Case 221: First Day of School
My sexy little escort leads me through the Institute’s front gates. The place is swarming with gorgeous little sexpots, all of them clad in the scantiest, sexiest outfits. I can’t believe that my girlfriend would willingly have sent me here. It must be a temptation test or something. She wants to test me, to know that I won’t cheat on her again. I’ll make an effort, but I may not be able to resist. Tina here might even be coming on to me. What else could I do? And maybe I’d rather be with her anyway.
She brings me into a classroom, where another 20 guys, all accompanied by equally sexy girls, have taken their seats. Then the teacher walks in, and locks the door. Tina grins at me suggestively. The teacher is incredibly hot, and she knows it. She coolly breezes past all of our wolf gazes to the front of the class, shaking her cute little ass. Her skirt is so short, you can actually see, but just barely, the tops of her stockings. She’s doing it on purpose.
“Welcome to the Feminization Institute, gentlemen,” she says. “I’m your first grade teacher Miss Gardner. Now, I know that most of you have no idea why you’re here. You may even be wondering if I really did say ‘Feminization.’ Suffice it to say that by the end of this 10-week course, you’ll all be eager to be just like me.”
We are all struck with awe at her beauty. It takes a while for it to sink in.
“Uh, feminization?” says one guy. “You mean, you want to turn us into women?”
The class gets a little unruly about this.
“Yes, that’s exactly what we mean to do.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or yell. Most of the others do one or the other. But suddenly, Tina’s got me by the neck, and I can see that all the other guys’ escorts have engaged straps to disable their men. None of us can move.
“The purpose of this course is to get you all thinking like girls. You will learn about the rest of the curriculum, and become familiar with every step of your upcoming womanhood. If you follow the course outlines, and do your homework, you’ll eventually be fortunate enough to be full-fledged women.”
Some of us struggle, but we are too tightly bound. We can’t put up any kind of fight. It’s incredibly pathetic to see 20 burly, aggressive men, easily subdued by delicate, gorgeous girls half their size.
[…]
Miss Gardner looks shocked at the tone of my answer.
“221, you will show me respect at all times. I will not tolerate any kind of rebellion from you, or from anyone else.”
“What are you gonna do about it? Three quarters of this class won’t stand for this bullshit. We’re walking out, and there’s nothing you can do to stop us.”
“The door is locked. You can’t get out without this key.”
“Then give us the key, or we’ll have to take it from you.”
“No.”
I signal to Watson to get the key from her. She stands at the front of the class, one hand on her hip, holding the key up in my direction, taunting me. We’ll kick the shit out of her and take turns raping her ass before we go. She picked a fine day to wear a miniskirt and 3-inch spiked heels.
Suddenly, as Watson gets within 2 feet of her, she sweeps her leg under him and sends him crashing to the ground. She looks right at me, and says, “221, you’re going to call this off, or I’ll have to completely humiliate you.”
Before I can even give the command, we’re rushing her. But she’s far too fast. She’s not even the least bit afraid of us as she punches and kicks every man that comes near her. She has practically subdued the entire class when she gets to me.
Now, I’m no slouch when it comes to fighting. I’m an expert in three martial arts, and I’ve won competitions. I’ve never seen anyone take out 10 men in less than a minute, as she just did. I prepare to face her.
I attack with a flurry of punches and kicks. She blocks and parries everything I’ve got as if I’m a wimpy little child flailing my arms at her. She’s already toying with me. She hasn’t even taken off her spiked shoes. I don’t know how she can walk in them, much less fight.
She catches one of my flying kicks in mid-air, twists my foot, and has me squirming in agony on the floor beneath her. “Have you had enough yet?” she asks.
I ably flip her off of me and throw her across the room, but she lands square on her feet in a fighting stance. She rushes at me and pummels me with a whirlwind of fists and feet. I crumple to the ground in front of her, stunned. I caught a glimpse of her panties as she crushed my jaw with a roundhouse kick.
She crouches down to me, and seductively raises my head with her index finger. “I know you want to be a girl, 221. I can see it in your eyes whenever I mention what we’re going to do to you. Stop fighting, and you might actually enjoy your lessons.”
She takes my hand and runs it along her waist, her hip, her thigh, and up to the top of her stocking. “You know that I wear these stockings just for you, don’t you? I know you like them. You’ll like them even more when you’re wearing your own.”
She pushes me back down to the ground, where I pass out, into a gender-twisting nightmare world.
[…]
Ever since my beating, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Miss Gardner’s stockings. I imagine them clinging to my own legs. I imagine them attached to a lacy black garter belt, concealed by a tight black miniskirt. The thought of becoming her intrigues me to no end. I find myself listening far more attentively than I should to her lectures on feminization theory. I cannot allow this to continue. But part of me wants to test her theories, wants to see the course through to the end and see if it truly is possible for me, of all people, to become female. I want to prove her wrong. But there’s something else that I can’t quite put my finger on, something that I don’t want to think about.
If only I could look at her and not imagine myself wearing her outfits!
Showing posts with label violence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label violence. Show all posts
Diary: The Variables In the Massive Forced Feminization Stories
My feminization camp stories are missing one thing: a goal for its interns. No, a competition. I am watching the Miss Universe competition. I think my candidates should compete in a beauty contest for the privilege of becoming female. The losers are released into the world as they are; thus they have every incentive to turn completely female, or else re-enter the world as mere transsexuals.
