Fiction: The Truth

The TRUTH about crossdressing

Everybody knows that it's not cool for boys to wear women's clothes.  We learn this at a very early age.  When we are children, we don't understand gender at all, why or how boys and girls differ.  We learn that there is no mixing of the two, and we segregate ourselves by gender.  Boys play with boys, and girls play with girls.  Those who do otherwise are mistrusted.  They are automatically questionable.  And we're all perfectly happy with this: boys don't want to be girls, and girls don't want to be boys.  This is when we establish our sexual identity.

Now, when all of this is firmly engrained in our psyches, we come to accept some fundamental truths.  Primarily, boys are forbidden from doing anything that identifies them with women; and most importantly, boys do not under any circumstances wear girls' clothes.  We do permit the opposite, but only because something about femininity makes it unquestionable. 

This simple truth proves that femininity is dominant.  Masculinity, in spite of its emphasis on strength, size, and power, is hopelessly subordinate to its opposite.  A woman who wears pants is still a woman; a man who wears a dress is not much of a man.  Yet we pretend that men are dominant. 

The TRUTH is that any man voluntarily wearing any article of women's clothing becomes irreversibly feminized.  The degree to which this occurs is directly proportional to the degree of femininity of the article of clothing, and how close it is to the genitals.  Lingerie has much more effect than, say, pink sweat pants.  Everyone, especially men, innately knows this, but suspects that it isn't true.

Given that no self-respecting man would willingly sacrifice his sexual identity, how do men become transsexuals?

The answer is simple: men worship femininity; it is most natural to want to become that which one desires most.  Therefore, men think that they can experiment with wearing women's clothes, but only at their peril.  Those who dare are inevitably tainted.

I know this, because I have experienced it.

I discovered this by accident, as we all do.  I was in my late teens, and furiously obsessed with girls.  I masturbated all the time, fantasizing about their skin, their shape, their curves, their hair, their underwear.  But I was shy, and no girl would want to talk to me.  I contented myself with watching them from a distance, masturbating whenever I had a moment of privacy. 

I worked at a public swimming pool during the summer, specifically so I could ogle the girls in their fantastic tight form-fitting swimsuits.  It would have been unbearable if it weren't so fascinating.  Every now and then, some absent-minded hottie would forget her swimsuit in a locker, and we'd hold it in the lost and found until she returned to claim it.  Most of the time, they returned almost immediately, but every now and then something would remain forever.

I was so obsessed with femininity, and so curious about it, that I impulsively stole a one-piece swimsuit that had been in the lost and found box for the entire summer.  I was drawn to it because I remembered the girl who had worn it, and I couldn't get a vivid picture of her glorious body in it out of my mind.  I wanted desperately to touch it, because it had touched her.  For weeks I did not dare, but I found myself deliberately brushing my hands against it whenever anyone came to claim anything else.  Finally, I could no longer resist, and I furtively stuffed it into my bag when nobody was looking.  All I wanted was to feel it in my hands, and worship her body from afar.

This became a key to my masturbation.  I was in possession of something feminine, for the first time in my life, and it was completely at my mercy.  I felt weak in its presence.  It made me sweat and shake with nervousness.  It was like trying to talk with a girl, only it couldn't reject or ignore me.  I could fondle it whenever I wished.  Inevitably, that was very frequent; and every time I did, I also masturbated.

But unfortunately, there was far more to it.  It was so much more than a talisman of womanhood.  I knew that my worship was abnormal.  Why else was I so careful to avoid detection when I claimed it?  I hid it in my bedroom, rather than leave it out in the open.  I had a secret which I did not want to share with anyone.  Why?

I was afraid of the stigma of being a boy who owned a girl's swimsuit.  It had little to do with the fact that I had stolen it: it was more to do with an implicit betrayal of my gender.  Somehow, worshipping women in this way was unacceptable, and I knew it all along.  I should have been talking to girls, trying to seduce them, exploring their bodies in person.  Instead, I was fondling the things that they wear, and pretending that it was a worthwhile substitute.  But it goes even deeper than that.  My fascination with feminine things was evidence of a lack of manhood.  That's the true reason why I concealed my habit.  The guilt and shame I felt when I thought of my hidden treasure only made my desire stronger.

