This journal has been very difficult to keep over the last several months. I can't even begin to write extensively about this without getting so caught up in the fantasy that I end up not writing anything. Here's another futile attempt to tell the same old story.
My girlfriend caught me looking at pictures of Imogen Bailey. She was devastated. Imogen Bailey is probably the most incredibly gorgeous woman on the planet. Jenny, whose self-confidence was low to begin with, in spite of her own considerable beauty, took this as a betrayal.
"I try so hard to be beautiful for you, and yet you still look at other girls!"
"You are beautiful!"
"So why are you looking at her?"
"She's beautiful too."
"Is she more beautiful than me?"
Great. A dangerously loaded question. My hesitation alone gives Jenny's argument momentum.
"See? You think she's more beautiful than me!"
"That's not true," I lie.
"So, I ask you again, why are you looking at still pictures of her when you can look at me, a real, living, breathing woman, standing right here?"
"You're being irrational."
"Answer my question!"
"I'm sorry, but she's a beautiful woman. You can't expect me to stop looking at other women just because we're living together."
Big mistake.
"Then maybe we shouldn't be living together."
I have dug myself even deeper into the hole. This will not be easy.
"Jenny, you know that I love you, and that I wouldn't ever dream of being with another girl. You know that you don't need to compete with other women."
"So are you attracted to Imogen Bailey?"
"I'd be lying if I said otherwise. But that doesn't mean I don't find you outrageously beautiful too."
"I sure hope so. I've been trying so hard to look like her, just to please you."
"Honey, I love you exactly as you are. You don't need to try to look like anyone else."
"Well, if you look at Imogen Bailey so much, then I need to draw your attention away from her and back to me."
"You don't need to. I am all yours."
"So why do you need to look at her?"
Again, my hesitation kills me. I just don't know how to answer this diplomatically and truthfully at the same time.
"Tell me!"
"I look at her because she looks like you, not the other way around." Another lie.
"I'm sick of this. Obviously, I've got it all wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"You're so evasive about this. I've tried so hard to be Imogen Bailey for you, and it hasn't mattered. Maybe you look at her for other reasons."
"Like what?"
"Oh, let me guess: you're interested in her political views."
"What?"
"No? Of course not, she has none. You are after all just looking at her pictures."
"Yes, we've established that."
"Fine then. So you look at her because she's pretty and sexy. Nothing else."
"What else do you want me to say? If you know so well what she looks like, and if you're trying to look at her, then maybe I should be jealous, too."
"I don't look at her because she gets me off."
"Neither do I." Oops. Barefaced lie.
"Really?" she asks, skeptically.
"Really," I assure her.
"Then maybe you look at her for the same reasons I look at her."
"What's that?"
"You want to be just like her too."
"What?"
"Yes! That's it! You want to be blonde and curvaceous and have big tits and look dynamite in a bikini!"
"Now you're being silly."
"All right. If that's not the reason, then you're looking at her because she gets you off, and if that's the truth, then I'm leaving you."
"You're serious!"
"Yes, I'm serious."
She is serious. Clearly, I must do her bidding or lose her.
"Please don't!"
"Why not? Does she get you off?"
"Well..."
"Fine! I'm out of here!" She turns to go. I can tell that she means it too. I grab her arm and pull her back.
"Please, don't go!"
"OK. Here are your options: if you look at pictures of Imogen Bailey to get yourself off, then I'm not your girlfriend anymore. If you do it for the same reasons I do - because you want to look just like her, then I'll stay."
The trouble is that Jenny really does look like Imogen Bailey. And she's a very smart, kind, and generous woman who shares my taste in music, movies, food, and books. We are a wonderful match. I love her deeply, with all my heart, and I can't allow her to leave me. Curse that Imogen Bailey! I cave.
"Jenny, don't go. She doesn't get me off. I swear it."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes."
"So you want to be just like her, as much as I do?"
"Yes." I'll say anything to keep Jenny.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Say it!"
"I want to be just like Imogen Bailey, and that's why I look at pictures of her."
"How do I know you're not just telling me what I want to hear?"
Good ol' Jenny, always as sharp as a tack.
"You'll have to take my word for it."
"Well I don't believe you."
"What do you want from me?"
"Prove it!"
"How?"
"Prove to me that you want to be just like Imogen Bailey!"
"How can I do that? I can't be like her."
"Don't you want to?"
"Yes. I told you."
"Then you'll have to make an effort to look like her if you want me to believe you."
"What do you mean?" I'm on my knees, begging her. She's beaming down at me devilishly.
"Do you really mean it when you say that I look like her?"
"Yes, you really do look like her."
"So my efforts to look like her have worked?"
"I would say so, yes."
"So just follow my advice, and you'll do just fine."
With that, she brought me back to the computer, and quickly found my stash of Imogen Bailey photos. She skipped past a few nude shots, and settled on one of her in a bikini.
"You want to look like that?" she asks.
"Yes," I reply, still playing the game.
"You know that I have a bikini just like that, because of this very photo?"
"You know, I did notice that."
"Good. There's how you start."
"What do you mean?"
"Get yourself a bikini."
"What, like that one?"
"Sure. If you like another one better, go for that one."
"This one is fine."
"I thought so too. You can borrow mine if you like." She disappears into the bedroom. I can hear her rummaging around a bit.
"Wait a minute. Why am I doing this?" She asks. "You're supposed to prove to me that you want to look like her. Why don't you come here and pick it out yourself!"
Before I know it, I'm picking through her panty drawer for Imogen Bailey's bikini. I feel awkward looking through her intimates, as if I'm doing something dirty. I feel as though I'm discovering things in her dresser that no man should know about.
Having found the bikini, I take it out of Jenny's panty drawer, and present it to her, bra in one hand, panty in the other.
"What are you giving it to me for? You're the one who wants to look like Imogen Bailey."
"What do you want me to do with it? Wear it?"
"Of course. How else are you going to look like her? I doubt she'd ever wear your kind of briefs.
Reluctantly, I disrobe, under her triumphant gaze. I tremble as I pull on the panties. The soft spandex caresses my member so gently that it instantly and involuntarily becomes erect. Jenny giggles at me. "The bra, too," she says.
I struggle to clasp it behind my back. After a few minutes of struggle, through which Jenny giggled incessantly, I finally got it on properly. There I stood, in front of my beautiful girlfriend, wearing her bikini, my hard cock straining against the tight panty.
"There!" she says. "You don't look anything like Imogen Bailey, but you look at lot more like her than you did an hour ago. How does it feel?"
I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. The panty is high-cut, and exposes the side of my thigh all the way up to my hip. The material is very soft to the touch. I love the way it looks on Imogen and on Jenny. I can't stop thinking of how sexy both of them look in it. The sensation of a tight band around my chest reminds me constantly that I'm wearing a bra. The bra straps feel dainty against my broad shoulders.
"I kinda like it," I reply, shyly, blushing, and trying very hard to convince myself that I am lying.
"Wow! It shows, too. Why don't you prance around a bit, like Imogen would."
I can't help but get into the act. I'm swinging my hips, sashaying around the bedroom and running my hands against my breasts, my butt, my hips, my thighs, as femininely as I can. It's getting me incredibly hot. Jenny drops her jaw in amazement. She's looking randy, too, and she starts to prance around with me, feeling me up now and again. I am lost to the moment. I am Imogen Bailey, I am Jenny. And I feel sexy in a way that I never have before. A little voice in my head warns me that I am not a woman, and that I'm jeopardizing my manhood by doing this. The overwhelming sensations in my body scream in assent YES, I'M TURNING INTO A GIRL AND I LOVE IT! I imagine the panty re-shaping my crotch into that of a woman. I imagine my waist sucking in. I imagine the bra filling with my own full breasts. I welcome my imaginary metamorphosis not with open arms, but with greedy, grasping arms.
I have ejaculated all over myself, and all over the bed sheets. I have come crashing back to earth. Jenny has stripped to her underwear, and lies beside me in bed, flushed. She has her hand in her panties. I am flushed with shame, aghast at my actions. She says nothing until she finishes coming.
"Geez, Rob. You must really love me. You're still wearing my bikini," she breathes.
Disgusted, I clean up and get myself out of her bikini.
"You know," she says, "I think you'll make a great Imogen."
"Are you happy now?"
"Yes!"
"Good."
"I hope you don't think this is over."
"Why not?"
"I still don't believe you really want to be Imogen."
I say nothing, stewing in my shame.
"I'm satisfied for now," she says, "but you've still got a lot of work to do."
Thankfully, my plentiful stock of Imogen Bailey photos remained on my hard drive, forgotten in the frenzy described above. Jenny would normally have had me delete them all, but this time, she forgot. Or perhaps she felt she humiliated me enough, and didn't need to punish me further. Better still, I had no shortage of other gorgeous women on my hard drive. I went back to them the very next day, just to spite Jenny.
I am furious. How dare she mock my masculinity? She showed no respect to my manhood. She turned me - ever so briefly - into a prancing faggot. It was bad enough that she made me wear items of her clothing; even worse that it was one of her sexiest, skimpiest outfits; worst of all, and I shudder to think of it, she made me enjoy it. I nearly faint with shame when I face the intolerable truth of it. How can she ever take my manhood seriously again? Hell, how can I?
These photos take on an entirely new meaning for me. I cannot allow her to ruin this for me. I linger on the picture that triggered all this madness. I wore that same bikini! I still have trouble believing it, let alone comprehending the consequences. I used to jerk off to this photo. Now it reminds me of my humiliation. Maybe that's why Jenny didn't remember to delete it. My heart sinks with humiliation.
I need to relieve some tension. I need vengeance. I am stroking my cock, admiring Imogen's firm, round breasts, her glorious waves of golden hair, her sleek, slender thighs, and the way they converge in that soft, delicate pocket of thin, scanty spandex such as I wore only last night. Oh how I love the way she poses, so sensuous, so eager! How her tight little bikini focuses her femininity (I know how that feels). I can just imagine sliding my hand along her round little ass, snapping her panty waist (as Jenny did mine).
You enjoyed it, didn't you! You loved every second of it! You dressed up like a girl, and you liked it!
My conscience's accusations, as much as I attempt to deny them, drive the intense pleasure in my massively erect dick. I know that I can't continue to stroke, because I am still, paradoxically, undermining my manhood. I want to be just like Imogen Bailey! I want to be soft and curvaceous and blonde and slinky and scantily clad gorgeously femi-
No! I must control myself. This is absurd. I want to fuck her. I want to throw her roughly onto my bed, hold down her arms, and force myself into her, as she gasps for breath. I want to grab hold of her ass as I pump my love juice into her.
Amazingly, I lose my groove. I am no longer pumping. I am failing.
Unacceptable! I cannot allow Jenny's mind games to prevent me from masturbating with sexy pictures of other women. I must come, if only to establish control again. I know just the thing to turn myself on again, I think slyly to myself. I can imagine myself as Imogen Bailey, wearing that sexy lit-
I am losing control again! But I'm also going to come! If I come, I win because I defy Jenny; but I also lose because I surrender my manhood . . . and what could be better? I think to myself lasciviously, Doesn't it feel wonderful being feminine? Oh God! Does it ever! Wouldn't it be wonderful if Jenny caught me right now and made me wear her bikini again! Or maybe her lingerie!
As I clean up, I rationalize my capitulation by convincing myself that this was an act of defiance. I am ashamed, but I won't admit it. I know that last night's incident has indeed adversely affected my masculinity. But this won't happen again. Ever.
"So, Imogen, are you ready for another show?"
I can feel the blood rush to my face. My legs are weak. My hands tremble. "That's not funny, Jen."
"It's not meant to be, Imogen." She spits the name, like venom. "Put it on."
I reach into Jenny's panty drawer. I know exactly where to find it now. Oh God! Look at all that pretty underwear! Wouldn't that be- I must concentrate on controlling myself. I cannot show pleasure again. Oooh! Silk! I have the bra in one hand, the panty in the other. Again. "I don't understand why you insist -"
"You're the one who wants to be Imogen Bailey, aren't you? Or did you lie to me?"