All of the contestants are told from the beginning what they must strive for. Those who resist must either submit or die, as we have already established. And of course they must all struggle with how badly they want to be effeminated. Of course, they all start from different points of view. The variables:
This gives us 125 participants. Of course, this is only how they begin. They all eventually succumb.
All of the contestants are told from the beginning what they must strive for. Those who resist must either submit or die, as we have already established. And of course they must all struggle with how badly they want to be effeminated. Of course, they all start from different points of view. The variables:
- Experience (never imagined, imagined, tried a few times, often, regular)
- Desire (not interested, indifferent, curious, interested, desperate)
- Resistance (rebellion, reluctance, passivity, acceptance, zeal)
This gives us 125 participants. Of course, this is only how they begin. They all eventually succumb.
Fiction: Massive Forced Feminization: The Rookie
This time, we make sure that it goes slowly, after the initial push
"So," finished Lia, "you understand how this works?"
I nodded. I am wearing a panty and bra set, off-white, satiny, and lacy. Lia is a knockout in the same outfit. She has explained that I will learn to become a girl, just like her. It is my new ambition to become as feminine as she is - or more, if possible. We all know that I will be a horrible excuse for a woman for the first little while, but that I will eventually succeed. We also know that I am not doing this voluntarily, but with a gun to my head. Lia swears that I will come around in no time at all.
"Clearly, you love my body," she says. "But in all the wrong ways. Look at yourself! You're wearing the same thing as me! And you put it on yourself. You're already used to it, aren't you? Every millisecond you spend in that outfit pushes you further and further over the edge. Soon it will be a natural thing for you to put on a bra every day. And you'll like it, too!"
I want to smack the little bitch around, but, again, the guards have their weapons pointed at me. I'm supposed to be rooming with her, so I'll have my opportunity for revenge.
She comes up close to me, and brushes her tit against my cheek. She's touching me all over. "The first lesson," she whispers salaciously into my ear, "is called 'Exploring the Female Body.' You need to know, in great detail, what it is you need to strive for." She certainly has all the proper course materials at her disposal.
She takes a step back, and stands before me posing, in her - our - underwear. "Look at me. Tell me, what's the first thing you notice? And don't forget for a second that you're going to look like this, too, you little sissy."
Her hourglass figure is astounding. She has her right hand on her hip. Her smooth, fair skin hasn't got a single visible hair. The curvature from her thigh, up around her hip, into the valley of her waist, and back up suddenly to her wonderfully soft, round breast, drives me wild. I want to suckle on her gorgeous titties, and slide my hand down to her slender little belly, where her unbridled femininity seems to converge. I want to hold her ass in my hands as I bounce her off my cock. I want to lick her all over. I can't decide what I notice first, as the whole becomes so much more than the sum of her parts.
"Your tits!" Probably the expected answer. Such a difficult choice...
"OK," she says. "Let's look at my tits."
She takes my hands, and cups them around her breasts, over her bra. She throws back her head luxuriantly, and asks me to smell her cleavage.
I am caressing her now. I squeeze her nipples through the lace and satin of her brassiere. I slide my hands to her back and gently pull her towards me, in order to fully obey her command. A drop of perfume entices me to rub my face between her lovely, soft, round breasts, and breathe deeply. I reach for the clasp on her back, to get a better look.
Suddenly she pushes me away, her hands on my chest. I let go, fully aware of the ever-vigilant guards. "Now stay still, sissy boy," she says, as she squeezes my nipple through my own bra. I can feel it hardening between her fingers. "Let me show you a few things."
"Breasts are an obvious feminine feature. You know about my nipples - hardly a surprise. You like their firmness, their roundness, their softness. But there's more to my chest than that. You proved it yourself."
She raises her left arm over her head, and runs the fingers of her right hand along the bottom of her bra, to her armpit. "Take a look at this," she says. "Your hands lingered here. And now your eyes are, too. I have delicate lats. You love the way my bra looks here. You love the way my breast seems to extend out from this area. Now look at your armpit, and the way your bra looks."
I do as she says. I cannot deny the truth of her words. Nor can I fail to notice how the bra makes me look more feminine, in spite of my musculature. "See? Your bra looks pretty on you, too, but you need a lot of work to look like I do."
I put down my arm and stare at her with contempt.
"That's not all," she continues, stretching her shoulder straps with her thumbs. "Don't you love how these delicate little straps accentuate my equally delicate shoulders? See how slender my shoulders are? Now look at yours."
At length, we explore her upper body in great detail: how her cleavage leads up a very flat, solid, but soft chest, to her deliciously slender neck. How her back fits in with the rest of her body, and how her shoulder blades stick out. I can't argue with her. She is very feminine.
"The point," she concludes, "is that my bra accentuates all of these less obvious features, and that while men focus on the nipples, they rest of the package stands out in its own right."
She slinks in towards me again. "Now, the fun part," she snickers.
We kiss, deeply and passionately, as she grinds her pelvis into my lap. She holds onto my panties, and giggles.
"This is where all the action is," she explains. "These panties are gorgeously sexy, aren't they, sissy boy? This time, you tell me what you love about them."
"I love your belly. I love how everything converges there. I love the curve in your waist, and how your hips are so round. It's the hourglass shape." As I speak, she slides her hands along the exact places I talk about. "And your ass! Your fantastic, little round butt!"