At first I had planned to only borrow it.  But soon after I took it home and jerked off with one hand as I fondled it with the other, I had already gotten it dirty with my effluvium.  I could never return it in that state, so I happily decided to keep it.  No-one would notice that it was missing, I rationalized.  I could do as I pleased with it, so long as no-one ever discovered my secret.  Having already defiled it, I succumbed to the fantasy I had been masturbating to: feeling that soft material, and what belongs within it, against my insatiable cock.  I wrapped my penis in it and rubbed myself very quickly to the most fantastic orgasm I had ever felt as I imagined rubbing against Her body, encased in this glorious piece of stretchy cloth. 

Thus rewarded, I repeated it time and time again, her delicious curves in my mind every time.  I knew that this wasn't even close to the real thing, and it frustrated me.  I was, as I said, well aware of the shamefulness of my actions.  As often as I succumbed to these bouts of self-abuse, I hated myself for being so shy, and for having such an incriminating possession as this.  I had no confidence that I could change my lot, so I continued.  In a way, I knew that if anyone discovered my secret, they would question my manhood.  What could I possibly be doing with a girl's bathing suit?  Worse, I found myself fantasizing about touching other articles of girls' clothes with my dick.  I desperately wanted to touch lace and silk and fishnet and leather.  I longed to compare the sensation of these things on my penis. 

Somehow, a seed began to grow in my head.  The swimsuit, hidden underneath my dresser, taunted me, questioned my manhood.  My awareness of it, combined with my utter lack of success with girls, constantly reminded me of how gay it was that I owned a girl's swimsuit.  Unfortunately, this only made me desire it more: it was my secret, and it gave me such pleasure, that I didn't even care if I were gay, as long as I had my swimsuit.  It's not like I wore it or anything.  All I did was rub my penis against it.

I began to worry as I rubbed it against myself that I was rubbing away my manhood every time my penis made contact with women's clothes.  The pleasure trumped any worry, and even fed off of it.  I began to stretch it over my crotch, in an attempt to get maximum coverage over my private parts.  It occurred to me then that this must be what it feels like to wear it.  The thought struck me as terribly dangerous, and I came all over myself, my bedsheets, and my girlie swimsuit.

I could no longer rationalize having it in my possession.  It was terrifyingly gay of me to own such a thing, and I knew it.  I kept thinking to myself that I might as well be wearing it.  The thought possessed me.  I was now fatally curious.  I tried to fight the impulse, for days.  Somehow, I became desperate to feel the swimsuit stretched not only over my crotch, but over my entire body. 

I knew what I would be risking.  As a child, I would have thought that it would immediately turn me into a girl, the moment I put it on.  That deep-seated certainty led me to be careful.  I balked several times, and settled for mere rubbing.  I reasoned that by inverting it, at least I would still be touching the outside, which I would be doing anyway if I were humping a girl.  I also thought that by keeping on my own underwear, I would be protecting myself from any adverse affects of wearing it.  At least I would still feel the spandex on my torso.

When I slid it on, inverted, over my gitch, I had to stop before I could get the shoulder straps in place.  I was so shocked by the softness and tightness of it on my body that I knew that I had already given up any pretense at manhood.  Even without the shoulder straps, I was already wearing a woman's swimsuit!  I could no longer pretend that my secret was an innocent stage of boyhood, or showing curiosity in feminine things -- a normal impulse for a man who is interested in women.  No, I was now guilty of performing acts of femininity.  I had already gone too far.  My hands shook as I pulled it off again, without having so much as touched myself.

I nearly wept with shame.  Simultaneously, I shook with anticipation.  An intense feeling of warmth and slitheriness came over me.  I had an intense desire to move my hips in a feminine way.  I had worn a girl's bathing suit!  I was a transvestite!  There was no turning back!  I might as well go ahead now anyway.  I picked it up again, and de-inverted it.  I slid off my gitch, and pulled it onto my naked body.  My hips gyrated as it stretched over my crotch.  I did not hesitate to put my arms through the shoulder straps and pull it all into place.

