Fiction: Pleasure Corps

The setup:

We are prisoners of war.  Hundreds of us.  Maybe thousands.  The enemy army has proven to be far better equipped than ours, and most of us have simply surrendered out of sheer cowardice.

We are imprisoned in a large army base in the middle of nowhere.  There are no nearby towns – at least, none with any population left.  The war has devastated the countryside.  This is an extremely isolated bastion of humanity.  And 99 percent of it is male.

There are five enemy troops here for every one of us prisoners.  And they’re horribly lonely.  There are virtually no women to rape, or rent.  It’s barren. 

The prison commander has an idea.  He decides to transform all of the prisoners into girls.  Not pretend girls, but real, curvaceous, pretty, delicate, slender, sexy girls.  So our conditions change dramatically.

The first thing he does is assemble all the prisoners in a public area.  He announces his plan: "You have all been chosen to service the sexual needs of our troops.  You will all be reassigned to the new pleasure division of our army."

All our standard assigned prison clothes have been confiscated, except for the clothes we’re wearing.  Each of us now has a small wardrobe of colourful panties, brassieres, skirts, dresses, stockings, swimwear, and other unequivocally feminine attire.  We are told that we will all enter an exhaustive training programme that will teach us how to be girls.  The clothes we are wearing are taken from us at our mandatory shower time.  Each of us is left with nothing but a feminine wardrobe.

Of course, none of us puts on a stitch of it.  We’d rather walk around naked than compromise our dignity and our masculinity.  But that doesn’t bother the prison commander.  He promises that each of us will eventually be forced to have surgery anyway, due to sheer demand, and that the training and clothing is a courtesy, to allow us to get used to our new gender.  He offers to grant incentives to anyone who actively participates in his transformation.  Primarily, those of us who become female will be freed from prison, and enlisted in pleasure corps.  We have the choice of either remaining male and remaining prisoners of war, or becoming female and becoming free.

The first info session forces each of us to consider how we’d prefer to enter our new gender role.  The simple truth is that we will all get surgery and hormones eventually, on specific dates, and join the pleasure corps as soon as the stitches heal.  We are to become female sex slaves, whether we’re ready or not.  What would we want to help us prepare for our fate?

Some would prefer to enjoy their manhood until the very end, and then take in the shock of becoming female head-on.  Others would prefer a careful training, so that they could make the transition easily.  Others still would prefer some kind of post-hypnotic suggestion to learn to like it.  However, the vast majority are skeptical about the plan, that it’s even possible that the prison commander can do such a thing.

Naturally, the prison commander makes an example of a handful of prisoners.  He chooses ten volunteers at random, and has them roused in the early morning and hauled off for surgery.  They emerge a few days later with their penises in jars, and vaginas between their legs.  To prove his point, these ten men are immediately assigned to pleasure corps.  They are strapped spread-eagled to a bed in the middle of the square, and each of the prisoners is allowed to inspect them to his heart’s content.  All ten even have orgasms as they get fingered and fucked.  After a certain time, they are removed from the regular prison population, and sequestered in their own area where they can learn to become more properly female for the army at large.

King: The battle was one-sided.  We were surrounded by a much bigger and better-equipped army.  We had no choice but to surrender.  As the ranking officer among the decimated battalion, I gave the command to raise the white flag.  The worst they could do is imprison us.  They would never dare to massacre five thousand defenseless soldiers.  Eventually, our side would surely win our freedom.  Or perhaps the war would end soon.  It certainly wasn’t going our way of late.  Anyway, prison camp was certainly better than death.  We’d live to fight another day.

It is now three years later.  The war continues on as a stalemate.  The countryside has been ravaged.  The only form of civilization within a thousand miles is this army base and prison camp.  I am the ranking officer among eight thousand two hundred and twelve prisoners of war, surrounded by an ever-changing army of some forty thousand soldiers.  Only a handful of the staff around us are female.  The sexual frustration is palpable, among both prisoners and soldiers.

Today, the new prison commander has rotated in.  She is fantastically beautiful.  Every man in the compound, let alone all the prisoners, wants desperately to have a piece of her.  She, however, has a different agenda.

"Due to the low morale of the troops under the command of General Smith, I have been charged, in addition to my duties as prison commander, with providing the soldiers at this base with anything they might like to increase their morale.  Primarily, these soldiers need sex, so I have created the Pleasure Corps, a division consisting entirely of women, whose sole objective is to provide sexual services to the men.  Pleasure Corps will include an elite platoon, which will service the officers and conduct special missions.

"As you can see, the supply of women is woefully short.  Therefore, as a way to rehabilitate the long-serving prisoners of war, I offer a programme that will both staff Pleasure Corps and reduce our support costs for the prison population without having to conduct massacres and other atrocities.