"Don't you love the way my underwear - and yours - just caresses all of these parts? See how it makes my belly look a little round? Don't you just love the lace trim, how it looks against my skin? Let's not even talk about my crotch. . ." She rubs my cock with her hand as she speaks.
"Satin feels good, doesn't it, Rob? You can't deny it: see how hard you are?"
I am trying hard not to come.
"Just look how your body is already becoming like mine! You want my body, but not in any way you ever wanted it before! Feel how feminine you're becoming, just by wearing panties and a bra? You can't help yourself anymore, can you?"
I realize that I am helping her rub my crotch, I am feeling my panties against my flesh, I am fondling my panty waist. And I explode all over my belly, her hand, my hand.
She laughs as I turn away from her and curl up in a fetal ball.
"See how good it is to be a girl, even if it's just by wearing girls' underwear? You'll beg me for more!"
As expected, we bunk in the same room. I am very afraid to go anywhere near Lia, who sleeps peacefully across the room in her own bed. At least I can be naked now. But she's wearing a sheer nightgown.
It's not that I'm afraid of hurting her. I don't think I can now. I'm not afraid of the consequences of hurting her. I'm afraid of her femininity. I'm afraid of what she could show me in that little nightie of hers. I'm afraid of the thoughts crossing my mind, the strange, unaccountable, unspeakable desires. It can't be true!
The next morning, she lays out two outfits for me, which I am to choose from. There is a pair of control-top pantyhose, and another lingerie outfit, consisting of matching black satin and lace panties, a bustier, and stockings. I imagine how stunning Lia would look in the black lingerie, what with her white skin and black hair, and instinctively choose the pantyhose. I can't handle the thought of seeing her like that.
To my dismay, she wears it anyway.
"So," she says. "You're interested in learning about pantyhose!"
This goes on for several days, each choice becoming more and more difficult. She lays out two outfits; I choose one, and she wears the other. I tried desperately to avoid having to wear anything too sexy, but at the same time, I didn't want Lia to look too sexy, either. At any rate, there was little choice. I soon learned about leotards, sports bras, and one-piece bathing suits, while Lia wore gorgeous sets of underwear. I always chose more conservative underwear rather than discover what it feels like to wear bustiers, nighties, and bikinis. Mostly, I tried to wear anything I had worn before so as not to become corrupted any further. All the same, each day ended with me frolicking with guilty pleasure in my chosen garment, devouring Lia with my eyes, and explaining to her how each outfit accentuates our feminine features.
I can no longer allow her to manipulate me like this. She knows that I will invariably choose the less sexy outfit. She counts on it so that she can torment me all day long in something fantastically beautiful that I couldn't dare wear myself. I can't let her do this anymore. This morning, I turn the tables on her. I am wearing the red lingerie outfit, including a sheer baby doll and string bikini panties, garter belt, and stockings, while she wears the familiar one-piece bathing suit. But she doesn't seem shocked in the least by my selection. In fact, she smiles mischievously. God help me, but that one-piece swimsuit shows off her figure like nothing else! What have I done?
This is by far the most outrageously feminine outfit I have ever worn. I could write a book about how it shows off my ass, my shoulders, my tits, my thighs, my belly, my waist, my hips, my calves, my feet - that is, it would show them off if I were female. Oh, but how feminine it feels! I can hardly keep my hands off myself. Lia looks great in her bathing suit, but my clothes are far more sexy. I look forward to discussing this with her later. I want to discuss it now. All day long I participate with great enthusiasm in my lessons.
The nightly recap of lessons was even more intense than I had hoped for. Usually, Lia is the primary model for femininity. Tonight, it is me. I come twice before we even start talking about my stockings. I slide my hands all over myself as if I were fondling a real girl.
The next morning, I vow to never make that mistake again. No matter how sexy Lia looks in it, no matter how much she torments me in it, I can't handle wearing the sexier garment myself. I must choose the more mundane, or risk succumbing completely to this madness. Yet when she presents me with a leotard and a silk teddy, I must resist a powerful temptation to wear the teddy. I don't even need to imagine Lia in it; I imagine myself in it, and I want it. This strengthens my resolve to choose the leotard.
Now I look at Lia and admire the way her body looks in that teddy. I want to know how it feels! I need to know! That night, I close my eyes and imagine that we've swapped clothes.
My vow lasts only two days. By the third, I nervously reach for the nightgown rather than the bathing suit. And I don't regret it at all. I wonder what else she has in her closet that I haven't tried yet. Maybe a bikini? That would be awfully fun!
But it never becomes an option. I wear the sexy garment all the time now, to the point where my choices are almost even in their femininity. There is never a bikini. I have secretly poked around in Lia's closet. She has several that I'd be overjoyed to wear. I wait a week, a month, still no bikini. By now I have learned to shave my body hair, and my feminine manners are improving drastically. This dramatically improves the sensation of wearing lingerie. I feel that I am ready.
"Lia," I plead, "when can I try on a bikini?"
"What? You want to wear a bikini?"
Realizing how this sounds, I falter. "Well. . ."
"Ha ha! You're asking me to wear a bikini now! How the mighty have fallen!"
I sulk.
"You never believed me when I told you you'd be begging for my clothes someday! Now here we are!"
"OK! So I want to wear a bikini! It's not such a big deal! That doesn't mean anything!"