I've lain the bikini out on the bed. I don't want to wear it. I can't wait to put it on! I'm hoping that if I concentrate enough, I can avoid succumbing to my overwhelming urge to feel feminine! My delaying tactic is only making things worse: my erection grows ever larger as I anticipate the horror ecstasy to come. I have to admit, it is an incredibly sexy bikini. I have to put it on now - just to hide my boner, of course. Of course.
I am trying incredibly hard to pretend that this annoys me. Yet I caress my bikini-clad hips. I want to show Jenny that this has gone far enough as I hook on my bra like an expert. I want her to know that I don't really want to be Imogen Bailey, that I'm just doing this to please her and to keep her. I'm playing coy just like a shy girl. I pout to show my displeasure.
"Oh, don't be sad, Imogen," she says, standing up now to caress my effeminated body. "You look very pretty in your bikini." She rubs my pulsating member through the spandex as she says this, and I practically collapse at her feet in a heap of sensuous femininity. I'm a girl! I'm a girl! I'm wearing a bikini! I'm a girl!
Like the first time, I prance and preen like a supermodel for my lovely Jenny. Only this time, I'm consciously loving it. What better way to convince her that I'm sincere? She'll surely believe this act. If only it were an act!
When it's all over, and I've cleaned up my mess, I know that I have lost again. Jenny smiles smugly beside me in bed, having masturbated herself to orgasm with me. Even as I strip off my bikini in disgust. As I toss it across the room, I realize that I have seen Jenny do the same thing herself. Even in my belated denial of femininity, I am flushed with girlishness.
In our time together, I have handled some of Jenny's laundry. I have separated out her underwear from mine. I have handled her silks. I have bought her lingerie for special occasions. I have seen her in her most intimate undergarments. I always found her clothes to be inherently sexy. I always felt a surge of intimacy at the realization that I have been allowed to see and touch her almost sacred underthings. Now I find myself yearning to explore that intimacy in far more detail than ever before.
I am pawing through Jenny's underwear drawer. Piled in with her bikini are myriads of matching and unmatched panties and brassieres, two garter belts, a one-piece swimsuit, sexy nightgowns and satin teddies. Silk panties melt out of my hands like water. I hold them up, one at a time, and admire the flowery lace patterns, and the beautiful trims. All of these things are so ridiculously feminine. Many of them even outshine the bikini I've actually worn.
Jenny has not insisted for almost a week now. I have had time to think about my actions. All sorts of insignificant things trigger memories of my two incidents with this bikini. Embarrassingly, these memories arouse me. Clearly, my wearing it has tainted my manhood. I find myself longing to wear it again. Worse, I find myself fantasizing about even sexier garments. Imagine how much more corrupted I would be if Jenny had forced me to wear her lingerie instead. I shudder with anticipation.
I figure that I might as well prepare myself for the possibility by examining all the options. Perhaps if I know beforehand what I might have to wear, I can lessen its impact. Perhaps if I know beforehand what's available, I can pick something really sexy, like a garter belt and stockings, or a ni-
Curse her!
I place everything gingerly back in its place, livid with shame, and go masturbate.
Tonight Jenny comes home with a present for me. There is no special occasion. She beams with a sinister joy.
"I bought you something at the mall!"
"What is it?"
"Open the bag and see!" She practically bounces off the walls with excitement. I open the bag.
All I see inside is what appears to be a bikini.
"I thought that since you want to be like Imogen Bailey, there's no sense in you borrowing my bikini all the time, so you might as well have your own!"
It's another bikini, all right. It's a similar one from another of my pictures. A floral pink. Just my size, too, maybe a little smaller.
"I'm so glad you like it!" she gushes.
I am, of course, ashen and trembling; I can hardly see anything except the sexy, skimpy, ultra-feminine bikini in my hands. Oh my God! I never imagined I'd get to wear this!
"We're gonna have so much fun tonight!" she says, rushing upstairs to get changed. I follow her zombie-like, and tuck my new bikini into a corner of my own underwear drawer.
Dinner is interminable. I can hardly eat a bite. Jenny babbles on as if everything is normal. We wash the dishes. We put away the dishes. We watch a bit of television. I have my very own bikini waiting for me in my underwear drawer. How am I supposed to react? I realize that I haven't spoken a word since I opened the shopping bag.
At length, she cuddles up to me lasciviously and whispers into my ear, "Let's try on your new bikini."
"Okay," I answer, automatically. She leads me up to the bedroom.
She sits on the bed, waiting. I lose no time in stripping down, and reaching into my drawer for my new bikini. I don't think I should be doing this. It truly is a gorgeous piece of work. I can just imagine how erotically it will hug my hips. I can't let her see me enjoying this! It's not right! I'm losing my manhood!
I step into the panties and slide them up to my crotch, savouring the touch of spandex against my cock. I slowly strap on the bra, revelling in the realization that I am putting on a woman's bikini that happens to belong solely to me. I have wantonly abandoned any pretense of hesitation or displeasure. I close my eyes and slide my hand across my chest and cock, imagining myself metamorphosed into Imogen Bailey herself. I'm effeminating myself in front of my girlfriend, and I just don't care! Inspired, I sidle up to Jenny, who sits on the bed watching.
"Thank you so much," I whisper in her ear seductively, "I always wanted my own bikini."
My God! I can't believe I just said that!
"You really like it?"
"Yeah," I reply, coyly. "I love it!"
"That's so cool!"
She drags me onto the bed, where I strip her to her underwear, and we make out, comparing bras and panties and body parts. It is the most sensuous lovemaking I have ever experienced, yet neither of us is fully naked.
Even after last night, I suspect that Jenny believes I'm still just playing the role. I only wish I were. When I woke up this morning, still wearing my bikini, it took every every ounce of my willpower to take it off and put it away. I could think of nothing else all day.
It's one thing to wear it to please Jenny. I can always fall back on the excuse that I'm doing it only for her, even though I know that's not true. It's quite another thing to have an overpowering urge to wear it now, alone, to get off. Am I insane?
It's so easy. I have my very own bikini. It amazes me when I look into my underwear drawer, and see this pink floral bra and panty among my butchy boxers and gitch. I want more! I want my underwear drawer to look much more like Jenny's, when I get in this kind of mood. I want to be able to wear a matching black lace panty and bra. I want to have elaborate silk and satin unmentionables.
I just can't help myself. I pick up where I left off this morning, and slip into my very own bikini. By God, look at me! I'm wearing an unmistakably feminine outfit, and it's turning me on! I did it of my own volition! And I'm fantasizing about doing it again and again, with all sorts of women's fashions! I am a complete pantywaist! I know that wearing this - especially unsupervised - is making me even more of a pantywaist! This is turning me into an outright woman! And I love it!
If only Jenny knew how much I really enjoy this. I can't let her find out I'm doing this on my own. I know she's only playing the game. She doesn't really want me to turn myself into Imogen Bailey Oh my God! Even though I'm fantasizing that my bikini is shaping my ass into a round, tight little girlie ass, and smoothing and sculpting my waist, and swelling my chest into a perfect pair of perky, round titties.
She must not know!
This is the third night since Jenny returned from her mother's. We had sex the last two nights. Frankly, it was a bit dull. There was no mention of the new addition to my wardrobe. I am desperate to get into something feminine - and watching Jenny lounge around the bedroom in her frilly little nighty does nothing to assuage my desire.
When she comes to bed, I leave a light on and cuddle up to her, fondling the waist of her panties and the spaghetti straps of her nightie. "You look so incredibly sexy in that nightie," I whisper, imagining it on me instead of her.
"Thanks," she replies coyly.
"I love the way it caresses your tush."
"I kind of figured you'd like it."
"Do I ever!"
The last two nights have not included this kind of sexy pillow talk. We tore our clothes off and fucked our brains out. In fact, I never used to remember to compliment her on her lingerie. I was more interested in what was underneath it. The last time I said things like that, she repeated similar compliments to me.
We are making out. I am not even attempting to remove her nighty. I am imagining wearing it as I rub my naked chest against it. What would it feel like to wear satin?
"Do you mind if I slip into something more comfortable?" I ask.
Jenny grins. "Please do, Imogen." Busted.
I sheepishly get my bikini and put it on for her, in a reverse strip-tease. I am openly staring at her nightie. There's no hiding my desire. I am wearing a bikini in front of my girlfriend, and fantasizing about wearing her sexy nightgown. What is happening to me?
She pulls me into bed, and we fondle each other in sheer bliss for what seems like eternity.
"So, you really like wearing bikinis, do you?"
"Uh-huh."
"Are you doing it just to please me?"
"Uh-unh."
"Why, then?"
"Because," I reply shyly, luxuriating in my femininity, "it makes me feel so sexy."
"Mmmmmm, and you are sexy!"
I can no longer even pretend to deny it to her anymore. I feel somehow relieved. Free at last!
(I dare to throw away the bikini in a moment of shame)
(When the ritual occurs, and the bikini is gone, she is furious. I am eager to please, so I volunteer to wear some of her underwear, and to buy her (me) a replacement)
(I practically lose my mind in a swimwear store)
(I parade an inexact replica for her, without prompting)
(I experiment with all her clothes when she's not there)
(I experiment with all her clothes when she is there)
(I surprise her by wearing her panties all day)
(We shop together for my new under-wardrobe)
(We sleep in matching nightgowns)
(I shave away my body hair)
(I perfect a convincing feminine look with Jenny)
(I begin to take estrogen)
(I suck her new boyfriend's cock)
(I publicly take on a female identity)
(My new boyfriend fucks me)
(I become a real girl)
Diary: Dilemma Story Idea
Been there, done that.
It never ends. There are only so many permutations of this fantasy, and they all end up with the male protagonist enthusiastically and irrevocably abandoning his manhood.
It always gets to me.
I have a couple of quick ideas:
My chart of possible reactions. The experiment starts off each man with a choice of two incredibly sexy feminine outfits. Eventually, as the experiment progresses, one of the choices becomes less and less sexy. When the man is finally presented with something masculine vs. something feminine, he chooses the feminine.
Second, a story about how a man comes to discover that he loves women because he wants to be one, and he begins discovering his feminine side.
It never ends. There are only so many permutations of this fantasy, and they all end up with the male protagonist enthusiastically and irrevocably abandoning his manhood.
It always gets to me.
I have a couple of quick ideas:
My chart of possible reactions. The experiment starts off each man with a choice of two incredibly sexy feminine outfits. Eventually, as the experiment progresses, one of the choices becomes less and less sexy. When the man is finally presented with something masculine vs. something feminine, he chooses the feminine.
Second, a story about how a man comes to discover that he loves women because he wants to be one, and he begins discovering his feminine side.
Diary: A Better Twist to Stories
I want to figure out the most extreme transformation story possible, in both the physical and the psychological sense. I liked the story about how the guy and his buddy made a bet with their wives that they couldn't become girls, and then were hypnotized and surgically transformed into gorgeous she-men. The one problem with it is the lack of decision. These men did not decide on their own to become women, they were manipulated into accepting it and enjoying it. I want to explore what happens to somebody who succumbs without coercion. Someone who succumbs completely and enthusiastically.
Someone who accidentally discovers, say, his girl's panties, and finds himself pining for them, and for other articles of her clothing. And this slowly transforms him until he becomes completely female.
Someone who accidentally discovers, say, his girl's panties, and finds himself pining for them, and for other articles of her clothing. And this slowly transforms him until he becomes completely female.
Fiction: Predator
I picked him up at the beach. I love the sun, the lake, the boys. I wanted to experiment. I remember how awkward it was for me in high school, when everybody struggled with their newly discovered sexuality. I, myself, was unsure of myself, and therefore vulnerable. The boys I knew then, I now realized, must have gone through the same feelings of uncertainty. I wanted to test a hypothesis.
