini if it pleased her, and pledged my continued subservience, not in spite of, but because of her grace in allowing me to wear her sexiest clothes.  She frowned and thought about it for a while, then commanded me to wear my regular clothes.

Unfortunately, my readiness to humiliate myself at her every whim enticed a suspicion in her that I was only trying to get her to relent.  She began openly flirting with other men to test my resolve in the face of jealousy.  I steadfastly stayed by her side.  She rewarded me by continuing to allow me into her most intimate circles.  She had me bring her men, whom she would fuck right before my eyes; but when she kicked them out of her bed, she snuggled up to me and slept.  She told only me what was on her mind.  But she still didn't believe that I loved her enough.  She made it quite clear that if I objected to her sleeping with other men who she barely knew, it was proof that I only wanted her for sex.


It was one thing when she made me wear her bikinis in public.  It was quite another when I wore her lingerie in private with her.  To wear it in public is a public gesture, and can be seen as jest.  In private, alone with her, it has an entirely different connotation.  In her inner sanctum, I wear her panties and bras and corsets and stockings not as an easily dismissible joke, but as a sincere, intimate preference.  She could tell that I honestly adored wearing her clothes.  It felt like such a privilege to me to even touch garments that she wore, much less her skin-tight undies, least of all wear them!  To wear them was almost bliss.  I felt so much closer to her when I wore them.  I even felt sexy, in a dirty, feminine way that I kept secret from her.  Eventually, I thought it wise to throw away my own underwear and wore only her hand-me-downs, to show my devotion.

Still, Heidi, my precious Goddess, was not satisfied with me.  She wanted nothing less than complete uninhibited surrender.  I was more than happy to comply.  The hormones I had started to take to better shape my body into her lingerie were beginning to kick in around this time.  My brassieres began to become fuller, and I became quite adept at arousing her boyfriends with my skill at fellatio.  It had become quite clear that I could only do one thing to prove to her that I am not doing this just for sex.  They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; I naturally began abandoning my inhibitions and devoting myself to her worship.  I proudly began to eradicate any vestige of myself, and dedicated myself to becoming her.  I changed all my makeup and began to style my hair like hers.  

The plastic surgery molded my face into hers.  I walked and talked and moved just like her.  If not for the little nub of my pathetic little dick, which she wouldn’t allow me to remove, we are practically twins now.  She has sent me to stand in for her in some of her shoots, and nobody knew the difference.

Only after they replaced my genitals did she trust me enough to fuck me.

Diary: Shopping List and Epiphany

I am contemplating some new purchases and experiences, while simultaneously struggling with a recent epiphany.

I have recently discovered that girls find me attractive, especially since I slightly modified my appearance when I moved to California.  This realization, and my quick little tryst with N__, have clarified something for me which I have never been able to reconcile before: I wear women’s clothes because I need something feminine in my life.  It’s really as simple as that.  I desperately want there to be a girl in my house, who surrounds herself with girlish things, and who displays all the physical and behavioural aspects of womanhood.  I would probably settle for having a girl in my presence as often as possible.  I have found myself talking to girls in airports, and hanging around with them at parties, not because I feel any pressure to be with them, but because I crave their proximity.  Of course, in the absence of girls, I must make do with what’s available.  Being a solitary type of person, this more often than not means that I must rely on women’s clothes if I can’t have women themselves; and I might as well make myself my own feminine company if I can’t find any genuine women.


It all makes sense now.  I am obsessed with femininity, as I should be.  It is only my shyness and loneliness that make me want to be feminine myself.  I routinely imagine how much fun it would be to have a girl around, in all her pretty girlie things.  I wouldn’t have to wear them myself (although I know I’d be tempted) but it would be so much fun to be around such absolute girlhood.  Girl girl girl girl girl girl girrrrrrl.  I love them!  I worship them!