"It means that you want to be a girl now. You're coming along quite nicely! I'm so proud of you!"
"So will you let me?"
"That, my dear Bobbie, will be up to you tomorrow."
I clap my hands with glee, trusting Lia to keep her word. I know that she has something up her sleeve, but my anticipation gets the better of me.
The next morning, as promised, she sets out my choice of clothes. On one side is a bikini. On the other, men's boxers, trousers, and a t-shirt.
"What's this all about," I ask uneasily.
"Today," she explains, "you have a choice: you can leave the feminization programme for good, a free man - yes, man - with appropriate clothing; or you can choose the bikini, and commit fully and voluntarily to completing the programme - meaning that you can't ever turn back again."
My manhood lies on the bed, next to my womanhood. I remember wanting to kill Lia for doing this to me. I could grab the boxers and turn my back on femininity forever, to explore it on masculine terms once again. A spectator. Back to normal. I could also put on that skimpy little pink bikini, and strut around like a woman, as I have wanted to for over a month.
"If I choose the pants, how will I forget what's happened here?"
"You probably can't."
"I'll still want to wear the bikini."
"Of course. But this one is mine. You'll have to get your own."
What kind of man wants to wear a woman's sexy bikini? How could I consider myself a man if I longed eternally for women's clothing? I could easily buy my own bikini, and experiment with it alone. But I couldn't wear panties and bras on a regular basis anymore. I'd probably have to give it up.
"What do you mean by committing fully to femininity? Why couldn't I go back?"
"The hormones would make it quite difficult, for one thing."
"You mean female hormones?"
"Yep."
"And there's no way to reverse those."
"Nope. They make you impotent. And you'll grow real breasts. Among other things."
I'm still wearing the nightgown I got into the habit of sleeping in some weeks ago. My legs are silken smooth - dynamite in stockings. My hair has grown long, and I've taken care to style it just like Ally McBeal's.
I look at the boxers again. Then the bikini. The choice is easy.
The bikini is everything I hoped it would be. I can't wait for my boobs to fill out these cups.
[Ugh. How about a willing convert of some sort?]
"So," finished Lia, "you understand how this works?"
I nodded. I am wearing a panty and bra set, off-white, satiny, and lacy. Lia is a knockout in the same outfit. She has explained that I will learn to become a girl, just like her. It is my new ambition to become as feminine as she is - or more, if possible. We all know that I will be a horrible excuse for a woman for the first little while, but that I will eventually succeed. We also know that I am not doing this voluntarily, but with a gun to my head. Lia swears that I will come around in no time at all.
"Clearly, you love my body," she says. "But in all the wrong ways. Look at yourself! You're wearing the same thing as me! And you put it on yourself. You're already used to it, aren't you? Every millisecond you spend in that outfit pushes you further and further over the edge. Soon it will be a natural thing for you to put on a bra every day. And you'll like it, too!"
I want to smack the little bitch around, but, again, the guards have their weapons pointed at me. I'm supposed to be rooming with her, so I'll have my opportunity for revenge.
She comes up close to me, and brushes her tit against my cheek. She's touching me all over. "The first lesson," she whispers salaciously into my ear, "is called 'Exploring the Female Body.' You need to know, in great detail, what it is you need to strive for." She certainly has all the proper course materials at her disposal.
She takes a step back, and stands before me posing, in her - our - underwear. "Look at me. Tell me, what's the first thing you notice? And don't forget for a second that you're going to look like this, too, you little sissy."
Her hourglass figure is astounding. She has her right hand on her hip. Her smooth, fair skin hasn't got a single visible hair. The curvature from her thigh, up around her hip, into the valley of her waist, and back up suddenly to her wonderfully soft, round breast, drives me wild. I want to suckle on her gorgeous titties, and slide my hand down to her slender little belly, where her unbridled femininity seems to converge. I want to hold her ass in my hands as I bounce her off my cock. I want to lick her all over. I can't decide what I notice first, as the whole becomes so much more than the sum of her parts.
"Your tits!" Probably the expected answer. Such a difficult choice...
"OK," she says. "Let's look at my tits."
She takes my hands, and cups them around her breasts, over her bra. She throws back her head luxuriantly, and asks me to smell her cleavage.
I am caressing her now. I squeeze her nipples through the lace and satin of her brassiere. I slide my hands to her back and gently pull her towards me, in order to fully obey her command. A drop of perfume entices me to rub my face between her lovely, soft, round breasts, and breathe deeply. I reach for the clasp on her back, to get a better look.
Suddenly she pushes me away, her hands on my chest. I let go, fully aware of the ever-vigilant guards. "Now stay still, sissy boy," she says, as she squeezes my nipple through my own bra. I can feel it hardening between her fingers. "Let me show you a few things."
"Breasts are an obvious feminine feature. You know about my nipples - hardly a surprise. You like their firmness, their roundness, their softness. But there's more to my chest than that. You proved it yourself."
She raises her left arm over her head, and runs the fingers of her right hand along the bottom of her bra, to her armpit. "Take a look at this," she says. "Your hands lingered here. And now your eyes are, too. I have delicate lats. You love the way my bra looks here. You love the way my breast seems to extend out from this area. Now look at your armpit, and the way your bra looks."
I do as she says. I cannot deny the truth of her words. Nor can I fail to notice how the bra makes me look more feminine, in spite of my musculature. "See? Your bra looks pretty on you, too, but you need a lot of work to look like I do."