It was far more difficult than I thought. Tyler was completely intimidated by me. He had been staring at me in my string bikini all day long. I was a goddess to him. He had no idea how to handle my approaching him. Normally, I would have simply basked in the attention of all the gawky teenage boys, but I needed my test subject. He was perfect, the typical male 18 year-old: skinny, pale, falsely confident, fairly good-looking, easily seduced. His friends (especially Sarah, his little girlfriend) were incredulous when I approached him with a blunt proposition: to ditch them and come with me for a good time. He stammered like an idiot, his insecurity exposed, before he accepted. When he did, I kissed him full on the lips, and pretended to fawn all over him.
I gave him the rules in my car on the way home: I would entertain him all summer for free, as long as he would break contact with everyone he knew, and stay at my place. I allowed him to call his parents to tell them he'd be at a friend's house for the rest of the summer. They protested, but could do nothing about it. It was only hours later that the horny little bugger thought of clothes. I told him I'd take care of that.
The first night, I let him explore my body to his heart's delight. I first commanded him to feel me all over, as much as he wanted, but without removing my bikini. I didn't let him touch his erection. I wanted him to get hornier than he'd ever been in his life. I'm quite confident that I succeeded. That made the coup de grace easy.
I stripped out of my bikini, and ordered him to pick it up, and put it on. I made it quite clear to him that he could only go further with me if he complied. He had an awful lot of trouble with the bra, so I helped him get it on. I snapped his panties playfully after I hooked it on. He was livid with humiliation, so I deliberately grazed his cock as I stepped away to get a better look at him.
As expected, his gawky skinniness and youth made him look fairly androgynous in my bikini. If not for the slight hairiness, the shallow chest, and the huge erection, he could have passed as a scrawny 13-year-old girl with a butch haircut. He was just about my size, if not a little smaller. He would make a fine student.
I caressed him and fondled his nipples, and told him how adorable he looked. He ejaculated almost the instant I touched the front of his panties. I asked him if he felt sexy when he wore my bikini. He was even unsure of this, but he did agree. I worked him up again, still in my bikini. I had him do a little dance for me, and encouraged him to do it as femininely as possible. Boy, did he ever respond! He was slinking around like Britney Spears!
After allowing him a few more orgasms, I got him ready for bed. I had him slip into one of my nighties. He was still unprepared for this. Nonetheless, he tentatively caressed his silk-clad body, exploring this strange new garment against him, and looked incredibly feminine as he did so.
He quickly made a connection between wearing my clothes, and "feeling sexy," as he described it. I allowed him to think that he could continue being a boy, but at the same time allowed him to experience his feminine side as often as possible. I got him to start taking hormones because it would increase his sexiness.
I took pictures of him in my nightgown, and threatened to show all his friends, to post it at his school. That scared him into obeying my every command.
The second day, after I had him all shaved and pulling on a pair of panties, he asked me, "This isn't going to turn me into a girl or anything, is it?" I remember his exact words because they were so innocent, so trusting. I rubbed my body up against his, and assured him, "Yes, Tyler, it will turn you into a girl. The more you like it, the more girlish you become. And I can tell how much you love it! You'll be a girl in no time!"
The boy practically panicked. He struggled to escape my caresses, and to tear off his panties, but I persisted enough for him to give in. There's no telling what went through his mind as he came. When he came for the third time, still wearing my panties, he cried. But he never took them off.
After only a few days, I didn't even have to encourage him. He was already starting to act more like a girl, taking on female mannerisms, and even asking me, sheepishly, to wear certain items of clothing. He couldn't contain himself when he wore my clothes. It seemed to make him even hornier now when I reminded him how his enjoyment is directly proportional to the rate at which he would become female. I would swear he would act more femininely then, too.
After a month, the hormones were already starting to have an effect. His nipples were growing, and his body hair wasn't growing back. He was blossoming into a woman before my eyes.
It was far more difficult than I thought. Tyler was completely intimidated by me. He had been staring at me in my string bikini all day long. I was a goddess to him. He had no idea how to handle my approaching him. Normally, I would have simply basked in the attention of all the gawky teenage boys, but I needed my test subject. He was perfect, the typical male 18 year-old: skinny, pale, falsely confident, fairly good-looking, easily seduced. His friends (especially Sarah, his little girlfriend) were incredulous when I approached him with a blunt proposition: to ditch them and come with me for a good time. He stammered like an idiot, his insecurity exposed, before he accepted. When he did, I kissed him full on the lips, and pretended to fawn all over him.
I gave him the rules in my car on the way home: I would entertain him all summer for free, as long as he would break contact with everyone he knew, and stay at my place. I allowed him to call his parents to tell them he'd be at a friend's house for the rest of the summer. They protested, but could do nothing about it. It was only hours later that the horny little bugger thought of clothes. I told him I'd take care of that.
The first night, I let him explore my body to his heart's delight. I first commanded him to feel me all over, as much as he wanted, but without removing my bikini. I didn't let him touch his erection. I wanted him to get hornier than he'd ever been in his life. I'm quite confident that I succeeded. That made the coup de grace easy.
I stripped out of my bikini, and ordered him to pick it up, and put it on. I made it quite clear to him that he could only go further with me if he complied. He had an awful lot of trouble with the bra, so I helped him get it on. I snapped his panties playfully after I hooked it on. He was livid with humiliation, so I deliberately grazed his cock as I stepped away to get a better look at him.
As expected, his gawky skinniness and youth made him look fairly androgynous in my bikini. If not for the slight hairiness, the shallow chest, and the huge erection, he could have passed as a scrawny 13-year-old girl with a butch haircut. He was just about my size, if not a little smaller. He would make a fine student.
I caressed him and fondled his nipples, and told him how adorable he looked. He ejaculated almost the instant I touched the front of his panties. I asked him if he felt sexy when he wore my bikini. He was even unsure of this, but he did agree. I worked him up again, still in my bikini. I had him do a little dance for me, and encouraged him to do it as femininely as possible. Boy, did he ever respond! He was slinking around like Britney Spears!
After allowing him a few more orgasms, I got him ready for bed. I had him slip into one of my nighties. He was still unprepared for this. Nonetheless, he tentatively caressed his silk-clad body, exploring this strange new garment against him, and looked incredibly feminine as he did so.
He quickly made a connection between wearing my clothes, and "feeling sexy," as he described it. I allowed him to think that he could continue being a boy, but at the same time allowed him to experience his feminine side as often as possible. I got him to start taking hormones because it would increase his sexiness.
I took pictures of him in my nightgown, and threatened to show all his friends, to post it at his school. That scared him into obeying my every command.
The second day, after I had him all shaved and pulling on a pair of panties, he asked me, "This isn't going to turn me into a girl or anything, is it?" I remember his exact words because they were so innocent, so trusting. I rubbed my body up against his, and assured him, "Yes, Tyler, it will turn you into a girl. The more you like it, the more girlish you become. And I can tell how much you love it! You'll be a girl in no time!"
The boy practically panicked. He struggled to escape my caresses, and to tear off his panties, but I persisted enough for him to give in. There's no telling what went through his mind as he came. When he came for the third time, still wearing my panties, he cried. But he never took them off.
After only a few days, I didn't even have to encourage him. He was already starting to act more like a girl, taking on female mannerisms, and even asking me, sheepishly, to wear certain items of clothing. He couldn't contain himself when he wore my clothes. It seemed to make him even hornier now when I reminded him how his enjoyment is directly proportional to the rate at which he would become female. I would swear he would act more femininely then, too.
After a month, the hormones were already starting to have an effect. His nipples were growing, and his body hair wasn't growing back. He was blossoming into a woman before my eyes.
Diary: Leaving Town With Shaven Legs
I'm a week away from beginning my trip to California, where I will spend the next year or so of my life. Hockey season is over, and most of the people I know will not see me again for a while -- or at least, they won't have any reason to see my legs.
Which is a bit of a shame, really, considering how they look shaved.
For the first time ever, I have completely shaven my legs.
I shaved them some seven years ago, but only partly, shortly before I met A__. I bought a satiny lingerie outfit, with white fishnet stockings and a garter belt, for that occasion. I have nothing new yet this time, but I did shave as much of my leg hair as I could. It only took me about an hour, too.
I quickly showered to clean up any loose hair, and discovered the radically different texture of shaven legs. My skin is so soft, so smooth, so slippery when wet. Lathering my legs with soap was strange, because the soap had no hair to cling to. I got horny rubbing my legs to clean them. Even drying them was a new experience.
As soon as I dried off, I slipped on some black stockings, and hooked them onto my garter belt. I have never seen my stockings cling so easily to my legs. I have effeminate legs, covered in sheer nylon! And they will be like this for a few days at least, before the hair starts growing back. So I might as well enjoy this while I can. I won't look normal again for another 3 or 4 weeks.
Which is a bit of a shame, really, considering how they look shaved.
For the first time ever, I have completely shaven my legs.
I shaved them some seven years ago, but only partly, shortly before I met A__. I bought a satiny lingerie outfit, with white fishnet stockings and a garter belt, for that occasion. I have nothing new yet this time, but I did shave as much of my leg hair as I could. It only took me about an hour, too.
I quickly showered to clean up any loose hair, and discovered the radically different texture of shaven legs. My skin is so soft, so smooth, so slippery when wet. Lathering my legs with soap was strange, because the soap had no hair to cling to. I got horny rubbing my legs to clean them. Even drying them was a new experience.
As soon as I dried off, I slipped on some black stockings, and hooked them onto my garter belt. I have never seen my stockings cling so easily to my legs. I have effeminate legs, covered in sheer nylon! And they will be like this for a few days at least, before the hair starts growing back. So I might as well enjoy this while I can. I won't look normal again for another 3 or 4 weeks.
Diary: Definitions
An observation: 'emasculation' and 'effemination' have the same meaning. Perhaps this implies, as I have known for so long, that only masculinity can be lost, and that femininity is permanent. It is impossible to lose one femininity, but it is always possible to either gain it or lose its opposite. Therefore, given this logic, women's clothes irreversibly effeminate their wearer.
Story Ideas: The Triangle; and, 3rd Person
Two story ideas:
- A twist on the typical dominatrix-browbeats-submissive-husband-into-effeminate-slavery story: The effemination has already happened, and the husband is a good little housekeeping bitch, but has become so effeminate that he easily passes for a gorgeous woman. Wife is settling on a boyfriend, a real macho type who dominates even her around. So the sissy, who feels confident and feminine enough to resent his wife for turning him into an almost-girl, jealously contrives to secretly turn the wife's boyfriend into his own little sissy bitch. Ends up with a three-way triangular domination: sissy's bitch is boyfriend, boyfriend's bitch is wife, and wife's bitch is sissy.
- Our narrator watches as his best friend sissifies out of control. He begins to see the appeal himself, and his own experiments rapidly spiral out of control as well.
Diary: Sissy Scoring System, Tweaked
After playing around with the scheme above, I have come up with a preliminary score template, which I have stored in the same folder. I have come to the conclusion that I must consider swimsuit bikinis as brassieres and panties. There really is very little difference. I have historically ranked underwear ahead of swimwear, but I now realize that that is simply absurd. Why should my wonderful pink string bikini rank less than mom's gitch? Just because it's not technically underwear? That's just not right. The fact is, it's shaped just like a bra and panties, and it serves a similar purpose. Why not just score the top and bottom each as underwear items, adding or subtracting points based on the material, the coverage, etc. just as I would for any other type of underwear? It makes much more sense this way.
Actually, I got an epiphany today, which changes the way I've thought of my feminine escapades for the last 20 years. Throughout these pages, and intractably imprinted on my mind, has been the idea of a hierarchy of women's clothes. It starts with pantyhose, on through swimwear, and ends at lingerie. One was forbidden, in my fantasies, from ever skipping ahead to a garment he isn't ready for. There was always a problem, because part of the fantasy involved doing just that - and hoping for the most effeminate consequences possible. How can you really deny me wearing white cotton panties even though I've worn string bikinis more times than I can count? It would surely be a letdown to graduate to the next level.