So now I struggle again with my impulse to make myself more feminine.  I love making myself feminine.  I love pretending to be a girl.  I love being as girlish as I can be.  I love striving to become a girl.  I love abandoning my manhood completely so I can enjoy girlishness in all its glory.  It’s so much more controllable.  There is no complexity in being alone.  I don’t need to worry about satisfying anyone but myself.  But I can’t ever have real actual genuine girlishness by myself: I can only simulate it at best, even if I go as far as taking hormones and getting a sex change.  There is a charm to me in going that far, just because it shows a true dedication, an utter capitulation, to femininity.  Meanwhile, I am still too chickenshit to ever publicly reveal my own feminine side, much less make myself feminine in any way that might be noticeable to anyone.

This is where I start pondering some of the things I’d like to do in the near future.  For starters, I need to improve my wardrobe.  I need a few key items to make myself truly a closet sissy.  Namely, I need some black fishnet stockings, off-white silk or satin bikini panties with a matching bra, a pair of two-inch sandals, and tight silk or satin nightgown, and a mini-dress of some sort.  However, I am constantly fantasizing about more swimsuits, much more than lingerie.  For some reason, even though I own three bikinis and two one-piece swimsuits, I want more.  I can’t get enough!  There’s something about swimwear that makes me crazy.  As much as I’d love being in public dressed like a girl, there’d be nothing more electrifying than doing so at the beach, in swimwear!  The thought fills me with sexual energy.  But I must resist the urge to get more swimsuits until I satisfy my need for the garments named above.  I could always use more panties and bras, too.

Another thing that I need is a dildo.  This dildo must be unmistakably penis-shaped.  I don’t care about the colour or whether or not it vibrates; I just want to have something as similar to a real cock inside me at times.  I want to feel it wiggling inside me, pumping in and out.  I’ve even been fantasizing about the real thing!  I’d love to secretly slip away into the night, make myself into a girl, and seduce some homo pervert who likes she-males.  I want to know what it’s like to suck cock, and to have a guy pumping me in the ass like I’m a girl.  I fantasize about somehow meeting somebody at the lingerie store when I go buy my things, and experimenting with some casual faggot sex.  Yes, I want to get fucked like a girl!  I want to have sex with men!

Now I wonder if I’ll ever have the nerve to try it.  I doubt I’ll ever even show anybody my fetish in action, much less suck cock.

Diary: Re-Over-Thinking the Massive Forced Feminization Saga

I think I’ve got the right spin on the mega-story now.

Clearly, it’s too cold now as it stands.  I am missing the accusatory aspect, and I am also missing the element of decision.  It seems that far too many of my candidates are much too willing, and have very little surprise in store.  Also, the first grade courses are far too general.  I think now that all our candidates must begin in Grade 1, and move through the ranks accordingly.

Most importantly, I have isolated what I think is the key turning point in a man’s thought on his way to becoming a woman.  The programme must therefore change its focus slightly, and become more covert about its ultimate goal.  The only thing left is finding a reason for all these men to be in this situation.  All I can think of is prison, and a psycho-social experiment that they each volunteer to participate in to reduce their jail time – or perhaps an alternative sentence.  They can have no idea what the end goal is, but they are all carefully screened and enlisted in the scientific way I have described above.  

Thus the course begins as an exercise in defining female beauty.  All of the men are asked to scour girlie magazines, the internet, or anything at all to find materials upon which to base their study.  They all participate with great enthusiasm to this initial exercise, without knowing the ulterior motive: each man will be subtly encouraged to emulate his paragon of femininity.  It’s a twist on the story of the man who so admired Elle MacPherson’s beauty that he moulded himself in her image.  Here we will have 125 men all choosing an ideal, and finally becoming it.

Grade 1’s goal therefore changes, although the rating system remains intact.  Rather than embarking on some poorly defined, vaguely feminist quest for sympathy for women, first graders will establish their own explicit model of femininity, and begin to worship it.  When they exhibit evidence of having grasped the idea that their servility to it proves its potency as a controlling influence on not only them, but all men, they graduate to Grade 2.  In other words, when they admit that girls rule, they move on.

This becomes the seed for the rest of the course.  They will go on to learn the same things originally scheduled for Grade 2, but in the same ulterior context as Grade 1.  This time, they will focus heavily on all the aspects of their ideals that make them so powerful.  They will not necessarily explore any reason to explain how it affects them so much, but will focus only on identifying and admiring in close detail the exact characteristics of femininity that drive them so crazy.  Inevitably, this will lead to curves, textures, and clothing.