"Operation Butterfly is a choice given to the prisoners: pledge to abandon your masculinity, and undergo a transformation to enable you to join Pleasure Corps, and thereby become a free-serving member of our army, or remain imprisoned in the squalor of my jail.

"The method of joining is simple: I will personally choose some of you to become free based on your level of femininity.  Those who make themselves girlish enough to pass my tests will be pardoned and enlisted in Pleasure Corps, thereby gaining their freedom.  Those who remain masculine will continue to languish in my prison. 

"Of course, it is all relative: I must meet a quota to fill the ranks of the Pleasure Corps, so the ten most faggy of you will be chosen each week, even if you all refuse to participate.  Remember, however, that the best of you will join the elite squad, and live like queens.  And surely fucking all day is better than being a prisoner.

"I pledge additional incentives to those of you who wish to participate.  You are all encouraged to join.  Those who make themselves feminine will be rewarded.  Those who do not will gain nothing.  Those who interfere will be punished.

"You will discover upon returning to your cells that your clothes have been replaced with more appropriate attire.  The clothes currently on your backs will be confiscated as soon as you report for mandatory showers.

"The selections begin in one week from today."

Naturally, the first week saw a few of the prison bitches snapped up.  Most of the men tried to put on the least feminine outfits they were given, but it still made them look feminine.  We’re all gaunt and thin from the poor conditions, and look like anorexic runway models in these dresses.  Some of them were clearly enthusiastic about the idea, and started prancing around immediately.  Others refused entirely to participate, and walked around naked, in spite of the chill.  I am one of the latter. 

I cannot participate, or else I would be branded a traitor by my country.  Also, I must consider the morale of my men.  They look to me as a leader, and I cannot allow them to humiliate themselves for some faint dream of freedom.  I urge my men to go naked in protest.  I promise them that the whole program is a terrible game of humiliation, and that they couldn’t turn any of us into girls, even if we wanted them to.

The first week, the prime sissies were plucked away from us, and returned to us a few days later with their penises in jars.  They wore lingerie.  Some wept.  As a public display of the commander’s honesty, they were each strapped spread-eagled to upright beds, with their new genitals in display, and fucked by eager enlisted men.  I couldn’t tell if they howled with pain or with pleasure.  At least a few of them quivered orgasmically.  I must admit, even I wanted a piece of them, hideous and manly as they were, just for their tight new pussies.

So she was serious.  Who knew?

Meyer: Those of us who are left have split into two factions: the traitors and the men. 

The traitors prance around in lingerie and swimwear, under the protection of armed guards.  They get better meals, better beds, and clothes to wear.  We men shiver in cold dank cells, surrounded by gorgeous lace and satin and silk, eating bread and water, naked.

I long for my freedom.  The traitors make me horny.  I want to fuck a girl.  I want to fuck the commander.  But no, I must remain naked and imprisoned and unsatisfied because of my principles.  No more! 

It’s still difficult to go ahead with it.  I don’t want to be killed or harmed by the men.  I don’t want to lose my penis, but being a girl can’t be all bad!  The Pleasure Corps gets special treatment around here.  They walk freely and are loved and admired by all the troops.  They fuck like minks.  They’re all so proud.  I toy nightly with the idea of trying on some panties, just to see what they’re like.  But I must resist.  I only wish I still could.

Thankfully, it’s night time, and nobody can see me.  So I try on some stretch lace panties.  I’m sure that I’ll immediately be disgusted by my crime and take them off.  But they feel like freedom!  They mould my hips into some unfathomably feminine shape.  They are utterly exquisite.  A moan escapes my lungs.  But no, I must stay true to my country.  I quickly slip them off, and go to sleep, knowing that I could never give in.

The next morning, drowsy from lack of sleep, and in everyone’s view, I slip into those same gorgeous panties, and strap on the matching bra without a moment’s hesitation.  I stride out of my cell confidently and proudly, proclaiming my new allegiance with every graceful step.  I turn up my nose to the men who all glare at me contemptuously.  A few of my friends make moves to attack me, but the guards who appear at my side to escort me keep them away.  Today, I eat with the Candidates.  We can all chat about our underwear and what we’re doing to make ourselves more feminine.  I can’t wait to lose my virginity!

Johnson: I can’t help it.  I’m a coward.  I can’t take this stinking prison anymore.  It’s not even a question.  I’ll wear the stupid bikini if it’ll get me out of here.

I cower when I cave in like this.  I don’t like being out in the open, wearing something so feminine.  But damn it, I love the food they give me when I do this.  Some of the guys who do this more regularly seem to get better food.  I think if you wear stuff for 3 straight days, they let you take a warm shower.  I’ve never done it for more than two in a row.