I realized today that the hierarchy came into my mind only as a way of protecting myself, back in the days when I tried to deny my passions. I worried then that if I went right ahead and wore a swimsuit before I was ready for its incredible femininity, I would lose control. This, of course, worked as both deterrent and incentive, depending on my state of mind. I could succumb to a swimsuit, and thank my stars that I hadn't dared to get into some lingerie, which would surely have destroyed my manhood; or perhaps while succumbing to that same swimsuit, and pray fervently for some lingerie, so that I could become that much more feminine.
It still stands as a very powerful fantasy. It has always been at odds with starting right at the top with lingerie, as other powerful fantasies call for.
Actually, I got an epiphany today, which changes the way I've thought of my feminine escapades for the last 20 years. Throughout these pages, and intractably imprinted on my mind, has been the idea of a hierarchy of women's clothes. It starts with pantyhose, on through swimwear, and ends at lingerie. One was forbidden, in my fantasies, from ever skipping ahead to a garment he isn't ready for. There was always a problem, because part of the fantasy involved doing just that - and hoping for the most effeminate consequences possible. How can you really deny me wearing white cotton panties even though I've worn string bikinis more times than I can count? It would surely be a letdown to graduate to the next level.
I realized today that the hierarchy came into my mind only as a way of protecting myself, back in the days when I tried to deny my passions. I worried then that if I went right ahead and wore a swimsuit before I was ready for its incredible femininity, I would lose control. This, of course, worked as both deterrent and incentive, depending on my state of mind. I could succumb to a swimsuit, and thank my stars that I hadn't dared to get into some lingerie, which would surely have destroyed my manhood; or perhaps while succumbing to that same swimsuit, and pray fervently for some lingerie, so that I could become that much more feminine.
It still stands as a very powerful fantasy. It has always been at odds with starting right at the top with lingerie, as other powerful fantasies call for.
Diary: Sissy Scoring System
I want to get scientific here for a moment. I've discussed the possible scenarios when a man is presented with women's underwear, but I've never done it right. I will rectify this shortly. First, I want to enumerate the possible outcomes when a man becomes aroused by his own femininity.
First, he might ignore it, either by thinking of something else and masturbating to that, or by not masturbating at all.
Second, he might simply fail to fulfill it because of extenuating circumstances. For example, he has no opportunity to masturbate before his passion abates.
Third, he succumbs to it in spirit, and masturbates naked or even in his own masculine clothes, reveling in pictures of his own womanhood.
Fourth, he fulfills his fantasy when he ejaculates clad in something girlish.
The first is a crime. Inadmissible under any circumstance. The second is unfortunate, but he gets points for having wanted to be a girl. The third is charming, better than the second, but not quite good enough. The fourth is the truest man of all.
Wait, there's something missing here: there are really more variables. What happens to the poor sap who manages to slip into a bikini, but who doesn't get the chance to blow his load? What if he does a whole fashion show with his girlfriend's wardrobe, fully intending to come in everything, but can only handle one or two outfits? And none of this takes into account doing anything in public.
So we have 1 constant: the passion to make himself feminine, or desire; and 3 variables: physically ejaculating, or success; physically wearing women's garments (we won't get into point values for specific types here), or dressing; and publicly displaying his penchant for girlishness, or exhibition. Thus the first scenario touches on only the constant; the second scores the same for lack of any action; the third scores points for success, and nothing more; the fourth achieves both success and dressing, and therefore wins. However, the man who publicly dresses as a woman for the thrill of appeasing his femininity, must score equally well if he does not eventually find success in his effeminate state. Also, points would certainly vary for the garments worn in each circumstance.
Beautiful, no?
So now we can tally up a score for each incident of effemination. The total score is what really counts, but the statistics are kept for the purpose of showing a balance of tendencies. As in baseball, where a pitcher can win many games and strike out many batters, but also allow many runs; while another can lose constantly striking out as many batters, and allowing fewer runs. The pitchers' totals may be the same, but they have slightly different profiles. Likewise, someone who privately wears lingerie and comes every time might tally up the same number of points as someone who walks around in dresses in public, but never dares to masturbate en femme.
The tricky part of all this is assigning an arbitrary point value to specific types of garments. There are endless varieties of women's clothes, and they all count for something. But even different types of panties must necessarily score radically differently. Surely a g-string is worth more than mother's total-coverage briefs! The value should be awarded based on a comparison to exact artifacts of clothing, which have constant values associated with them. The fit must also factor in (take tight over loose any time, but too small is no good either - ideally it should fit perfectly, as if you really could take on the shape of a woman). For a start, we'll take a pair of plain white cotton bikini briefs always to be worth 100 points. Add 10 points for lace trim. Add 25 points for exotic colours. Lose 15 points for silly, childish prints of teddy bears. A matching brassiere is worth 100 bonus points. So I award Bobbi over there the full 200 points for the matching cotton bra and panties, and give him another 15 for the lace in the bra. Unfortunately, he loses 25 because they're not really bikini briefs, but regular briefs, and are slightly larger. Candi, on the other hand, scores a massive 150 for his black satin bikini, and another 125 for a white satin brassiere; but he loses 50 points for the contrast.
Clearly, I need to establish the benchmarks in general categories. I would need a minimum and maximum amount of points for a type, identify examples of the two extremes and the median, and specify point values for frills or problems. This will take an awful lot of work. Hopefully, I can backtrack and rank my own outfits and experiences.
It also occurs to me that success should have a bonus if it involves another person or persons. Perhaps a points system similar to that for dressing is in order. The starting number of points would be for simply coming. More points for having someone masturbate you; more yet for sucking cock; still more for swallowing; etc. Also, the length of time of dressing and the extent of exhibition should factor in: number of people who know, multiplying each article of clothing they know about, multiplied by points for time (1 for 0-15 mins, 2 for 15-60, 3 for 1-4 hours, etc.).
Now we may return to our original problem: the scenarios when a man is confronted with women's underwear.
This time we can use our points system to accurately gauge the man's state of mind; only here desire is a variable, not a constant. Thus a man who has never even noticed his feminine side would start at 0, while a man who had pondered it twice would have 2 points. I would have thousands upon thousands.
Problem solved. Now to the new problem: scoring.
First, he might ignore it, either by thinking of something else and masturbating to that, or by not masturbating at all.
Second, he might simply fail to fulfill it because of extenuating circumstances. For example, he has no opportunity to masturbate before his passion abates.
Third, he succumbs to it in spirit, and masturbates naked or even in his own masculine clothes, reveling in pictures of his own womanhood.
Fourth, he fulfills his fantasy when he ejaculates clad in something girlish.
The first is a crime. Inadmissible under any circumstance. The second is unfortunate, but he gets points for having wanted to be a girl. The third is charming, better than the second, but not quite good enough. The fourth is the truest man of all.
Wait, there's something missing here: there are really more variables. What happens to the poor sap who manages to slip into a bikini, but who doesn't get the chance to blow his load? What if he does a whole fashion show with his girlfriend's wardrobe, fully intending to come in everything, but can only handle one or two outfits? And none of this takes into account doing anything in public.
So we have 1 constant: the passion to make himself feminine, or desire; and 3 variables: physically ejaculating, or success; physically wearing women's garments (we won't get into point values for specific types here), or dressing; and publicly displaying his penchant for girlishness, or exhibition. Thus the first scenario touches on only the constant; the second scores the same for lack of any action; the third scores points for success, and nothing more; the fourth achieves both success and dressing, and therefore wins. However, the man who publicly dresses as a woman for the thrill of appeasing his femininity, must score equally well if he does not eventually find success in his effeminate state. Also, points would certainly vary for the garments worn in each circumstance.
Beautiful, no?
So now we can tally up a score for each incident of effemination. The total score is what really counts, but the statistics are kept for the purpose of showing a balance of tendencies. As in baseball, where a pitcher can win many games and strike out many batters, but also allow many runs; while another can lose constantly striking out as many batters, and allowing fewer runs. The pitchers' totals may be the same, but they have slightly different profiles. Likewise, someone who privately wears lingerie and comes every time might tally up the same number of points as someone who walks around in dresses in public, but never dares to masturbate en femme.
The tricky part of all this is assigning an arbitrary point value to specific types of garments. There are endless varieties of women's clothes, and they all count for something. But even different types of panties must necessarily score radically differently. Surely a g-string is worth more than mother's total-coverage briefs! The value should be awarded based on a comparison to exact artifacts of clothing, which have constant values associated with them. The fit must also factor in (take tight over loose any time, but too small is no good either - ideally it should fit perfectly, as if you really could take on the shape of a woman). For a start, we'll take a pair of plain white cotton bikini briefs always to be worth 100 points. Add 10 points for lace trim. Add 25 points for exotic colours. Lose 15 points for silly, childish prints of teddy bears. A matching brassiere is worth 100 bonus points. So I award Bobbi over there the full 200 points for the matching cotton bra and panties, and give him another 15 for the lace in the bra. Unfortunately, he loses 25 because they're not really bikini briefs, but regular briefs, and are slightly larger. Candi, on the other hand, scores a massive 150 for his black satin bikini, and another 125 for a white satin brassiere; but he loses 50 points for the contrast.
Clearly, I need to establish the benchmarks in general categories. I would need a minimum and maximum amount of points for a type, identify examples of the two extremes and the median, and specify point values for frills or problems. This will take an awful lot of work. Hopefully, I can backtrack and rank my own outfits and experiences.
It also occurs to me that success should have a bonus if it involves another person or persons. Perhaps a points system similar to that for dressing is in order. The starting number of points would be for simply coming. More points for having someone masturbate you; more yet for sucking cock; still more for swallowing; etc. Also, the length of time of dressing and the extent of exhibition should factor in: number of people who know, multiplying each article of clothing they know about, multiplied by points for time (1 for 0-15 mins, 2 for 15-60, 3 for 1-4 hours, etc.).
Now we may return to our original problem: the scenarios when a man is confronted with women's underwear.
This time we can use our points system to accurately gauge the man's state of mind; only here desire is a variable, not a constant. Thus a man who has never even noticed his feminine side would start at 0, while a man who had pondered it twice would have 2 points. I would have thousands upon thousands.
Problem solved. Now to the new problem: scoring.
Diary: New Hot Pink String Bikini With Flowers
For how long have I fantasized about string bikinis? For as long as I can remember, they have been among the sexiest things on my list of garments to wear. I have never worn one.
I suppose they've always been on my radar, but only lately has it become obsessive. This summer, during the Canada Day celebrations, I saw a girl in Ottawa wearing a blue string bikini under her shorts. It was the kind with panties that tie up on the sides in a delectable knot, and her top tied up the same way behind her back and neck. It was blue. I could tell what she was wearing because she wasn't wearing a shirt, just the top; and those sexy knots hung out above the belt of her jean shorts. I was mesmerized.
Today, two nights before Xmas eve, I have succumbed and bought myself a wonderfully gorgeous string bikini.
It's hard to imagine how one string bikini could be less feminine than another. They are all so fantastically and unmistakably girlish that it's almost absurd - for the casual observer - to see much of a difference. To the trained eye, however, the differences can be astounding.
Take, for example, a solid black string bikini. It's absurdly sexy. Its shape alone determines entirely what type of person should be wearing it. Now think of a solid hot pink string bikini, and tell me which one is more feminine. Clearly, hot pink has overwhelmingly feminine connotations to it that black, sadly, lacks. Men never wear anything hot pink.
I present you now with a third string bikini: the pink floral print string bikini! Solid colours are simple, but floral patterns are radically effeminate, no matter what colour. Imagine the feminine implications of a floral pattern in pink! Imagine this insanely feminine pattern in the soft, stretchy lycra of a string bikini!
That is the bikini that I bought, and that I will wear. What follows is a celebration of this glorious new addition to my wardrobe.
Actually, I've copied a previous story (the ageless fantasy of the male hero being captured by the women's army, which is out to effeminate the world, and how the hero must go through exponential stages to become a woman) and will improve it somewhat. It's pretty good, so I'll make it better. During most of this time, and this is the key, I must resist wearing the bikini. I must starve myself from wearing it until later. The discipline involved will reflect that in the story, and also make me unbearably horny to wear it. I will have an unbelievable time with my bikini!