Grade 2 will also be far more maddening, as each participant will be teamed up with an outrageously gorgeous woman who closely matches his ideal.  This woman will actually live in the same cell, and will possess an entire wardrobe of insanely sexy undergarments and evening wear.  The men will continue to wear their prison jumpsuits, but must watch helpless as a living paragon of womanhood dresses and undresses before them, and provides flesh and blood work materials with which to enrich classroom discussions. 

The beauty of this approach is the new method for grading.  No longer will each participant be required to use his newly acquired knowledge of women’s wear to somehow plan a shopping trip for his own feminine wardrobe – an impossible event to justify both in terms of character development and plausibility – but he will now be monitored closely for any signs that he wants to wield the power that he worships.  To graduate to Grade 3, each man must voluntarily put on an article of his cellmate’s clothing for the purpose of making himself feminine.  It is entirely up to each man to show when he wants to graduate.  Of course, he will invariably do it in secret, so he will be monitored without his knowledge.  The moment of graduation will be his first willing and independent foray into his cellmate’s wardrobe, secret or not.  This will signify that he has chosen to at least experiment with becoming feminine.  He will be allowed, in some cases, to experiment for some time before his cellmate confronts him.  That moment will be his graduation.

Imagine the many scenarios: Cellmate barges in on him while he preens in her garter belt and stockings; Cellmate confronts him about stains on belly of her bathing suit, and browbeats him into admitting his crime in a Cinderella-like scenario where he must try it on to prove the innocence he proclaims; he is forced to wear Cellmate’s clothes against his will, because he just doesn’t get it, and he resists bitterly until he realizes how kinky it is and how desperately he looks forward to it, at which point he begins experimenting on his own; man shamelessly asks cellmate to borrow her clothes, and parades around in front of her in them.  The best part is that it varies wildly depending on the rating of each man!  There’s a different story for each one, and each one must ultimately show how a participant chooses to effeminate himself.

The cellmate must cajole her candidate after catching him flagrantly in the act.  She can be angry, supportive, indifferent, embarrassed, or any combination thereof, as long as she understands that the goal is to grant him some portion of her wardrobe for his secret pleasure.  She must promise him to keep his secret, yet allow him to continue his exploration of femininity.  This can go on for an extended period of time.  The candidate only graduates when he deliberately and without coercion reveals his femininity in public.  

Public femininity must, of course, have severe consequences.  Grade 4 students will have their entire wardrobes permanently replaced with those of their female cellmates.  Whether they are comfortable in their new clothes or not makes no difference.  They have already chosen, and must now actively pursue feminine roles, in public.  Since the original plot had participants either buying their own wardrobes or somehow being granted them, it missed the opportunity to expound on the discovery of new ways to become feminine.  Now, each man makes the choice, on his own, to pursue womanhood.  Because his choice involves the clothes of his avatar cellmate goddess, who wears only the things that drive him most crazy, she relinquishes her wardrobe to him at the moment of his graduation.  From then on, the only clothes he can wear are hers.  He has her entire collection at his disposal, but nothing the least bit masculine to fall back on.  Best of all, her entire collection was chosen by him to highlight her femininity in Grade 2.  This must be presented to him as both reward and punishment: his indiscretion must bring him acute humiliation; but the punishment also satisfies his wildest desire for feminine power.  He can take this in as many ways as there are participants.  He can either take full advantage of his luck and make himself as pretty and girlish as he can, or he can resist and go naked until he succumbs again and gradually gives in.

Having admitted that girls rule, and that femininity is the most powerful force on earth, each man gradually learns how to wield that power.  This is a finishing school for sissies.  Graduation occurs when our participant actually uses his feminine powers to seduce a real man, and suck his cock and get fucked in the ass by him. 
The fifth and final grade consists of a reminder of one’s innate masculinity, and how far removed each candidate is now that he wears nothing but lingerie and miniskirts, and sucks cock for fun.  He is reminded of his subservience to womanhood, and that the power of girls is such that he has attempted to transform himself wholly into one.  He is mocked and humiliated.  But it’s only a test.  He is hereby led to becoming ultimately female, by exploring options in plastic surgery and hormone therapy.  Again, he must choose his lot.  I can mostly imagine the reluctant ones unable to resist using their feminine powers, even as they refuse to take the extreme measures required to become completely female, until they finally give in.  Again, 125 candidates, 125 scenarios.