Immediately, my mind was flooded with images of beautiful girls, including the previous owner of my swimsuit.  I was like them, now!  If the myths of my childhood were true, I would become female within a few minutes.  The idea filled me with such unfathomable horniness that I nearly came.  I felt the spandex on my waist, and the elastic of the leg holes, so much higher than anything I had ever imagined.  Nobody would ever have to know about my secret!  I wear girls' swimwear!  And I absolutely LOVE it!

I didn't even want to touch my penis, because I knew that I would come almost immediately, and end this phenomenal pleasure.  My mind wandered to fantasies of wearing a bikini, or even lingerie.  How gay would that be?  How unbelievably sexy would that be?  I wanted my swimsuit to be even more feminine than it already was.  Now that I knew what femininity was like, I didn't much care for my manhood anymore.  I was now a certifiable transvestite sissy, and there was nothing that I could -- or would even want to -- do about it.

As I frolicked in my girlie swimsuit, and wished most intensely to lose my penis altogether in favour of a nice soft unobtrusive pussy, I understood the truth most vividly: what I knew as a child about boys wearing girls' clothes might not be true in a physical sense, but is certainly true psychologically.  I was now a girl in spirit, if not in body, and I would always be tainted with this experience.

Imagine my embarassment when, the very day after my wonderful epiphany, the true owner of my swimsuit returned, asking if anyone had seen her swimsuit, which she last wore two months before at this very swimming pool.  My co-worker (a girl) poked around the box for it, convinced that she had indeed seen it in the lost and found box.  I was mortified.  The girl was even prettier than before.  I was so gay that I had stolen this girl's bathing suit, and worn it.  She looked at me funny when she saw me blush.  Somehow, she knew.

Fantasy: Converted

You've seen all sorts of pictures.  You've spent countless hours busily downloading them.  You stare for hours at them in various men's magazines.  You know exactly what you like: shapely girls in bikini-style panties, shiny like metal, or like glistening skin; round, pendulous boobs, restrained in sheer black lace; long, lustrous legs lovingly covered in fishnet stockings, starting at mid-thigh and ending at open-toed heels; waves of long, tousled hair tumbling upon slender, bare shoulders; I could go on.  Just imagine if you could ever touch something so exquisitely feminine.  What would you do?  Where would you start?

I'll tell you what would happen if you found yourself with one of these fantasy girls from your precious pictures.  Just think: she's posing, just for you, in the same outfit as in the photo.  You forget, but she's used to better men pawing all over her.  You'd try to put your hand on her waist first.  Maybe touch her thigh.  You're overwhelmed by her inhuman femininity.  She lets you get so far, but then gently pushes your hand away with a girlish giggle.  And you try again.  You're reaching for her panties.  She slaps your hand away.  "My clothes stay on… for now," she says.

She can tell how desperate you are for a piece of her.  That's why she's not giving you anything.  Just letting you look, and maybe allowing you a little feel here and there to keep your hopes up.  You'd do anything right now if she allowed you to simply caress her waist, her knee, her shoulder, or anything at all, with your hand.  But she won't let you.

Some men might resort to violence in such a situation.  Rush over and grab her.  What can she do?  Pick her up, throw her onto the bed, and rip off all her clothes.  But you would never dream of doing such a thing to one so perfectly, divinely feminine.  You are worshipping at the altar of femininity.  You dare not defile it.  You dare not contravene her will.

She struts around the room.  You are hers.  You want to be hers.  You relish every moment that she tortures you.  You drink up her every gorgeous curve, and clamour for more.  And she's hardly let you touch her yet!  Better still, she hasn't taken anything off!  The anticipation is killing you.  You need to touch her just like you need your next furtive breath.

Now she approaches you.  She lets you caress her hips.  She kisses you.  You can smell not just her perfume, but the scent of her naked skin.  The faint odour nearly knocks you unconscious.  You mould your body against hers and keep your eyes open as your tongue meets hers.  She closes her eyes.  You fondle the waistband of her panties, but she takes her arms from around your neck and moves your hand away, grinning.  "Not yet."