I suppose they've always been on my radar, but only lately has it become obsessive. This summer, during the Canada Day celebrations, I saw a girl in Ottawa wearing a blue string bikini under her shorts. It was the kind with panties that tie up on the sides in a delectable knot, and her top tied up the same way behind her back and neck. It was blue. I could tell what she was wearing because she wasn't wearing a shirt, just the top; and those sexy knots hung out above the belt of her jean shorts. I was mesmerized.
Today, two nights before Xmas eve, I have succumbed and bought myself a wonderfully gorgeous string bikini.
It's hard to imagine how one string bikini could be less feminine than another. They are all so fantastically and unmistakably girlish that it's almost absurd - for the casual observer - to see much of a difference. To the trained eye, however, the differences can be astounding.
Take, for example, a solid black string bikini. It's absurdly sexy. Its shape alone determines entirely what type of person should be wearing it. Now think of a solid hot pink string bikini, and tell me which one is more feminine. Clearly, hot pink has overwhelmingly feminine connotations to it that black, sadly, lacks. Men never wear anything hot pink.
I present you now with a third string bikini: the pink floral print string bikini! Solid colours are simple, but floral patterns are radically effeminate, no matter what colour. Imagine the feminine implications of a floral pattern in pink! Imagine this insanely feminine pattern in the soft, stretchy lycra of a string bikini!
That is the bikini that I bought, and that I will wear. What follows is a celebration of this glorious new addition to my wardrobe.
Actually, I've copied a previous story (the ageless fantasy of the male hero being captured by the women's army, which is out to effeminate the world, and how the hero must go through exponential stages to become a woman) and will improve it somewhat. It's pretty good, so I'll make it better. During most of this time, and this is the key, I must resist wearing the bikini. I must starve myself from wearing it until later. The discipline involved will reflect that in the story, and also make me unbearably horny to wear it. I will have an unbelievable time with my bikini!
Diary: Innocently Stunning
Oh, how I love your body! Your smooth, delicate curves, your soft skin, the grace of your movements... I fantasize about how you look in your underwear, or when you wear a swimsuit, how every gorgeous curve spins and slips underneath. Isn't it funny how my desperate longing for your body has me trying to emulate it?
I have this picture in my mind of you doing something mundane, like ironing or dusting, while wearing nothing but a smile and your undies. You are innocently stunning. You have no idea how ridiculously sexy you are. I could point it out to you, and you'd look down at your scantily clad body, maybe blush a little, and continue what you're doing, just a little more self-consciously, acutely aware of your femininity, amazed again at its powerful grasp on me, but still focused on the mundane task at hand.
As I write this, I want to look down at my own scantily clad body, slipped into the same slinky undergarments, and experience the same surprise upon discovering exactly what you did. I want to feel that faint surprise at realizing that I am a woman wearing nothing more than a bra and panties, and that I am sexy and beautiful; and I want to continue my tedious task, happy and proud, acutely aware of my femininity, and promise to take full advantage of it as soon as I'm done.
Notice that the first sentence of the second paragraph is intended to be ambiguous: who's wearing your underwear?
I have this picture in my mind of you doing something mundane, like ironing or dusting, while wearing nothing but a smile and your undies. You are innocently stunning. You have no idea how ridiculously sexy you are. I could point it out to you, and you'd look down at your scantily clad body, maybe blush a little, and continue what you're doing, just a little more self-consciously, acutely aware of your femininity, amazed again at its powerful grasp on me, but still focused on the mundane task at hand.
As I write this, I want to look down at my own scantily clad body, slipped into the same slinky undergarments, and experience the same surprise upon discovering exactly what you did. I want to feel that faint surprise at realizing that I am a woman wearing nothing more than a bra and panties, and that I am sexy and beautiful; and I want to continue my tedious task, happy and proud, acutely aware of my femininity, and promise to take full advantage of it as soon as I'm done.
Notice that the first sentence of the second paragraph is intended to be ambiguous: who's wearing your underwear?
Diary: Advice Column
An article in the [local tabloid newspaper] caught my attention last weekend. It's was part of an advice column about sex. A man wrote that during a night of heavy drinking, his girlfriend got him to try on her panties while they made love, and that it was the most intense sexual experience of his life. The problem was that he wanted to wear her panties often, and she wouldn't let him. He had resorted to buying his own. He openly admitted that wearing women's underwear had become an essential component of his sex life.
I wonder if this guy is completely honest. Either way, I love the story. It proves what I've always suspected: that any man who wears women's underwear will inevitably succumb to the awesome power of femininity. I fantasize about that happening to me. Is it possible that this man only realized what I've known all my life at that moment? Surely, he must have had confusing cravings before then. I'm willing to bet that he was always a closet pantywaist, and that this gave him an excuse to come out. I wonder if he realizes that he really wants to be a girl? I can just picture him lying about who initiated his transvestite experience. At any rate, he has surely begged her to wear her underwear.
I wonder if this guy is completely honest. Either way, I love the story. It proves what I've always suspected: that any man who wears women's underwear will inevitably succumb to the awesome power of femininity. I fantasize about that happening to me. Is it possible that this man only realized what I've known all my life at that moment? Surely, he must have had confusing cravings before then. I'm willing to bet that he was always a closet pantywaist, and that this gave him an excuse to come out. I wonder if he realizes that he really wants to be a girl? I can just picture him lying about who initiated his transvestite experience. At any rate, he has surely begged her to wear her underwear.
Fiction: Underwear Swap
[this sounds awfully familiar...]
Sandra was the sweetest, most outrageously gorgeous woman I ever had the fortune to meet. Having a relationship with her felt like winning the lottery. I couldn't believe my luck, and I felt like I would and should do anything to keep her. It was she who planted that dirty little seed in my head. I still don't know if she did it on purpose.
She looked like a fashion model. She was gorgeous even without makeup. She always dressed revealingly, right down to her underwear, but without looking sleazy. She always maintained a very classy, but at the same time sexy, look. She is the type of woman who is so feminine that you wonder how she can possibly be of the same species. She is inhumanly beautiful.
It pains me to think of her now. I am consumed with envy at the merest thought of her. You'll understand if I avoid going into much more detail about her. I'll leave it to your imagination.
One time after a particularly intimate session of lovemaking, she brought up the idea that would change me in ways I never conceived of: she wanted to swap underwear. She explained that it would make her feel closer to me if she could wear my briefs briefly. I would have to wear her lingerie to make the exchange equal. It would only be for a second or two, she said. She picked up my gitch from the floor, and put it on.
It was the funniest thing in the world to her. They didn't fit her all that well, but she still looked pretty damned gorgeous. Imagine that: she could even make a regular pair of gitch look feminine on her. I don't know if it turned her on or not. I, personally, was a bit spent from the arduous passion we had shared moments earlier.
She cajoled me into picking up her panties off the floor. I mentioned earlier that she wore classy but sexy clothes. Her unmentionables were no different. Her panties were off-white silk with lacy patterns on the sides and a very dainty little bunching up at the elastics. I won't describe how she looked in them. They dangled from my fingers as I looked at them stupidly. I tried to reconcile what seemed to me two impossibly disparate concepts. Sandra's panties. My crotch. North Pole and South Pole. Two positive ends of a magnet. The two could not possibly come in contact together, unless I was dry humping her as she wore them. For me to wear them seemed not only absurd, but physically impossible. She giggled behind me. Clearly, this was quite amusing to her. I wasn't even sure whether I was amused or not, the idea perplexed me so much.
"What are you afraid of?" she chided, "You think wearing them will make you less of a man?"
She hit the nail on the head. A classic dilemma: do I do what the most absolutely perfect woman in the world, whom I am most impossibly fortunate to have as a girlfriend, wants me to do, even if it undermines my masculinity? If I refuse, I risk losing her for not playing along; if I accept, I risk losing her for not being manly enough. Which would you choose? Pray that this never happens to you. In fact, my telling you this now will probably ruin you just as it did me. Don't say I didn't warn you. Maybe you should stop reading right now, if you know what's good for you.
In the end, it didn't matter. I had lost the moment she expressed that thought. I had been presented with a possibility that did not exist in my conception of the universe. My world became unraveled at that moment, even though I struggled mightily to keep it together. There I stood, naked, the threads of my world bunched together in a ball of lint in one hand, Sandra's intricate, beautiful, but durable panties in the other.
Days afterwards, I could think of nothing else. So it goes when your perceptions become fundamentally altered by a new idea. I still could not understand all of the consequences of the idea of wearing Sandra's panties. I needed time to think about it. It drove me to distraction. Would wearing the epitome of femininity's most intimately feminine clothes damage my manhood? If so, then doesn't that prove my manhood to be incredibly weak? I saw her wearing my underwear, and she maintained her womanhood. If anything, she made my gitch feminine. But then again, I am not nearly as masculine as she is feminine. Plus, manhood is much more fragile, ironically, than womanhood. Women never worry if they're feminine enough. Men struggle daily to prove their sexuality. Men can never prove enough. If a woman were caught wearing men's underwear, no one would question her sexuality. She would remain a woman no matter what. But if a man wears women's underwear, he brands himself a sissy at the very least. His manhood becomes forever suspect. But then, what kind of man would refuse to test his manhood? Doesn't it show fear, a most unmanly thing, to refuse to wear women's underwear? Sandra herself joked about it to me. Am I so underconfident that I wouldn't dare to wear something designed for women? Isn't my manhood strong enough.
These thoughts consumed me for weeks. Imagine thinking about the most gorgeous woman in the world and her underwear constantly. It's like being a pubescent teen again. Inevitably, I would work myself into a passionate frenzy thinking about Sandra's panties. Never mind the consequences, what would it be like to wear them? And what about other garments? What about bras, bathing suits, miniskirts, stockings, garter belts? What would it be like to wear makeup? Heels? Shave my legs? Every time I thought about it, I imagined what it would feel like to actually wear these things. I imagined how Sandra looked in all of them, and how they felt from the outside, and tried to picture how it would feel from the inside. It drove me crazy. It drove me to relieving my tension. It aroused more than curiosity to think of it.
I became more and more interested in what she wore. She never brought up panty swapping again, but I was captivated by her lingerie all the more. I couldn't dare bring it up myself.
I began to worry about my obsession with her clothes. I thought about wearing her underwear. Ever since the idea was introduced to me, I could suddenly conceive of the possibility of such a thing. I imagined every possible consequence, even the absurd. It could have absolutely no effect. Or it could instantly change my sex, and transform me into a woman as beautiful as Sandra. I knew that neither was true, and that reality was somewhere in between. I must admit that I dwelt far more on the latter scenario, and that such thoughts eventually brought unparalleled satisfaction. In plain English: I became aware that the thought of wearing Sandra's panties turned me on. In a big way.
At first I denied it. It couldn't possibly be true. But there I was, masturbating every time I imagined myself in her panties, or her bikini, or her nightgown, or whatever, and metamorphosing into a woman. The shame I felt afterwards was unbearable. I figured that as long as I didn't actually do it, I would be in no danger of losing my masculinity. The very thought of losing my masculinity actually turned me on even more. It was only a matter of time.
When I finally found myself alone with Sandra's panties, I shook with dread. Part of me absolutely had to wear those panties. Part of me resisted. The latter part lost. I dared to put them on for a few seconds, took them off immediately, and ran off to masturbate. As long as I didn't do it with them on, I would surely be fine, I thought, while deep down I knew that I had contaminated myself with femininity, and hoped that it would only get much, much worse. I promised myself that I wouldn't ever have to wear anything like it again, because now I knew what it's like. I also promised myself that I would wear nothing but women's clothes from then on and officially become a woman right then and there.
Of course, I moped with shame after I was done. I had succumbed most brutally to femininity. I swore to never do it again. The very next day, Sandra's laundry still wasn't done, and I still had her panties at my apartment. I wore them longer than the last time, with the exact same result. How I wanted to wear them longer! How I wanted to wear all her clothes, and experience the full gamut of women's clothing! How I kicked myself after I was done and cursed that my manhood would now slowly erode, and swore to never even think about it again.