This guy Meyer has totally flamed out.  He was one of the pillars of resistance at one point, but now he’s been prancing around like the biggest sissy for a couple of weeks non-stop.  It’s been the worst betrayal yet.  He held out longer than any of us – including King, who gave in every now and then just to get a decent meal.  He never gave in at all.  Until the other day.  Now he’s a prime candidate to join the Corps.  Cripes, he almost looks like a girl already.

Now he’s sitting next to me, all pretty, and chatty, and generally a pain in the ass.  He strikes up a conversation with me.

"Johnson!  What a nice surprise!  You were here yesterday, too, weren’t you?"

"Yeah.  So what?"

"Well, maybe you’ll come back tomorrow, too?"

"Maybe."

"You know, they’ll treat you right.  Don’t you worry about all those dickheads out there.  You just enjoy yourself and enjoy the ride."

I can’t take this.  "What the fuck, Meyer?  What happened to you?  You were the only real man left in this place, and now you’re acting like you can’t wait to have a dick in your mouth.  Let me eat in peace, and I won’t be seeing you tomorrow."

I swear he blushed when I spoke of sucking dick.

"Come on, Johnson.  I’m not doing this to be a traitor.  It’s actually a lot of fun if you let it get into it.  Look at all the perks I get!"

You’re just a weak-willed coward and a traitor.  Fuck you!"

"You’re one to talk.  You’re wearing a bikini, too, bitch."

"Keep talking and I’ll fuck you up, you fucking pansy."

"I'd like to see you try."

I knew I couldn’t do anything, or else I’d lose my meal privilege, and possibly get punished on top of it.  I couldn’t afford it.

"I thought so," he said, tauntingly.

King: Meyer came to talk to me early in his transformation.  He was all aflutter, and wearing a cute little white dress with red flowers.

"Captain," he said, "I'm so sorry I let you down."

"It's OK," I answered, knowing that he was ready to snap the whole time he was resisting.  It’s always the extreme resistors that you know are going to cave the worst.  They always overcompensate out of fear.

"You know I still love my country."

"I know, Meyer.  You just couldn’t take this shithole anymore.  I understand.  I wish it weren’t so, but I understand."

"It's not even that, Sir."

"I know.  No need to explain."

"Still, I feel like I need to explain."  He pressed his knees together and looked at the floor.  "Thing is, I really like becoming a girl."

"How's that?"  I had never heard anyone admit it before, including all the obvious homosexuals who had turned pretty early.

"I just love the way these clothes feel on me.  I feel so incredibly sexy.  I love it!"

"I can see that."

"I can imagine myself as a girl.  Oh God, this is so embarrassing.  You know I was totally straight until five days ago?"

"I never imagined you weren't," I replied, honestly.

"Well now I’m flaming gay.  I want to feel a penis inside me.  I can’t wait to get changed!"

"Good for you."

"Anyway, glad you’re OK with it."

[god that went nowhere]

Johnson: I thought about what Meyer was going through, and I decided to risk going another day, just for the clean shower.  I wore a one-piece bathing suit this time.  Sure enough, Meyer came by to gloat as I was getting ready for my shower.

"Johnson!  I knew you’d be back today!"

"Whatever Meyer.  I just needed the shower."

"That's what they all say," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Whatever.  They’re about to let me into the shower now."

He grabbed me by the arm as I was turning away, and looked me straight in the eye.  "Isn't this your third day?"

"Yeah."

"You know you don’t get rewarded with a shower on your third day, don’t you?"

"What?"

"Of course not.  They wouldn’t want people taking advantage of the system unless they really wanted to join the Pleasure Corps."

"So what’s my incentive?  They told me yesterday it was a shower."

"Yeah, they lied.  They lie to everybody.  But trust me, this is better."

He let me go, and I was ushered into the showers.  But not to a shower stall, as I expected. 

It was a changeroom, filled with racks of fancy lingerie that only advanced pansies like Meyer get to wear.  But I knew that even he hadn’t been allowed to wear anything like that for at least a full week.  The guards told me to pick out the prettiest thing I could think of.  It was a very difficult choice.  I found a black baby doll with matching g-string.  They made me put it on.

It felt quite different the way the cloth lightly brushed my hips.  I thought of how Meyer wore this stuff all the time.  As did the commander.

"Do you know that you're going to be completely female someday?" asked one of the guards.

"It doesn’t matter how masculine you are.  All the damage done to you by your testosterone is reversible.  You’ll become a complete girl, indistinguishable from any supermodel."

"That’s impossible."

"Nope.  You get effeminated more and more every time you wear women’s clothes you know.  You do it once, and you’re fucked.  Fucked!

"You didn’t choose that outfit by chance.  You committed yourself to it because it turned you on."