She places your hands back on her hips, and turns around.  She lets you admire her waist, her hips, and her butt before she slowly leans back against you, rubbing her beautiful, round buttock against your dick.  She gyrates her hips back and forth, and sends you into a fit of ecstasy.  One hand fondles her hip, her butt, her thigh, and back up as she moves; the other her other hip, her waist, her breast and back down. 

She is amazing.  You reach for her panty waist and start pulling down, but she stops you.  She turns around and playfully shakes a finger at you.  "You're bad!" she admonishes.  But now she continues her little dance while facing you.  She moves forward against you for a brief moment, and your member touches her sanctum sanctotum against both your clothes.  But she slowly dances away.

"You need to get naked," she says.  You immediately obey.  You stand naked in front of the avatar of the Goddess, who still wears her scanty little outfit.  She looks at your throbbing erection and says, "I know what you want.  You want this."  She gestures at her body, knowing it to be worth more to you than everything on Earth.  "But I need to know," she says, "just how far you'll go to have it."

"I'll do anything," you answer, meaning it.

"Anything?"

"Yes, anything!"

You know you've just sold your soul to the devil.  But you don't care.  It's worth it.

She sashays back to you with a demonic grin.  "Well, then," she says, huskily, "Let's begin."

She grabs your cock and whispers into your ear, "I know what your deepest fantasy is, even if you don't."  She sits you down on the bed and straddles you.  You can feel the roughness of her fishnet stockings on your sides – then, the excruciating softness of her panty-clad pussy against your dick.  You grab her by the ass and hump away greedily.  She pushes you down and gyrates obligingly.  

"Do you love me?" she asks.

"Of course I do!" you reply, humping her madly as she sits on top of you.

"Do you worship me?"

"Yes!"

"You'll do anything I ask?"

"Yes!"

"Then STOP!  NOW!" she screams.  And you stop – not because she said so but because of the shrillness of her ear-piercing command.

She gets up from on top of you.  "Good.  Very good," she says.  "I'm almost convinced."

She sits you back up, and drags you to the middle of the bed.  She lies on her back, and drags you back on top of her.  She kicks off her shoes.  She grabs you by the ass and makes you come all over her belly.  And she's not even naked!

"That was a bit premature, wasn't it?  But you're ready for more, aren't you?"

And you are.  You desperately want to fuck her now. 

"Here, lick this off.  I don't want this mess all over me."

And you do.  You don't even hesitate.  You're lapping up your own semen from her belly and the front of her panties, because you just want to taste her skin.  Her belly is so infused with girlishness that you'd eat anything off of it just to put your lips to it. 

Before you know it, she's had you remove her panties, and you're licking her glorious pussy.  Her perfect, slender, fishnet-clad legs are on your shoulders.  After she comes, she doesn't let you stop.  She takes off her bra, then pulls you up to her by the hair.  She lets you fumble around a bit before she guides your stiff cock into her dripping wet cunt. 

My God!  Do you ever love it!  She's bucking like a bronco, and you're struggling to keep up.  You grab her nipples, her ass, her clit, her hair, her thigh, her waist, her shoulder, and all you can think is: girl, girl, girl, girl, girl, girl, girl, girl girl girl girl GIRL!  You want to come a million times.  You never want to take her hands off of her.  You want to explore her forever.  You want to flip her around so you can admire her from every angle.  She lets you.

"I know what you're thinking," she says as you fuck her pretty brains out.  You've come at least fifteen times by now, and you're only getting hornier.  "You can't get enough of me, can you?"

"No!" you pant, "I can't!"

"You want to touch me forever, don't you?  You don't ever want to let go of my girlie bits, do you?"

"Yes!  No I don't!"

"Well I hate to break it to you, but I'm done for tonight."

"Please!  I need more!"  You continue to fuck her frantically, clutching her tighter so she can't move away.  But she's not trying; she's still meeting your every stroke with her own enthusiastic rhythm.

"I know.  I have a solution for you."

"What's that?"

"What better way to eternally explore the female body than by becoming a girl?"

"What do you mean?!?" you cry, as your heart begins to pound with dread and excitement, your pelvis desperately keeping time.

"Think about it: if you were a girl…"

You're fucking her really hard now, but her voice is mesmerizing.