I tried to fool myself that I was protecting myself by keeping on my male socks as I masturbated in them. How I tricked myself into believing that I could get away with wearing them under my clothes all day long. None of it mattered, as I eventually succumbed to dressing fully as a woman, and reveled in my girlishness, knowing that I was doomed to becoming more and more effeminate the further I went, and loving every second of it.
Sandra was the sweetest, most outrageously gorgeous woman I ever had the fortune to meet. Having a relationship with her felt like winning the lottery. I couldn't believe my luck, and I felt like I would and should do anything to keep her. It was she who planted that dirty little seed in my head. I still don't know if she did it on purpose.
She looked like a fashion model. She was gorgeous even without makeup. She always dressed revealingly, right down to her underwear, but without looking sleazy. She always maintained a very classy, but at the same time sexy, look. She is the type of woman who is so feminine that you wonder how she can possibly be of the same species. She is inhumanly beautiful.
It pains me to think of her now. I am consumed with envy at the merest thought of her. You'll understand if I avoid going into much more detail about her. I'll leave it to your imagination.
One time after a particularly intimate session of lovemaking, she brought up the idea that would change me in ways I never conceived of: she wanted to swap underwear. She explained that it would make her feel closer to me if she could wear my briefs briefly. I would have to wear her lingerie to make the exchange equal. It would only be for a second or two, she said. She picked up my gitch from the floor, and put it on.
It was the funniest thing in the world to her. They didn't fit her all that well, but she still looked pretty damned gorgeous. Imagine that: she could even make a regular pair of gitch look feminine on her. I don't know if it turned her on or not. I, personally, was a bit spent from the arduous passion we had shared moments earlier.
She cajoled me into picking up her panties off the floor. I mentioned earlier that she wore classy but sexy clothes. Her unmentionables were no different. Her panties were off-white silk with lacy patterns on the sides and a very dainty little bunching up at the elastics. I won't describe how she looked in them. They dangled from my fingers as I looked at them stupidly. I tried to reconcile what seemed to me two impossibly disparate concepts. Sandra's panties. My crotch. North Pole and South Pole. Two positive ends of a magnet. The two could not possibly come in contact together, unless I was dry humping her as she wore them. For me to wear them seemed not only absurd, but physically impossible. She giggled behind me. Clearly, this was quite amusing to her. I wasn't even sure whether I was amused or not, the idea perplexed me so much.
"What are you afraid of?" she chided, "You think wearing them will make you less of a man?"
She hit the nail on the head. A classic dilemma: do I do what the most absolutely perfect woman in the world, whom I am most impossibly fortunate to have as a girlfriend, wants me to do, even if it undermines my masculinity? If I refuse, I risk losing her for not playing along; if I accept, I risk losing her for not being manly enough. Which would you choose? Pray that this never happens to you. In fact, my telling you this now will probably ruin you just as it did me. Don't say I didn't warn you. Maybe you should stop reading right now, if you know what's good for you.
In the end, it didn't matter. I had lost the moment she expressed that thought. I had been presented with a possibility that did not exist in my conception of the universe. My world became unraveled at that moment, even though I struggled mightily to keep it together. There I stood, naked, the threads of my world bunched together in a ball of lint in one hand, Sandra's intricate, beautiful, but durable panties in the other.
Days afterwards, I could think of nothing else. So it goes when your perceptions become fundamentally altered by a new idea. I still could not understand all of the consequences of the idea of wearing Sandra's panties. I needed time to think about it. It drove me to distraction. Would wearing the epitome of femininity's most intimately feminine clothes damage my manhood? If so, then doesn't that prove my manhood to be incredibly weak? I saw her wearing my underwear, and she maintained her womanhood. If anything, she made my gitch feminine. But then again, I am not nearly as masculine as she is feminine. Plus, manhood is much more fragile, ironically, than womanhood. Women never worry if they're feminine enough. Men struggle daily to prove their sexuality. Men can never prove enough. If a woman were caught wearing men's underwear, no one would question her sexuality. She would remain a woman no matter what. But if a man wears women's underwear, he brands himself a sissy at the very least. His manhood becomes forever suspect. But then, what kind of man would refuse to test his manhood? Doesn't it show fear, a most unmanly thing, to refuse to wear women's underwear? Sandra herself joked about it to me. Am I so underconfident that I wouldn't dare to wear something designed for women? Isn't my manhood strong enough.
These thoughts consumed me for weeks. Imagine thinking about the most gorgeous woman in the world and her underwear constantly. It's like being a pubescent teen again. Inevitably, I would work myself into a passionate frenzy thinking about Sandra's panties. Never mind the consequences, what would it be like to wear them? And what about other garments? What about bras, bathing suits, miniskirts, stockings, garter belts? What would it be like to wear makeup? Heels? Shave my legs? Every time I thought about it, I imagined what it would feel like to actually wear these things. I imagined how Sandra looked in all of them, and how they felt from the outside, and tried to picture how it would feel from the inside. It drove me crazy. It drove me to relieving my tension. It aroused more than curiosity to think of it.
I became more and more interested in what she wore. She never brought up panty swapping again, but I was captivated by her lingerie all the more. I couldn't dare bring it up myself.
I began to worry about my obsession with her clothes. I thought about wearing her underwear. Ever since the idea was introduced to me, I could suddenly conceive of the possibility of such a thing. I imagined every possible consequence, even the absurd. It could have absolutely no effect. Or it could instantly change my sex, and transform me into a woman as beautiful as Sandra. I knew that neither was true, and that reality was somewhere in between. I must admit that I dwelt far more on the latter scenario, and that such thoughts eventually brought unparalleled satisfaction. In plain English: I became aware that the thought of wearing Sandra's panties turned me on. In a big way.
At first I denied it. It couldn't possibly be true. But there I was, masturbating every time I imagined myself in her panties, or her bikini, or her nightgown, or whatever, and metamorphosing into a woman. The shame I felt afterwards was unbearable. I figured that as long as I didn't actually do it, I would be in no danger of losing my masculinity. The very thought of losing my masculinity actually turned me on even more. It was only a matter of time.
When I finally found myself alone with Sandra's panties, I shook with dread. Part of me absolutely had to wear those panties. Part of me resisted. The latter part lost. I dared to put them on for a few seconds, took them off immediately, and ran off to masturbate. As long as I didn't do it with them on, I would surely be fine, I thought, while deep down I knew that I had contaminated myself with femininity, and hoped that it would only get much, much worse. I promised myself that I wouldn't ever have to wear anything like it again, because now I knew what it's like. I also promised myself that I would wear nothing but women's clothes from then on and officially become a woman right then and there.
Of course, I moped with shame after I was done. I had succumbed most brutally to femininity. I swore to never do it again. The very next day, Sandra's laundry still wasn't done, and I still had her panties at my apartment. I wore them longer than the last time, with the exact same result. How I wanted to wear them longer! How I wanted to wear all her clothes, and experience the full gamut of women's clothing! How I kicked myself after I was done and cursed that my manhood would now slowly erode, and swore to never even think about it again.
I tried to fool myself that I was protecting myself by keeping on my male socks as I masturbated in them. How I tricked myself into believing that I could get away with wearing them under my clothes all day long. None of it mattered, as I eventually succumbed to dressing fully as a woman, and reveled in my girlishness, knowing that I was doomed to becoming more and more effeminate the further I went, and loving every second of it.
Diary: Enumerations
Place items of feminine clothing in reverse order of impact. Special combinations count as separate items (e.g. panties is one item; panties with matching brassiere, garter belt and and stockings is quite another). Distinct types of items also count as separate items (e.g. silk stockings are not the same as fishnet stockings).
- Kilt, wearing men's underwear underneath. Dressed like a Scot.
- Long skirt, everything else, including underwear, masculine
- Long skirt and blouse, men's underwear underneath
- Regular pantyhose, men's underwear
- Control-top pantyhose, men's underwear
- Bicycle shorts, no underwear.
- Regular pantyhose. Nothing else.
- Control-top pantyhose. Nothing else.
- 80's style leotard, no underwear.
- Lycra hot pants, no underwear.
- Lycra hot pants and a matching fairly full sport bra-type top. No underwear.
- One-piece swimsuit, men's underwear underneath.
- One-piece swimsuit, control-top pantyhose underneath
- One-piece swimsuit, regular pantyhose underneath.
- Full-coverage one-piece swimsuit.
- Granny panties
- High-cut one-piece swimsuit
- High-cut one-piece swimsuit with racer back.
- Low-cut cotton bikini bottom
- Low-cut lycra bikini bottom
- Low-cut cotton bikini bottom and matching strapless bra
- Low-cut lycra bikini bottom and matching strapless bra
- High-cut cotton bikini and matching bra with straps
- Black cotton panties, full
- White cotton panties, full
- String bikini bottom
- High cut lycra bikini and matching bra with straps
- Full white cotton panties and bra
- Garter belt and nylon stockings
- Garter belt and silk stockings
- Garter belt and fishnet stockings
- Lace teddy, any colour
- White lace panties
- Black lace panties
- White silk or satin panties
- Black silk or satin panties
- Silk or satin teddy
- Lace panties and bra
- Silk or satin panties and bra
- Panties, bra, garter belt, and stockings
- Silk or satin teddy and garter belt and stockings
- Any panties and bra under a long flowing dress
- Any panties and bra under a long tight dress
- Any panties and bra under a short dress
- Any panties and bra under a tight miniskirt and halter top
- Pantyhose (regular)
- Control-top pantyhose
- Leotard tights
- Full Leotard
- Leotard without tights
- One-piece swimsuit
- Bikini bottom
- Bikini with strapless top
- Bikini
- Panties
- Bra
- Garter belt
- Fishnet stockings
- White satin teddy
- Black lace teddy
- White lace teddy
- Bustier
- Long dress
- Short dress
- Miniskirt
- Makeup
Do you own more different swimsuits than most women?
Fiction: Conditioning Experiments
I was desperate. I needed the money, or else I'd have been living on the street. I always laughed at people who volunteered for scientific experiments for a price. The scientists never told you what they were going to do to you. I figured I would be trying out some new drugs or something. I never expected them to do surgery.
I was so desperate that I let them do something to my cock. They gave me a local anesthetic, cut my piece on two sides, and put in some stringy wire thing. Then they stitched me up and told me not to engage in any sexual activity for 2 weeks, and to come back then.
Let me tell you, it was a nightmare to not allow myself any sexual gratification at all for that long. It doesn't seem long, but I probably thought about it more often just because they told me I couldn't do it. At any rate, I could barely notice that they had done anything to me. The stitches were very fine and small. The wire was so thin that I could only barely feel it under my skin. Regardless, however difficult it was to resist wanking or fucking for two weeks, they sure didn't prepare me for their little experiment.
They sat me down on a chair and tied up my arms. "Why the restraints?" I asked.
"Because we don't want you touching yourself at this point," explained a cute little blonde in a lab coat, as she wrote notes on a clipboard. "We need to test your thresholds, and you touching yourself would throw off our calibrations."
She disappeared, and I was left alone in the room looking at a dark mirror in front of me. It was like one of those cold, grey interrogation rooms in TV cop shows. I knew they were watching me from behind that one-way glass.
Suddenly, I felt a little twinge in my dick. Didn't know what to make of it. Then I felt it again, just as suddenly. I felt a bit embarrassed, and worried. I hoped that I hadn't reacted too strongly, knowing that they were watching my every move.
Gradually the twinges became more persistent, and I knew that they were doing something to me. It felt like a slight pressure on my cock. It felt quite pleasant in fact. I was getting aroused.
The sensation in my dick grew more and more pronounced. It felt like something oscillating within me. It felt like a phantom was giving me a hand job. I must have turned purple, because I was horribly embarrassed. A bunch of scientists were watching me try to keep a straight expression as they fiddled with my shaft with their remote control. I squirmed in my seat. I longed to touch myself, just as the cute little blonde had warned. I wonder if I would have dared knowing that I was being watched.