This new scenario has far fewer holes in it.  Now each man must make four excruciating choices before becoming a woman.  Each moment of choice should be enough to make it exciting.  Also, the whole story becomes more plausible, and therefore more sexy.

Fiction: Feminization School, Part 2

I was fascinated by everything the incredibly sexy teacher was saying.  My tutor has a perfect body to explore women’s clothes in.  She’s like a store mannequin, only living, and moving, and warm, and soft.  I am fascinated by her clothes, and how they accentuate her figure, draw attention to feminine traits that drive me apoplectic with desire.  I never knew how complicated it was for women to shave their legs.

They say they’re turning me, and all my classmates, into girls.  I’ve never thought about being a girl before.  I guess it can’t be all bad.  I mean, look at them!  It must be a blast to be so feminine, so sexy.  I’ve been told that I’m very masculine, but I never really understood it.  I suppose I just take it for granted.  If I were a girl, I definitely would take every advantage of it. I don’t know how they expect us to turn into girls.  I am so completely turned on by the women here that I can’t imagine ever being one of them.  I think it’s all a scare tactic to make us better men, but we’ll see.

They have started us all out with a pair of lacy panties.  We’re supposed to know enough from our lessons to buy ourselves a complete female wardrobe.  They’re generous enough to start us off with some complimentary underwear.

I am fascinated by the shape of these panties, and how they contour the most delicious curves of a woman’s body.  They are so pretty, and so damn cool.  I can’t believe that I get to wear them myself.  Some of the guys are objecting pretty strenuously, but I don’t mind.  I’m very curious about them.  I’d love to know what it feels like to wear them.

I look ridiculous in them, but it’s quite a different sensation.  I can feel how different the crotch is, how it wants to caress only the very bottom of my crotch.  I like how they’re so delicate.  I love the daintiness of them.  They feel so cool.  But I don’t want to get too used to them.  No matter what they do to me, I’ll always be a man.

I can only imagine what it must feel like to wear a garter belt and stockings.  And a bra.  How about a one-piece swimsuit?  That must feel so weird, so unlike anything I’ve ever worn.  And it’s so unmistakably feminine.

I am beginning to imagine how these panties of mine are molding my body into a female shape.  I kinda like the idea.  A lot.  I’m a bit shy about it right now.  I never expected to enjoy this so much.  I can’t wait to buy my wardrobe.  


I have bought the sexiest clothes I could imagine.  The whole time I thought about how hot my tutor would look in them, and how cool it would be to find out what it’s like to wear them myself.  I’m really looking forward to wearing my string bikini.  I love the ties on the side.  It’s just so damn sexy.  I can’t imagine how wearing it will affect me.  



I can’t believe how much fun it is to dress like a girl.  At first, I wanted to keep it experimental.  I wanted to maintain, at the outset at least, some article of masculinity throughout to keep me from going too deep.  But I can’t help myself!  When I put on my panties, I want to go further and further.  I get so aroused just thinking about how much fun it all is, and how completely wrong it is.  There’s no way I should be enjoying this.  I know that it’s turning me into less of a man, but for some reason, I don’t care!  At the time that I wear it, I want to be a girl.  I love the idea that every time I wear something feminine, it makes me more and more feminine myself.  All I can think of is how becoming a girl would make me that much sexier in my panties.  Or do I love wearing them because they make me sexier and more feminine?  I don’t know what comes first.  All I know is that it’s incredibly cool, and it makes me feel so amazing.

A lot of the other guys are grumbling about me because I seem to be enjoying this so much.  They’re calling me a faggot, and a traitor, and all sorts of nasty things.  I hate when they say that, because I’m not any of those things.  I tell them that it’s really just harmless fun, and that they’d enjoy it too if they just let go of their inhibitions.  Then they show me even less respect.  Too bad for them.  I’m looking forward now to our first  sanctioned swimsuit sessions.