I put down my arm and stare at her with contempt.
"That's not all," she continues, stretching her shoulder straps with her thumbs. "Don't you love how these delicate little straps accentuate my equally delicate shoulders? See how slender my shoulders are? Now look at yours."
At length, we explore her upper body in great detail: how her cleavage leads up a very flat, solid, but soft chest, to her deliciously slender neck. How her back fits in with the rest of her body, and how her shoulder blades stick out. I can't argue with her. She is very feminine.
"The point," she concludes, "is that my bra accentuates all of these less obvious features, and that while men focus on the nipples, they rest of the package stands out in its own right."
She slinks in towards me again. "Now, the fun part," she snickers.
We kiss, deeply and passionately, as she grinds her pelvis into my lap. She holds onto my panties, and giggles.
"This is where all the action is," she explains. "These panties are gorgeously sexy, aren't they, sissy boy? This time, you tell me what you love about them."
"I love your belly. I love how everything converges there. I love the curve in your waist, and how your hips are so round. It's the hourglass shape." As I speak, she slides her hands along the exact places I talk about. "And your ass! Your fantastic, little round butt!"
"Don't you love the way my underwear - and yours - just caresses all of these parts? See how it makes my belly look a little round? Don't you just love the lace trim, how it looks against my skin? Let's not even talk about my crotch. . ." She rubs my cock with her hand as she speaks.
"Satin feels good, doesn't it, Rob? You can't deny it: see how hard you are?"
I am trying hard not to come.
"Just look how your body is already becoming like mine! You want my body, but not in any way you ever wanted it before! Feel how feminine you're becoming, just by wearing panties and a bra? You can't help yourself anymore, can you?"
I realize that I am helping her rub my crotch, I am feeling my panties against my flesh, I am fondling my panty waist. And I explode all over my belly, her hand, my hand.
She laughs as I turn away from her and curl up in a fetal ball.
"See how good it is to be a girl, even if it's just by wearing girls' underwear? You'll beg me for more!"
As expected, we bunk in the same room. I am very afraid to go anywhere near Lia, who sleeps peacefully across the room in her own bed. At least I can be naked now. But she's wearing a sheer nightgown.
It's not that I'm afraid of hurting her. I don't think I can now. I'm not afraid of the consequences of hurting her. I'm afraid of her femininity. I'm afraid of what she could show me in that little nightie of hers. I'm afraid of the thoughts crossing my mind, the strange, unaccountable, unspeakable desires. It can't be true!
The next morning, she lays out two outfits for me, which I am to choose from. There is a pair of control-top pantyhose, and another lingerie outfit, consisting of matching black satin and lace panties, a bustier, and stockings. I imagine how stunning Lia would look in the black lingerie, what with her white skin and black hair, and instinctively choose the pantyhose. I can't handle the thought of seeing her like that.
To my dismay, she wears it anyway.
"So," she says. "You're interested in learning about pantyhose!"
This goes on for several days, each choice becoming more and more difficult. She lays out two outfits; I choose one, and she wears the other. I tried desperately to avoid having to wear anything too sexy, but at the same time, I didn't want Lia to look too sexy, either. At any rate, there was little choice. I soon learned about leotards, sports bras, and one-piece bathing suits, while Lia wore gorgeous sets of underwear. I always chose more conservative underwear rather than discover what it feels like to wear bustiers, nighties, and bikinis. Mostly, I tried to wear anything I had worn before so as not to become corrupted any further. All the same, each day ended with me frolicking with guilty pleasure in my chosen garment, devouring Lia with my eyes, and explaining to her how each outfit accentuates our feminine features.
I can no longer allow her to manipulate me like this. She knows that I will invariably choose the less sexy outfit. She counts on it so that she can torment me all day long in something fantastically beautiful that I couldn't dare wear myself. I can't let her do this anymore. This morning, I turn the tables on her. I am wearing the red lingerie outfit, including a sheer baby doll and string bikini panties, garter belt, and stockings, while she wears the familiar one-piece bathing suit. But she doesn't seem shocked in the least by my selection. In fact, she smiles mischievously. God help me, but that one-piece swimsuit shows off her figure like nothing else! What have I done?
This is by far the most outrageously feminine outfit I have ever worn. I could write a book about how it shows off my ass, my shoulders, my tits, my thighs, my belly, my waist, my hips, my calves, my feet - that is, it would show them off if I were female. Oh, but how feminine it feels! I can hardly keep my hands off myself. Lia looks great in her bathing suit, but my clothes are far more sexy. I look forward to discussing this with her later. I want to discuss it now. All day long I participate with great enthusiasm in my lessons.
The nightly recap of lessons was even more intense than I had hoped for. Usually, Lia is the primary model for femininity. Tonight, it is me. I come twice before we even start talking about my stockings. I slide my hands all over myself as if I were fondling a real girl.
The next morning, I vow to never make that mistake again. No matter how sexy Lia looks in it, no matter how much she torments me in it, I can't handle wearing the sexier garment myself. I must choose the more mundane, or risk succumbing completely to this madness. Yet when she presents me with a leotard and a silk teddy, I must resist a powerful temptation to wear the teddy. I don't even need to imagine Lia in it; I imagine myself in it, and I want it. This strengthens my resolve to choose the leotard.