"You'd get to look at girl thighs…"

You moan as you look at her thighs, still clad in those ultra-sexy stockings.

"…Girl boobs…"

You realize that she's been fondling your nipple ever since you moved her hand there five minutes ago.

"…Girl waist…"

You prop yourself up on your hands, pounding harder still, and picture the slenderness of her waist on your own body, and just below that…

"…Girl ass…"

The picture is vivid in your mind.  Oh…

"…Girl pussy…"

My…

"…Girl everything…"

GODDESS!

"…all the time!"

Your body convulses violently.  You feel like you're having a heart attack.  The pain in your crotch is excruciating.

"You'd get to touch girl non-stop for the rest of your life!"

Your skin tingles all over your body.  You expect to withdraw from her and gape in horror at your own moist, tender pussy where your mighty penis once stood.  This orgasm intensifies tenfold and reverberates throughout your entire body with this epiphany.

"And just think…"

You are shaking yourself loose from her, even as your climax continues, as you picture your now curvaceous body trembling as femininely as hers.

"You'll even get to use your pussy!"

"No!" you scream, at the top of your lungs, shrilly, like a woman, as you realize that you crave a huge, erect penis inside your cunt, even more desperately than you wanted your own penis inside hers. 

"That's right!  You get to fuck like a girl, too!"

What you thought was your climax a moment ago pales in comparison to the unbearable pleasure emanating from your crotch, and drowning your entire body.  In your mind, you are her.  You picture yourself as her from the very beginning, teasing, sashaying, dancing, and especially fucking.  You long to taste another man's semen in your mouth.  You deeply regret not having savoured your own when you ate it off of her belly. 

"You'll even get to wear garter belts, stockings, lace, bikinis…"

Ali Landry

Your transformation is complete.  You laugh huskily and girlishly as you contemplate the excitement of picking out your new wardrobe.  Your body quivers whenever you imagine yourself in some pair of white lace panties you saw Heidi Klum wearing in a Victoria's Secret catalogue; or a brightly coloured string bikini like the one Ali Landry wore in that picture you used to salivate over; or the very outfit that she seduced you with what seems now like centuries ago.  "Yes!" you whisper, "fishnets!"

Then, an hour later, you come down at last, when you suddenly realize that you are covered in semen, and that your hand is fondling your softening penis. 

You have not become a girl, as you had hoped.

"So what do you say?  Sound like a good idea?"

She's been sitting in a chair across the room, waiting for you to come back to Earth.  You can't remember if this was some weird dream, or if she really did fuck you, and convince you to betray your own gender forever and become female.  She is naked, and still terrifyingly beautiful.  "What do you mean?" you sputter, shaking the cobwebs from your wet dream.

"You know exactly what I mean.  Get dressed."

You are confused.  Your first instinct is to reach for your pants, but the idea fills you with some inexplicable dread.  You drop your pants back on the floor, perplexed.

"Is something wrong," she asks, pointedly.

"I… I have no clothes," you answer uncertainly.

"What about those pants, silly?"  She plays coy.  You glance at her, and take in that gorgeous smile of hers, and how sexy her butt is, and how you long for it once more.

"I can't wear those," you answer confidently.  "Can I borrow something of yours?"

"Like what?" she replies, taken aback.

"Well, can we start with some underwear?" you retort.  You don't feel like playing games anymore.

"I don't have any men's underwear, silly.  You can't wear mine."

You start to wonder if you're losing your mind.  You figure that she must be testing you.

"Can I please?"

"What?"

"Please, can I wear your underwear?"

"You can't wear women's underwear.  You're a man.  Put on your pants."

"I don't want to be a man.  I want to be a girl."  You blush as you say it.  "I want to be a girl, and I want to wear girlie clothes."

"Are you fucking serious?  After the night we had last night?  This isn't funny."

"I am serious.  Don't mess with my head.  You convinced me last night that the best way for me to love you is to become you.  Don't pretend it didn't happen."

"Come on, now," she says.  "You're starting to scare me."

You start to feel horribly embarrassed.  Is this some kind of sick joke?

"OK, I know you're kidding," she says.  "But sure, have it your way.  You can put on the outfit I had on last night.  Come on, put it on!"