"Bullshit!"

"Careful with that!"

I realized now that I was rubbing my crotch and feeling all sexed up.  After I came, I was disappointed when they asked to have the babydoll and g-string back. 

"That’s your third reward," they said.  "A taste of things to come."

Meyer: After the fourteenth day, I was given a very tough choice for my reward: suck a real man's dick, or take a pill of female hormones.  I was angry that the commander hadn’t chosen me yet.  I was more feminine that most of the Pleasure Corps!  Part of me wanted to prove my dedication by giving a blow job, and another part of me wanted concrete improvement to my feminine physique.  I already knew by now that the clothes were loaded with estrogen, and that every time anyone wore them it rubbed into their skin and made them female.  I wanted more.  I was ready.

So by my 28^th day, I had already started filling out my bra.  I held off on sucking dick, even though something in me craved to swallow loads of semen.  So I celebrated my latest denial by smoking a pole.

By the following week, I had gone to great lengths to suck more dick, outside the bounds of my candidacy.  I had been sneaking blow jobs to the guards just for fun.  My waist was shrinking.  I was taking it in the ass.

So when they finally chose me, and performed the surgery, I was rewarded with the best news of all: I had had to wait simply because I was being tested for membership in the Elite squad.

Fiction: Captured in the Battle of the Sexes

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

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

(Here the fantasy splits into two scenarios)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The conversion:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So many fantasies tonight…

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Demoralized, they all became playboy bunnies.

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

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

It's partly a curiosity, partly a twisted, willful perversion. They get twisted together into something entirely bizarre. I keep coming back to my childhood, wondering where it all began. I fantasized about being turned into a girl since the moment I learned to masturbate. I remember some vague sense that a woman would take me away and I would become a girl under her influence. She would have me rub my hard little dick for her, and I would become one of them. The association isn't quite there, but wearing those tight little stockings for the class play in Kindergarten made it abundantly clear. So now I wear bikinis and panties and garter belts, and I wish for all sorts of other goodies to make me feel more feminine.

It's so obvious: I love to feel feminine! I want to be a girl! It's totally unacceptable, but I don't care! I want to cast off all my manhood and openly embrace womanhood! Wearing women's clothes only enhances the fantasy. It's not a fantasy in itself. It is a means to asserting my femininity. I need to make myself girlish whenever I can, and thinking about it just isn't good enough.

I don't think I've ever touched on this before. It's all about becoming feminine! It's always been there, always front and centre, but I never really took note of it as the goal. I've come close to making the connection, but now I have it!

Sometimes, I think that wearing women's clothes is the goal. Becoming girlish in the process is part of the thrill, no doubt; but I assumed that the lingerie was the objective. If I become feminine as a consequence of wearing girlish things, so be it! I thought that the thrill ended there. I would tolerate, and even welcome, becoming a girl only because it would allow me to dress like one.

It's so much more delicious than that.

I do it because it makes me a girl. The true objective is to become a girl. I mentioned above fantasizing about taking hormones and such. I don't think I ever thought of it as an end in itself. Not consciously, anyway. It was always for the underwear, the skirts, the sexy outfits.

I'm not sure that the distinction is coming across. Maybe I've known about it all along, and only took hold of it now. Maybe I've somehow forgotten about it, and rediscovered it. Difficult to say. Right now I feel convinced that I've discovered something critical.

Let's put it into a fantasy, shall we?


The standard story: One day, I'm minding my own business, when all of a sudden I'm captured by women. The battle of the sexes has turned violent. Women want to assimilate all men. Men can't live without women, so we're losing badly. I'm one of the best fighters on the male side. I desperately fear becoming a girl. I'm comfortable and happy being a man.

So now, they've captured me, and they introduce me to their underwear. I'm a goner. I don't want to succumb, but they're so sexy. They torture me by putting me naked in a room filled with nothing but lingerie. I dress up like a girl, under duress, but I get used to it. They reward me for it. I start coming all over myself when I wear their clothes. I tell them that I love their clothes, that they feel so good on my body. I know that it's bad, I know that I really shouldn't be wearing bikinis and lingerie and skirts and nightgowns. But I love it! At every turn, they make me feel like I shouldn't, but I do! I want to try on everything. I want to experience everything as a girl. That's when I realize that I want desperately to be a girl. The clothing is just a fun part of it. It's the womanhood that I really want.


That is the key! It's a sudden discovery that wearing women's clothes is the closest path to being female. I want to be able to reach down my pants, feel silk against my smooth, hairless body, follow a curve down towards my crotch, past a soft mound of coarse hair, and into an even softer fleshy thing with a hard clit up the middle.

It's all about being a girl. Wearing stuff is cool because it allows me to express my girlishness.