I am really loving my new wardrobe!  I feel so sexy now, and so confident!  I’m beginning to notice all sorts of changes in me, things that would once have made me incredibly uncomfortable.  Things that I would have repressed in utter shame.  I was horribly shocked to discover that I look at my tutor differently now.  I used to want to fuck her so badly, but now I just want to be her.  I look at her cute little ass and think to myself that I want mine to look just like it.  I want to share clothes with her, because I think her clothes are far cooler than mine.  She looks stunning in everything, and rather than want to strip them off her and have my way with her, I want to trade so I can prance around just like her.  Worse, I’ve begun to think about where else this is leading.  I have fantasized about doing things with boys.  These clothes are also starting to make me walk and talk like a girl.  It makes me feel so much sexier when I do that!  I’m wearing only girls’ clothes now.  I have abandoned all ties to my male clothes.  I was giddy with excitement when I threw away my last gitch.  I felt so free, and so naughty too.  I snickered seductively at the other boys in my class who aren’t doing quite as well. 

I have passed on to the next grade now, with flying colors.  This means I’m well on my way to becoming a girl, according to the teachers.  This put my situation in a little more context.  I am so scared now.  What have I done?  I threw away my male clothes!  I’m wearing nothing but silk, satin and lace underwear!  I wear makeup and shave all my body hair!  I wear little short dresses and miniskirts!  Only a couple of months ago, I was a ladies’ man, totally masculine.  Now they’re telling me I’m more than halfway to being female!  Somehow, I’m ashamed and frightened.  I have abandoned my manhood, and betrayed all the men who were convinced that we could hold out and break free of our captors.  I have instead collaborated with them, and made myself in their image.  But at the same time, I’m mischievously happy, and flattered about my progress; I’m glad I left those louts behind.  In fact, sometimes I get horny thinking about how I can contribute to their inevitable feminization.  I feel unbelievably sexy.


It’s true.  I have gone past the point of no return.  I don’t even remember what it’s like to be masculine anymore.  I’m going to be a girl!  And I love the idea!  I can’t wait to start my hormone treatment and get nice and shapely, like a girl should be.  But there’s something I need to do first.

To pass on to grade 5, where I can start taking hormones, I need to fuck a boy.  That means I have to be feminine and seductive enough to get a boy to fuck me.  And I think I can do it.  I’m masturbating by shoving a dildo in my ass.  It’s shockingly easy to get it up there when I want to.  I’m getting hot imagining a real dick inside me, just like a girl.  And for good measure, I want to taste his come.  I am such a faggot!  I love it!



So finally I’ve gotten laid.  It was phenomenal, far better than any sex I ever had with a girl.  I felt so female, so sexy, so wonderful.  It’s so naughty of me to have done that, but that’s why it’s so fun.  I’m a boy who dresses like a girl, acts like a girl, and fucks like a girl.  And I love it!  I can’t wait to be completely female!



I’m so nervous.  I’m fucking boys like a little slut now.  It’s part of my routine.  I love getting laid this way.  I love getting a dick inside me.  But it’s time for me to start taking hormones.  Once I start, there’s no turning back.  I’m still physically as much a man as I ever was.  All I have to do is say the word, and I can go back to what I was.  Or I can remain like this, which really isn’t bad at all.  It’s incredibly fun being this feminine, knowing that everyone knows I’m really a man.  I love the idea of turning other men into shemales like me.  But I want more!  I want to have a true female shape.  The thought of becoming truly female turns me on even more.  I will take the hormones without a moment’s hesitation.


It’s been almost a year, and my breasts have filled in nicely.  I don’t need to fill up my bra anymore, and I finally have that gorgeous hourglass figure I’ve craved for so long.  All my parts are softening up as they should.  I look exactly like a girl now, except for one last feature.  It has come to this, and I am ready.  Bring on the surgeon.



I am a girl now.  No more unsightly useless bulge in my panties.  Now I truly look sexy and feminine in my panties.  Off to tutor the new recruits.