Now I look at Lia and admire the way her body looks in that teddy. I want to know how it feels! I need to know! That night, I close my eyes and imagine that we've swapped clothes.
My vow lasts only two days. By the third, I nervously reach for the nightgown rather than the bathing suit. And I don't regret it at all. I wonder what else she has in her closet that I haven't tried yet. Maybe a bikini? That would be awfully fun!
But it never becomes an option. I wear the sexy garment all the time now, to the point where my choices are almost even in their femininity. There is never a bikini. I have secretly poked around in Lia's closet. She has several that I'd be overjoyed to wear. I wait a week, a month, still no bikini. By now I have learned to shave my body hair, and my feminine manners are improving drastically. This dramatically improves the sensation of wearing lingerie. I feel that I am ready.
"Lia," I plead, "when can I try on a bikini?"
"What? You want to wear a bikini?"
Realizing how this sounds, I falter. "Well. . ."
"Ha ha! You're asking me to wear a bikini now! How the mighty have fallen!"
I sulk.
"You never believed me when I told you you'd be begging for my clothes someday! Now here we are!"
"OK! So I want to wear a bikini! It's not such a big deal! That doesn't mean anything!"
"It means that you want to be a girl now. You're coming along quite nicely! I'm so proud of you!"
"So will you let me?"
"That, my dear Bobbie, will be up to you tomorrow."
I clap my hands with glee, trusting Lia to keep her word. I know that she has something up her sleeve, but my anticipation gets the better of me.
The next morning, as promised, she sets out my choice of clothes. On one side is a bikini. On the other, men's boxers, trousers, and a t-shirt.
"What's this all about," I ask uneasily.
"Today," she explains, "you have a choice: you can leave the feminization programme for good, a free man - yes, man - with appropriate clothing; or you can choose the bikini, and commit fully and voluntarily to completing the programme - meaning that you can't ever turn back again."
My manhood lies on the bed, next to my womanhood. I remember wanting to kill Lia for doing this to me. I could grab the boxers and turn my back on femininity forever, to explore it on masculine terms once again. A spectator. Back to normal. I could also put on that skimpy little pink bikini, and strut around like a woman, as I have wanted to for over a month.
"If I choose the pants, how will I forget what's happened here?"
"You probably can't."
"I'll still want to wear the bikini."
"Of course. But this one is mine. You'll have to get your own."
What kind of man wants to wear a woman's sexy bikini? How could I consider myself a man if I longed eternally for women's clothing? I could easily buy my own bikini, and experiment with it alone. But I couldn't wear panties and bras on a regular basis anymore. I'd probably have to give it up.
"What do you mean by committing fully to femininity? Why couldn't I go back?"
"The hormones would make it quite difficult, for one thing."
"You mean female hormones?"
"Yep."
"And there's no way to reverse those."
"Nope. They make you impotent. And you'll grow real breasts. Among other things."
I'm still wearing the nightgown I got into the habit of sleeping in some weeks ago. My legs are silken smooth - dynamite in stockings. My hair has grown long, and I've taken care to style it just like Ally McBeal's.
I look at the boxers again. Then the bikini. The choice is easy.
The bikini is everything I hoped it would be. I can't wait for my boobs to fill out these cups.
[Ugh. How about a willing convert of some sort?]
Fiction: Beaten Into Shape
A slight change of pace: I'm thinking of all those kung-fu fighting video games in which all the female characters are incalculably gorgeous and wear slinky, revealing clothes. Now, let's say that I ran into one...
I was never much of a fighter, so Sonya had no trouble with me at all. She is now my mentor, and she has already taught me much.
Sonya is femininity itself. Every man who has ever seen her has quivered at beholding such feminine perfection. She is delicate, and she is very sexy. She dresses revealingly in battle to distract her opponents. The fact that she can pound the tar out of anyone on the planet takes nothing away from her shocking girlishness. I might even say that it accentuates it, because she moves so gracefully, so alluringly when she fights.
I was foolish to attack her. I spied her from a distance, not knowing who she is, and followed her. I couldn't resist her beauty. I wanted to experience it in all its grandeur. It was dark, and we were nowhere near anyone. I thought that I could have my way with her, and be done with it, whether she would give in willingly or not.
She doesn't look strong. She's not very big. She is, in fact, quite petite. No sooner had I tackled her behind a hedge and she threw me off of her and began toying with me. She was wearing a long, tight skirt and three-inch heels, which I saw repeatedly at very close range. No one can fight in clothes like that. She even pretended to be vulnerable.
"Oh my God! What do you want from me?" she gasped.
"I want your body, chickie. And I'm gonna have it!"
She shrieked as I lunged at her, but jabbed me in the chin. Before I knew it, she was kicking me all over the place. I couldn't get up before she would crack my head with her delicate little fist, or rupture my balls with her soft, porcelain feet. She had a strange smirk on her face as she slapped me around at will. Pretty soon, I had nothing left, and I had to beg her, a small, frail-looking, beautiful, gorgeous sex kitten, for mercy.
She stood above me, hands on her hips. "Not much of a man, are you? Can't even stand up to a little girlie like me!"
Flat on the ground, all I could see was her foot. She picked me up by the scruff of the neck so that I was on my hands and knees. That's when I got a really good look at her shoes and skirt and her spectacular stocking-clad legs.