Pretty soon, I didn't even care. I felt so horny from the pulsation in my penis that I would have jerked off right in front of them. I started doing a little dance in my chair, gyrating my hips instinctively. It was growing to a fever pitch. Pretty soon the pressure and pulse was enough that I didn't even think I'd need to touch my dick. I was beginning to feel orgasmic. I couldn't contain my pleasure. I was breathing heavily, sweating, swinging my hips, moaning. It must have looked like I was fucking a ghost. It felt incredible. I didn't even need to move! Pure gratification.
Then I came all over myself, and collapsed into my chair. But the pulses wouldn't stop. In fact, they kept getting stronger. Moments later, I was right back in my state of ecstasy, in spite of the initial discomfort. I came all over myself again.
And again.
And yet again.
After the fifth time, I think I passed out. My cock hurt like hell from all the work. It couldn't handle any more. They unstrapped me and handed me a clean pair of pants and underwear, and sent me to the showers. Or rather, they rolled me to the showers, because I couldn't walk.
A week later, as scheduled, they ran the same experiment. I was still sore from the week before. This time, I lasted only four times, but man I was enjoying this experiment. The sensation was almost as good as the best sex, I kid you not. Or at least I thought so then. I was scheduled to continue attending for six more weeks, and my resistance got stronger and stronger. It was like working out a muscle for strength training. I learned to control my orgasms like an expert. I could hold out for at least an hour before coming. Imagine the most intense sex you've ever had, and stretch out the peaks for an entire day. This was much better than sex.
At the end they gave me my last paycheque and sent me on my way. I had tried to pick up the little blonde, but she was probably pretty grossed out by what I had been through. I felt like I could be the greatest lover a woman had ever known. She looked totally uninterested when she shot me down. Oh well.
It didn't take long for me to spend that cash. Lucky for me they asked me if I wanted to come back for a longer experiment. I jumped at the chance. This time the experiment would go for six months. Six months! Getting jerked off for six months, and getting paid for it! How could I resist? I signed all the forms without even looking at them.
It turned out that I had to move in to their facility. I didn't even have to go home anymore. It seems the experiments were going to require constant monitoring. It wouldn't be once a week anymore, but daily! I was really beginning to like this. Then they sprang their first stunt on me.
They weren't strapping me down anymore. Instead, they sat me at a table, where they placed a closed box, and left the room. Inside it was a pile of dead grasshoppers. They told me to eat one. I couldn't believe it. I felt nothing in my dick. Nothing at all. They told me to open the box. When I did, I felt them zap me something soothing and nice. As soon as I let go of the box, it stopped. Right away, I knew what they were up to. They wanted to see how far I would stoop before giving in to my sexual desires. Believe me, I tried to hold out. It felt like hours, but apparently it was only 42:51. It tasted awful, but the orgasm was phenomenal! I felt cheap and disgusting, manipulated into doing something so revolting.
This went on for a week before they got to the real point of their experiment. They had made me eat shit, smear it all over myself, lick the floor of a filthy latrine, drink toilet water, you name it. I was totally enslaved. I couldn't resist anything that they wanted me to do. I began to despise them. Even the cute little blonde.
I was supposed to have the weekend off. They still needed to monitor me though, apparently, and the cute little blonde drew the short straw and had to watch me all weekend. I think she had it all planned out.
In the middle of breakfast, the unmistakable pulse worked its way through my pyjamas. This remote control worked from the other side of the building! I ran back to the lab, cock throbbing with pleasure, ready to throttle the bitch. When I got near her, she flipped a knob and I sank to my knees in agony. The bitch! She made me crawl to her, only alleviating the pain as I did her bidding. She gave me an instant, super-intense orgasm when I finally complied and licked her feet.
"Now, let there be no question about who's boss around here, OK?" she sneered.
I nodded meekly in reverence to her power over me. I had to do everything she said.
She made me wear women's underwear. She rewarded me sweetly for it, too. She made me Nair off all my body hair, put on makeup, and become a complete sissy boy for her. And she rewarded me sweetly at every step. I didn't want to. But I had to. It felt so incredibly good.
She punished me quite a bit before I finally sucked her boyfriend's cock. I resisted that for days, actually. Finally, when I succumbed, she rewarded me with the most intense erotic sensation I have ever felt. I sucked with complete relish as she fucked me remotely. The more passionately I sucked, the more pleasure she granted me. She finished me off as I finished licking the slimy mess from his thighs and balls that spilled out of my mouth when I couldn't swallow it fast enough.
I was so desperate that I let them do something to my cock. They gave me a local anesthetic, cut my piece on two sides, and put in some stringy wire thing. Then they stitched me up and told me not to engage in any sexual activity for 2 weeks, and to come back then.
Let me tell you, it was a nightmare to not allow myself any sexual gratification at all for that long. It doesn't seem long, but I probably thought about it more often just because they told me I couldn't do it. At any rate, I could barely notice that they had done anything to me. The stitches were very fine and small. The wire was so thin that I could only barely feel it under my skin. Regardless, however difficult it was to resist wanking or fucking for two weeks, they sure didn't prepare me for their little experiment.
They sat me down on a chair and tied up my arms. "Why the restraints?" I asked.
"Because we don't want you touching yourself at this point," explained a cute little blonde in a lab coat, as she wrote notes on a clipboard. "We need to test your thresholds, and you touching yourself would throw off our calibrations."
She disappeared, and I was left alone in the room looking at a dark mirror in front of me. It was like one of those cold, grey interrogation rooms in TV cop shows. I knew they were watching me from behind that one-way glass.
Suddenly, I felt a little twinge in my dick. Didn't know what to make of it. Then I felt it again, just as suddenly. I felt a bit embarrassed, and worried. I hoped that I hadn't reacted too strongly, knowing that they were watching my every move.
Gradually the twinges became more persistent, and I knew that they were doing something to me. It felt like a slight pressure on my cock. It felt quite pleasant in fact. I was getting aroused.
The sensation in my dick grew more and more pronounced. It felt like something oscillating within me. It felt like a phantom was giving me a hand job. I must have turned purple, because I was horribly embarrassed. A bunch of scientists were watching me try to keep a straight expression as they fiddled with my shaft with their remote control. I squirmed in my seat. I longed to touch myself, just as the cute little blonde had warned. I wonder if I would have dared knowing that I was being watched.
Pretty soon, I didn't even care. I felt so horny from the pulsation in my penis that I would have jerked off right in front of them. I started doing a little dance in my chair, gyrating my hips instinctively. It was growing to a fever pitch. Pretty soon the pressure and pulse was enough that I didn't even think I'd need to touch my dick. I was beginning to feel orgasmic. I couldn't contain my pleasure. I was breathing heavily, sweating, swinging my hips, moaning. It must have looked like I was fucking a ghost. It felt incredible. I didn't even need to move! Pure gratification.
Then I came all over myself, and collapsed into my chair. But the pulses wouldn't stop. In fact, they kept getting stronger. Moments later, I was right back in my state of ecstasy, in spite of the initial discomfort. I came all over myself again.
And again.
And yet again.
After the fifth time, I think I passed out. My cock hurt like hell from all the work. It couldn't handle any more. They unstrapped me and handed me a clean pair of pants and underwear, and sent me to the showers. Or rather, they rolled me to the showers, because I couldn't walk.
A week later, as scheduled, they ran the same experiment. I was still sore from the week before. This time, I lasted only four times, but man I was enjoying this experiment. The sensation was almost as good as the best sex, I kid you not. Or at least I thought so then. I was scheduled to continue attending for six more weeks, and my resistance got stronger and stronger. It was like working out a muscle for strength training. I learned to control my orgasms like an expert. I could hold out for at least an hour before coming. Imagine the most intense sex you've ever had, and stretch out the peaks for an entire day. This was much better than sex.
At the end they gave me my last paycheque and sent me on my way. I had tried to pick up the little blonde, but she was probably pretty grossed out by what I had been through. I felt like I could be the greatest lover a woman had ever known. She looked totally uninterested when she shot me down. Oh well.
It didn't take long for me to spend that cash. Lucky for me they asked me if I wanted to come back for a longer experiment. I jumped at the chance. This time the experiment would go for six months. Six months! Getting jerked off for six months, and getting paid for it! How could I resist? I signed all the forms without even looking at them.
It turned out that I had to move in to their facility. I didn't even have to go home anymore. It seems the experiments were going to require constant monitoring. It wouldn't be once a week anymore, but daily! I was really beginning to like this. Then they sprang their first stunt on me.
They weren't strapping me down anymore. Instead, they sat me at a table, where they placed a closed box, and left the room. Inside it was a pile of dead grasshoppers. They told me to eat one. I couldn't believe it. I felt nothing in my dick. Nothing at all. They told me to open the box. When I did, I felt them zap me something soothing and nice. As soon as I let go of the box, it stopped. Right away, I knew what they were up to. They wanted to see how far I would stoop before giving in to my sexual desires. Believe me, I tried to hold out. It felt like hours, but apparently it was only 42:51. It tasted awful, but the orgasm was phenomenal! I felt cheap and disgusting, manipulated into doing something so revolting.
This went on for a week before they got to the real point of their experiment. They had made me eat shit, smear it all over myself, lick the floor of a filthy latrine, drink toilet water, you name it. I was totally enslaved. I couldn't resist anything that they wanted me to do. I began to despise them. Even the cute little blonde.
I was supposed to have the weekend off. They still needed to monitor me though, apparently, and the cute little blonde drew the short straw and had to watch me all weekend. I think she had it all planned out.
In the middle of breakfast, the unmistakable pulse worked its way through my pyjamas. This remote control worked from the other side of the building! I ran back to the lab, cock throbbing with pleasure, ready to throttle the bitch. When I got near her, she flipped a knob and I sank to my knees in agony. The bitch! She made me crawl to her, only alleviating the pain as I did her bidding. She gave me an instant, super-intense orgasm when I finally complied and licked her feet.
"Now, let there be no question about who's boss around here, OK?" she sneered.
I nodded meekly in reverence to her power over me. I had to do everything she said.
She made me wear women's underwear. She rewarded me sweetly for it, too. She made me Nair off all my body hair, put on makeup, and become a complete sissy boy for her. And she rewarded me sweetly at every step. I didn't want to. But I had to. It felt so incredibly good.
She punished me quite a bit before I finally sucked her boyfriend's cock. I resisted that for days, actually. Finally, when I succumbed, she rewarded me with the most intense erotic sensation I have ever felt. I sucked with complete relish as she fucked me remotely. The more passionately I sucked, the more pleasure she granted me. She finished me off as I finished licking the slimy mess from his thighs and balls that spilled out of my mouth when I couldn't swallow it fast enough.
Fiction: The Knight of Lingerie
[The knight rode in, gleaming in her armour, atop her white horse, taller than most men, but radiantly beautiful nonetheless. Her armour was fitted to her feminine form. She unhorsed many a knight during the tournament. She took them prisoner, as is her right as victor, and returned to the land of Amazonia. The men were never heard from again. Perhaps they hid themselves in their shame for losing to a woman, even though she was formidable in her own right.]
[The woman-knight rides in and collects her prisoners in the name of the Queen of Amazonia. She sends taunting messages from her Liege, which brings great shame to our kingdom. But knights are afraid to challenge her. She is so powerful that they fear losing to her. It seems shameful merely to dress for battle against her, a woman.]
The king was troubled that none of his knights would take the challenge. His kingdom became a wasteland, a mockery. Until the White Knight appeared.
The White Knight meets the Princess of Amazonia in a joust. They fight long and hard, but he eventually emerges victorious. As his prize, he gets the Princess of Amazonia's hand, and all of her lands. They travel together to Amazonia.
When they arrive, they treat him to a hero's welcome. The Princess has hundreds of pages, all former knights that she has vanquished, at her service, and at the service of the White Knight. She also has scores of beautiful maidens, who command the pages as they please, but also serve both the Princess and the White Knight.
As is the custom, the Princess bids her servants make the White Knight some clothes. As they bring him his new garments, he remarks on how they appear unmistakably feminine. But he cannot refuse them, or else he will dishonour himself. Therefore he must agree to wear them.