You pick the panties up off the floor, and slowly, gracefully, slip them on.  You already feel sleek and curvy.  You can picture your pussy again.  You've never worn panties before – only in your imagination.  Now you feel the luxurious satin tightly against your hips and especially your crotch.  You like it, an awful lot.

Encouraged, you find the bra on the other side of the bed.  She follows your every movement like a hawk.  You wrap it around your waist, its back on your belly, and tie it; then you turn it the right way as you put your arms through the straps and bring it up to your pathetically small boobs.  You love the way it feels tight around your chest, and how unforgettably feminine it feels to bare your waist between matching satin undergarments.

"You're really going to do this, aren't you?"

You take your time rolling on the stockings.  You lament the fact that you have so much unsightly body hair to get rid of.  You almost want to stop and shave your legs now, but you just can't resist the feeling of enveloping your legs in girlishness.

She tosses you the dress as she sees you strapping on the shoes.  They are far too small, but you can't bear to wear anything else.  You thank her and slip into the little sausage casing she wore last night at the club.  You feel marvelously empowered.

"So, are you ready to go out?" she asks.  She put on some jeans and a t-shirt while you were busy with your precious stockings.

"Well, I'd have liked to shave my legs, but this will have to do for now.  Thank you so much for the clothes!  I feel wonderful!"

And you go out onto the street, dressed like a girl. 

No sooner do you go out the door than she drags you back in and says, "OK, you've passed the first test.  Now go shave your body, and I'll have a surprise for you when you're done.

And you go into the shower and shave off all your body hair.  You're very excited about your new look.  You imagine that maybe she'll bring back some more clothes for you.  You get out and put on her clothes again.  She arrives just in time with a man.

"Here's your second test.  If you really want to be a girl, you'll enjoy this."

And you do.  You enjoy it even more than you ever enjoyed fucking any girl.  He really makes you feel like a girl.  At first, you're coy about sucking his cock, but the way his hands fondle your sleek lingerie-clad body turns you on so much that you can't help but encourage him.  You lament not having a pussy, but settle for him fucking your ass.  It feels so feminine to have a penis inside you that you come with every third stroke.  And after he comes deep inside you, you don't hesitate to revive his erection with some more fellatio.  The whole time you imagine that he really is fucking your pussy.

After he's done with you, you help him fuck her.  You get him hard, and guide his dick into her pussy.  You live vicariously through her for a while.  She lets him do things that she never let you do to her.  He even fucks her in the ass, and you feel a tinge of jealousy – not of him, but of her. 

Finally, you relax with a cocktail of feminizing hormones, and put on the most outrageously girlish lingerie in her closet, well on your way to becoming a she-male sissy faggot chick-with-a-dick.

Fiction: Devotion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

Diary: Getting Religion

I haven’t written a word about my fetish in weeks.  I have stopped recording my use patterns in my database.  I have even slowed down quite a bit with my masturbatory tendencies.  I briefly became deeply infatuated with a girl, and dreamed about fucking her – something that rarely happens to me.  Even still, I couldn’t think of anything to masturbate over except wearing something.  I was crazier about her than I’ve ever been about anyone else, and it made me forget about any other fantasy.

My reticence stretches even further back than that.  Actually, it started weeks before I even bought my vinyl minidress.  I haven’t turned my back on turning myself into a girl.  I’ve simply been distracted by a new perspective.

I’m not sure what triggered my epiphany, but I now know precisely where my fetish comes from.  Even the word ‘fetish’ itself proves to be phenomenally accurate: “An object that is believed to have magical or spiritual powers, especially such an object associated with animistic or shamanistic religious practices.”  That’s exactly how I look at women’s clothes.  They possess magical properties bestowed upon them by their owners.  By wearing a bikini, I indulge in the fantasy that it somehow is imbued with femininity, and that I soak in some of that femininity.  None of this, however, explains why I want to become a girl in the first place.

It has taken me my entire life to figure this out.  I have been writing in this journal for nearly ten years now.  I have floated all sorts of theories about it, yet none of them have ever come to the heart of the matter.  All of my fantasies, and all the fantasies I have read have included this one constant, this single underlying premise that has gone unnoticed in spite of its blatancy.  I can’t believe that it never occurred to me before.