"Kiss my feet," she commanded. I looked up at her face. She's beautiful even when she's angry. But I knew that I had to comply, or else she would kill me. So I kissed her feet.
"There, that's more like it. That's the way to treat a woman."
She abruptly walked away, and I fell back on my face, mortally embarrassed. I couldn't believe that I had been throughly mauled by a girl, and hadn't even done the least bit of damage to her. At least no one would ever know.
Or so I thought at that brief moment before she returned, and tossed her shopping bag down in front of me.
"Open it!" she barked. There were women's clothes in it. Nothing but women's clothes. Sonya has fine taste. I couldn't identify exactly what was in the bag yet, but I had followed her through the mall, so I could guess.
"Take off all your clothes. Now."
I looked up at her sheepishly, and she slapped me hard across the face. "I said, NOW! Do it!" So, with my broken bones and blood all over me, I managed to pull out of my clothes. Sonya didn't help me at all, except for the threats.
"Now, empty the bags onto the ground. Take a good look at what's inside."
I did as she said, and found lingerie, a mini-dress, and a pair of heels. Everything seemed to go together nicely. I guess she had bought an outfit. Lucky for me that it matched.
"Pick up the panties." I found the lacy black panties for her. "Now," she began, giggling, "put them on."
I hesitated, and looked up at her again. She was serious. She smacked me in the face again. "PUT THEM ON!" she screamed. I did as I was told, and she snickered. "Aren't you the cute little pantywaist? Put on the bra, too. Then the garter belt and the stockings." With some difficulty, and quite a bit of laughter from Sonya, I did as I was told.
"Do a little pirouette for me!" I tried, and probably looked ridiculous because I was in such pain from the beating she gave me. That made her squeal with delight. I couldn't do anything about it. "That was awful. You've got a lot to learn, young lady. Now put on your dress, and let's go."
She zipped me into this tight little sausage casing, which was so short on me that one could almost see the crotch of her panties. The skin of my upper thighs was clearly visible. Then she forced my feet into the heels, grabbed me by the hand, and dragged me back to the sidewalk. Headed back towards town. "If you even try to run away, I will utterly destroy you," she whispered to me menacingly. I could barely keep up with her, but I knew that I couldn't hope to escape her wrath if I fell behind or tried to get away. I had no idea what she wanted to do to me, or where we were going. All I knew was that I had been beaten up by a girl, and that I now wore her clothes, in public.
We took a nice long walk downtown, on the busiest streets. We took public transportation. She put me on public display, dressed like a girl. Thousands of people stared at me. We stayed out for hours, in crowded, wide-open spaces where everyone could see me. She beamed with satisfaction. I couldn't escape, because I felt so weak, and because I feared for my life. She even introduced me to some total strangers as her "girlfriend."
At length, we returned to her home. Under different circumstances, I would have been overjoyed to enter, but this time I felt a bit uncomfortable about it. She tossed me into an empty room as I was, and locked the door until morning. I passed out, still wearing everything.
In the morning, she had me lick her feet again. She wore only a nightie, and I thought I would die from her unimaginable beauty. "Do you still want my body?" she asked coyly.
"Yes!" I gasped, unable to comprehend the sudden turn of events, but all to eager to accept it. Meanwhile, I still had all this feminine clothing on me, down to my panties and bra.
"Good! Let's get started! We have a lot of work to do. . ." She slapped me across the face, and brought me to my knees again. I was totally shocked.
"Now, swear to me that you hereby renounce your manhood."
"What?!?"
She slapped me again. "Swear it!"
"Never!"
Slap.
"No!"
Slap.
"Please. . ." I whimpered.
"Swear it!"
"OK!"
"Say it!"
I hesitated for a moment. She raised her hand to slap me again.
"I renounce my manhood."
"You will now embrace womanhood with all your heart, or die trying."
"I will embrace womanhood, or die trying."
She immediately had me nair my body, and take some pills. She got me dressed up in the same outfit as the night before, and began my training.
Femininity really sneaks up on you.
Within a few short days, I began to look forward to wearing some new feminine outfit that I had never experienced before. I got right into it. I wanted nothing more than to become female. I wanted to look as sexy as my mistress, wearing the same sexy clothes. I loved the feel of my hairless skin. I prayed for my tits to grow out. I longed for an hourglass figure. I was like a girl going through puberty, taking pride in all of the changes that I expected to come. I frolicked in silk and lace, reveling in my new-found femininity. Sonya found this very amusing. So did I.
I was never much of a fighter, so Sonya had no trouble with me at all. She is now my mentor, and she has already taught me much.
Sonya is femininity itself. Every man who has ever seen her has quivered at beholding such feminine perfection. She is delicate, and she is very sexy. She dresses revealingly in battle to distract her opponents. The fact that she can pound the tar out of anyone on the planet takes nothing away from her shocking girlishness. I might even say that it accentuates it, because she moves so gracefully, so alluringly when she fights.
I was foolish to attack her. I spied her from a distance, not knowing who she is, and followed her. I couldn't resist her beauty. I wanted to experience it in all its grandeur. It was dark, and we were nowhere near anyone. I thought that I could have my way with her, and be done with it, whether she would give in willingly or not.
She doesn't look strong. She's not very big. She is, in fact, quite petite. No sooner had I tackled her behind a hedge and she threw me off of her and began toying with me. She was wearing a long, tight skirt and three-inch heels, which I saw repeatedly at very close range. No one can fight in clothes like that. She even pretended to be vulnerable.