I know now that femininity is religion.  God is a woman, one who sweeps me away in uncontrollable passions.  I can do nothing but succumb to her whims.  Female sexuality overwhelms my senses, destroys my reason, brings me to my knees.  Not only is God female, but God is feminine sexuality.  God is the lovely hourglass shape, the delicate, soft, lean lines at the very core of womanhood.  Goddess has such sublime power over me, at such a base, primordial level that no amount of intellectualization can suppress or even comprehend it.  Femininity is a force that I am completely enslaved to, even before any considerations of fetish or even normal sexual desires.  In the deepest recesses of my mind, I worship Woman as an infinitely potent force of nature.  There is nothing I will not do for Woman.  


None of this is particularly groundbreaking.  The key to my epiphany is my obliviousness to the simple fact that I, a man who does not believe in magic, superstition, or even any pantheon of gods, behave exactly like some primitive savage when it comes to the phenomenal power of Girl.  In spite of my scientific world view, I have still humbled myself before this strange, otherworldly power for my entire life.  She is a Goddess that I truly can perceive – a Goddess who makes her existence crystal clear to me every time I salivate over one of her gorgeous avatars.

Still, why the underwear?

I have already shown the definition of ‘fetish.’  To me, women’s clothes are the fetishes of my sexual Deity.  They are material items imbued with the infinite power of my Goddess.  I know that, as a man, I am not like my omnipotent Mistress.  As her humble pawn, I worship her with the greatest deference.  Naturally, as I prize her as the Ultimate in Perfection, I humbly pray that She will grant me the power She grants her avatars.  I want to follow Her ways.  I want to be like Her.  I want Her power.  If only I could be like her, then I could not only wield Her power, but in so doing also soak in Her Divine influence.  I would cast away, in a heartbeat, the very thing she controls me through, so that I could join her in complete blissful abandon.  I would betray all the men in the world, eradicate masculinity altogether, in my worship of Femininity.


In all my fantasies, I (or my surrogate hero) invariably give in to the awesome, irresistible influence of Girlishness.  I cannot escape the power it has over me.  I inevitably strive to join my Goddess, and become her perfect avatar, to the point where I would be in every way one of Her girls.  I gain Her favour by making myself more and more like her.  I will wear women’s underwear because that way I put myself in Her power, and she rewards me with a small but intensely delicious taste of Her essence.  The more I do it, the more I gain her favour, and the closer I become to Her.  This is the essential plot of every single fantasy I have.

So you see, it’s all based on a primitive sort of worship. 

Fiction: Massive Forced Feminization: The Veteran

So many of the other men are protesting against the very idea of compromising their manhood.  The lingerie we are supposed to wear is absolutely gorgeous.  It's just the type of thing I would have bought for my own, private, pleasure.  But this is in public.  They want me to wear it.  I can't resist.  I've never done this in front of anyone before, but I really like where this is going.

As soon as I slide into the panties, a rush of excitement almost makes me faint.  I'm standing between two girls!  I'm willingly putting on the same underwear as they are!  How wonderfully, beautifully, arousingly exciting!  I giggle nervously as I make eye contact with the pretty brunette to my right while putting on the exquisite bra just as easily as she did.

It's always been so difficult for me.  I love girls so desperately.  I worship their shape, their attitude, their softness.  They make me swoon with desire.  But I love them so much that I often feel the need to be like them.  I never feel more intense a sexual rush than when I put on women's underwear and pretend that I'm turning into a girl.  I have kept this secret most vigorously.  Until now.

As I look around, I can tell by their faces that some of the other men are closet pansies just like me, but even now, with their fantasies fulfilling before their eyes, they still refuse to admit it.  I can't conceal my joy, and I'm not even bothering to.  I'm grinning from ear to ear, and fondling my new garments.  They want to turn me into a girl!

The pretty brunette turns out to be Nancy.  "How do you like your new panties?" she asks.

I blush and giggle like a schoolgirl.  "I like them.  A lot."

"They're really pretty on you.  How do you like the idea of becoming a girl?"

"I can't wait!"