"Oh my God! What do you want from me?" she gasped.
"I want your body, chickie. And I'm gonna have it!"
She shrieked as I lunged at her, but jabbed me in the chin. Before I knew it, she was kicking me all over the place. I couldn't get up before she would crack my head with her delicate little fist, or rupture my balls with her soft, porcelain feet. She had a strange smirk on her face as she slapped me around at will. Pretty soon, I had nothing left, and I had to beg her, a small, frail-looking, beautiful, gorgeous sex kitten, for mercy.
She stood above me, hands on her hips. "Not much of a man, are you? Can't even stand up to a little girlie like me!"
Flat on the ground, all I could see was her foot. She picked me up by the scruff of the neck so that I was on my hands and knees. That's when I got a really good look at her shoes and skirt and her spectacular stocking-clad legs.
"Kiss my feet," she commanded. I looked up at her face. She's beautiful even when she's angry. But I knew that I had to comply, or else she would kill me. So I kissed her feet.
"There, that's more like it. That's the way to treat a woman."
She abruptly walked away, and I fell back on my face, mortally embarrassed. I couldn't believe that I had been throughly mauled by a girl, and hadn't even done the least bit of damage to her. At least no one would ever know.
Or so I thought at that brief moment before she returned, and tossed her shopping bag down in front of me.
"Open it!" she barked. There were women's clothes in it. Nothing but women's clothes. Sonya has fine taste. I couldn't identify exactly what was in the bag yet, but I had followed her through the mall, so I could guess.
"Take off all your clothes. Now."
I looked up at her sheepishly, and she slapped me hard across the face. "I said, NOW! Do it!" So, with my broken bones and blood all over me, I managed to pull out of my clothes. Sonya didn't help me at all, except for the threats.
"Now, empty the bags onto the ground. Take a good look at what's inside."
I did as she said, and found lingerie, a mini-dress, and a pair of heels. Everything seemed to go together nicely. I guess she had bought an outfit. Lucky for me that it matched.
"Pick up the panties." I found the lacy black panties for her. "Now," she began, giggling, "put them on."
I hesitated, and looked up at her again. She was serious. She smacked me in the face again. "PUT THEM ON!" she screamed. I did as I was told, and she snickered. "Aren't you the cute little pantywaist? Put on the bra, too. Then the garter belt and the stockings." With some difficulty, and quite a bit of laughter from Sonya, I did as I was told.
"Do a little pirouette for me!" I tried, and probably looked ridiculous because I was in such pain from the beating she gave me. That made her squeal with delight. I couldn't do anything about it. "That was awful. You've got a lot to learn, young lady. Now put on your dress, and let's go."
She zipped me into this tight little sausage casing, which was so short on me that one could almost see the crotch of her panties. The skin of my upper thighs was clearly visible. Then she forced my feet into the heels, grabbed me by the hand, and dragged me back to the sidewalk. Headed back towards town. "If you even try to run away, I will utterly destroy you," she whispered to me menacingly. I could barely keep up with her, but I knew that I couldn't hope to escape her wrath if I fell behind or tried to get away. I had no idea what she wanted to do to me, or where we were going. All I knew was that I had been beaten up by a girl, and that I now wore her clothes, in public.
We took a nice long walk downtown, on the busiest streets. We took public transportation. She put me on public display, dressed like a girl. Thousands of people stared at me. We stayed out for hours, in crowded, wide-open spaces where everyone could see me. She beamed with satisfaction. I couldn't escape, because I felt so weak, and because I feared for my life. She even introduced me to some total strangers as her "girlfriend."
At length, we returned to her home. Under different circumstances, I would have been overjoyed to enter, but this time I felt a bit uncomfortable about it. She tossed me into an empty room as I was, and locked the door until morning. I passed out, still wearing everything.
In the morning, she had me lick her feet again. She wore only a nightie, and I thought I would die from her unimaginable beauty. "Do you still want my body?" she asked coyly.
"Yes!" I gasped, unable to comprehend the sudden turn of events, but all to eager to accept it. Meanwhile, I still had all this feminine clothing on me, down to my panties and bra.
"Good! Let's get started! We have a lot of work to do. . ." She slapped me across the face, and brought me to my knees again. I was totally shocked.
"Now, swear to me that you hereby renounce your manhood."
"What?!?"
She slapped me again. "Swear it!"
"Never!"
Slap.
"No!"
Slap.
"Please. . ." I whimpered.
"Swear it!"
"OK!"
"Say it!"
I hesitated for a moment. She raised her hand to slap me again.
"I renounce my manhood."
"You will now embrace womanhood with all your heart, or die trying."
"I will embrace womanhood, or die trying."
She immediately had me nair my body, and take some pills. She got me dressed up in the same outfit as the night before, and began my training.
Femininity really sneaks up on you.
Within a few short days, I began to look forward to wearing some new feminine outfit that I had never experienced before. I got right into it. I wanted nothing more than to become female. I wanted to look as sexy as my mistress, wearing the same sexy clothes. I loved the feel of my hairless skin. I prayed for my tits to grow out. I longed for an hourglass figure. I was like a girl going through puberty, taking pride in all of the changes that I expected to come. I frolicked in silk and lace, reveling in my new-found femininity. Sonya found this very amusing. So did I.
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