First, the maidens have him slide into tight, white, silken breeches, with lacy trim, and tie him into a matching harness for his chest. This harness appears shaped to hold a woman's breasts. They then girt him with an elegant white belt, made of the finest silk and lace he had ever seen. From his belt hang ribbons of silk with buttons on the end. It clinches him tightly around the waist, so tightly as to make him uncomfortable, but the maidens insist that this is the way it is meant to be, and that it suits him perfectly. They bring him skin-tight silk stockings, pristine white, just like the breeches, chest harness, and belt. He slides them onto his legs and luxuriates in the sensation. At last, they present him with a beautiful white robe, which fits him tightly around the waist and chest and arms, but flares out at his legs. They bring him delicate white leather shoes, with pointed toe and raised heel, which he barely manages to keep his balance in.
He marvels at the sensation that these clothes bring him. He remarks on how the women of his land would wear exactly such clothing, but that he will willingly suffer wearing it to please his hostess.
At last, they bring him to the Hall, where all the Amazonian knights and ladies await a great feast celebrating the impending wedding of their Princess. To his dismay, the men and ladies follow similar fashions to his own people. The knights gape at him in shock, and the ladies snicker. The Princess appears beside him, more beautiful and radiant than ever any woman before her, wearing the same clothes.
"Lady," he complains, "You have dishonored me! I will forever suffer the ridicule of my fellow knights, no matter how valiantly I fight, no matter how many knights and lands I conquer! You have made me dress like a woman, and parade myself before hundreds of noble lords and ladies. My dishonour will follow me like my shadow."
The Princess comforts him, reminding him how he seemed to enjoy his clothes earlier, and that he willingly put them on anyway. Also, he reminded him that her honour lasts in spite of her wearing the same clothes.
The White Knight reddens with shame at this. He flees to his chamber, to fling off his dress, and put on his armour. His own clothes are gone, and he cannot go into his armour naked, so he keeps on his stockings, breeches, and chest harness. He gallops far away from Amazonia, swearing to never return. The Princess prophesies the contrary.
The White Knight, defending his honour along the way, conquers many more knights, whom he forces to surrender to the Princess of Amazonia and beg her to wear her clothing. This would absolve him of all shame, because all knights wear women's clothing, not just him. He arrives home to ridicule, and removes his armour to replace the object of his shame with more masculine attire. He need not even vow to never wear women's clothing again.
At length, he finds himself longing for the Princess again. He remembers the shame of wearing her clothing, but also thinks fondly of it for reminding him of his beloved Princess. He longs so much for it that he has similar undergarments made for himself. He wears them under his armour, just as he did when he departed Amazonia.
He jousts another knight, who recognizes him, and chides him about his dishonour. The other knight can see the white silk under a piece of armour he has knocked off the White Knight. The enrages the White Knight, who vanquishes his opponent and kills him. In his shame, he removes his womanly clothes at his first opportunity, vowing to avenge his shame.
But he returns to it, as if by enchantment. He wears it more and more. But it only increases his longing for his Princess, because he knows it to be a mere imitation of the genuine article. He craves more and more the privilege of wearing his Princess's clothing. He begins to feel more powerfully feminine than before. He becomes more and more proud of his longing. He begins to wear his feminine clothes as a badge of honour. He has armour made for himself like he saw on his beloved princess. He begins to become more and more like a woman. His breasts begin to grow, his body hair thins, his voice rises.
At last he returns to her, happy to admit his folly, and agrees to become her equal, her sister in arms. In a ceremony in front of all the vanquished knights, who have been forced to wear women's clothing, and praying for a saviour, the White Knight proclaims manhood dead, and vows to become a true woman, and rule Amazonia as a woman.
Fantasy: Technological Feminization
Men are obsessed with the female form. What's more, we pretend that we can't like delicate, frilly, flowery pretty things, yet we melt at the site of women who have all of these qualities. In truth, men won't admit to obsessing over feminine things, because that would undermine their own sexuality. Secretly, though, they can't get enough. And secretly, they all want to surround themselves with femininity, but they just can't dare. Women dress the way they do because they know that men like it. They like it because they want to be feminine too.
Here's a fantasy: technological advances have made possible feminization through clothes. The cosmetics industry has designed garments that help women maintain their femininity far longer and more easily than before. They have been shown to feminize the butchiest women. Nobody thought they could be so useful on men.
Masculinity is extremely fragile, but femininity is irrevocable.
The thigh-high stockings I've been forced to wear will electrolyze my leg hair completely off, permanently, while pumping a healthy dose of hormones into my skin. Bras and panties concentrate energy on my female erogenous zones, and make it incredibly pleasurable to wear them. The shoes, of course, form my feet into the perfect shape for 2-inch heels. A garter belt squeezes my waist in. I wear skirts and dresses only, because my panties burn up and punish me if they aren't allowed contact with air. My vocal cords shrink, my body hair falls out, and I start liking boys a lot more. I figure that I might as well enjoy my impending girlhood, because I can't resist anymore. It's like a perpetual orgasm. And I feel so pretty.
Here's a fantasy: technological advances have made possible feminization through clothes. The cosmetics industry has designed garments that help women maintain their femininity far longer and more easily than before. They have been shown to feminize the butchiest women. Nobody thought they could be so useful on men.
Masculinity is extremely fragile, but femininity is irrevocable.
The thigh-high stockings I've been forced to wear will electrolyze my leg hair completely off, permanently, while pumping a healthy dose of hormones into my skin. Bras and panties concentrate energy on my female erogenous zones, and make it incredibly pleasurable to wear them. The shoes, of course, form my feet into the perfect shape for 2-inch heels. A garter belt squeezes my waist in. I wear skirts and dresses only, because my panties burn up and punish me if they aren't allowed contact with air. My vocal cords shrink, my body hair falls out, and I start liking boys a lot more. I figure that I might as well enjoy my impending girlhood, because I can't resist anymore. It's like a perpetual orgasm. And I feel so pretty.
Diary: Formative Years
At what point is it forced? At what point does it become voluntary? How and when does he succumb? Does he do it knowing that he will love it? Does he do it because he thinks he won't? Or does he simply get caught up in it, unable to explain it or deny it, unable to understand what is happening to him?
It's the danger of forbidden knowledge. We are made to feel ashamed of our sexual urges as children. We learn to hide our secret desires, feel embarrassed by them. Interest in women and everything associated with them becomes dangerous. It's a matter of identity: I'm not a girl, I'm a boy, and I must therefore do boy things; I must make a distinction between the sexes, and make it as rigid as possible. We struggle all our lives to discover who we are. We make choices based on what others do and how they appear. I had to identify with other boys. Girls identify with each other. But secretly, we all want to know more about the other camp. I secretly adore girls, and everything about them fascinates me in ways that I cannot begin to explain. But I'll never admit to that in public.
So it's forbidden for me to know much about them. I know how they look clothed, but I'm not allowed to see them naked. That's far too intimate. Only girls should see girls naked. That's why they have segregated washrooms. What would happen if I did know what they wear under their clothes?
Now I know. I know that I know too much. I have seen girls in their underwear. In their swimwear. I know what their clothes look like from the inside. I have been initiated. I found out how it feels to wear their clothes. Their swimwear. Their underwear. I know how to put on pantyhose, stockings, panties, a garter belt, a brassiere. Now that I know, I can never go back.
It's the danger of forbidden knowledge. We are made to feel ashamed of our sexual urges as children. We learn to hide our secret desires, feel embarrassed by them. Interest in women and everything associated with them becomes dangerous. It's a matter of identity: I'm not a girl, I'm a boy, and I must therefore do boy things; I must make a distinction between the sexes, and make it as rigid as possible. We struggle all our lives to discover who we are. We make choices based on what others do and how they appear. I had to identify with other boys. Girls identify with each other. But secretly, we all want to know more about the other camp. I secretly adore girls, and everything about them fascinates me in ways that I cannot begin to explain. But I'll never admit to that in public.
So it's forbidden for me to know much about them. I know how they look clothed, but I'm not allowed to see them naked. That's far too intimate. Only girls should see girls naked. That's why they have segregated washrooms. What would happen if I did know what they wear under their clothes?
Now I know. I know that I know too much. I have seen girls in their underwear. In their swimwear. I know what their clothes look like from the inside. I have been initiated. I found out how it feels to wear their clothes. Their swimwear. Their underwear. I know how to put on pantyhose, stockings, panties, a garter belt, a brassiere. Now that I know, I can never go back.
Fantasy: Laetitia's Priestess
Laetitia Casta is a goddess.
She exudes femininity in every picture I've ever seen of her. She has that intangible femaleness that would lure any heterosexual man to his very death. She models underwear and swimwear. France has declared her a national icon, the representation of her country. I would give up everything to just touch her. Everything.
So by chance I met her. She is everything in person that she is in photos. I told her that I would give up everything to just touch her. So she let me touch her.
She allowed me to follow her around like a lost puppy. She wore as much as she does in her photos. I touched her once, but that was all. I wanted more, and she knew it. But she remained adamant. I was not permitted to touch her again in any way until I gave her everything.
She tormented me. She came very close to me, sensuously, and let me smell her skin. I could not dare touch her. She teased me as she stripped in front of me and showed me all the underwear she has.
This went on for days. I couldn't take it anymore. I came at the sight of her. And I was still putty in her hands. She teased me more and more viciously, still awaiting that I give her everything. One day she started allowing me to touch her underwear after she discarded it. I treasured it. It had been so close to her, had touched her most intimate details. It was almost her. There was a part of her in it. She giggled about this. She had it all figured out from the beginning.
"Wear it," she said.
I didn't hesitate. My body shook with anticipation of my cock touching something that she had been in contact with -- much less worn against -- her glorious pussy. As I slid the panties up to my waist, my knees buckled as I collapsed in the sheer ecstasy of the experience. At that moment, I understood what she meant to do with me. And I welcomed it.
She had had me worship her femininity. Now I had become initiated into her priesthood. I now abandoned everything I owned to become her disciple. I cast off all my own possessions, down to my underwear. From now on, I would strive to become as much like my goddess as possible. I would wear anything she discarded, and try to become as feminine as her. She had me model her underwear and swimwear after her, and mark my progress.
I did as much as I could with that unsightly bulge between my legs. I grew my own hair, breasts, and lost all my body hair. My voice changed pitch. Even as my dick shrank, I anticipated losing it altogether. I would become a girl just like her, only not natural like her.
At last she got everything when I finally had my penis removed. As a token of my gift to her, I cooked it and ate it before her. Finally after all this time, she allowed me to touch her. I caressed her skin not as a lover but as a sister.
She exudes femininity in every picture I've ever seen of her. She has that intangible femaleness that would lure any heterosexual man to his very death. She models underwear and swimwear. France has declared her a national icon, the representation of her country. I would give up everything to just touch her. Everything.
So by chance I met her. She is everything in person that she is in photos. I told her that I would give up everything to just touch her. So she let me touch her.
She allowed me to follow her around like a lost puppy. She wore as much as she does in her photos. I touched her once, but that was all. I wanted more, and she knew it. But she remained adamant. I was not permitted to touch her again in any way until I gave her everything.
She tormented me. She came very close to me, sensuously, and let me smell her skin. I could not dare touch her. She teased me as she stripped in front of me and showed me all the underwear she has.
This went on for days. I couldn't take it anymore. I came at the sight of her. And I was still putty in her hands. She teased me more and more viciously, still awaiting that I give her everything. One day she started allowing me to touch her underwear after she discarded it. I treasured it. It had been so close to her, had touched her most intimate details. It was almost her. There was a part of her in it. She giggled about this. She had it all figured out from the beginning.
"Wear it," she said.
I didn't hesitate. My body shook with anticipation of my cock touching something that she had been in contact with -- much less worn against -- her glorious pussy. As I slid the panties up to my waist, my knees buckled as I collapsed in the sheer ecstasy of the experience. At that moment, I understood what she meant to do with me. And I welcomed it.
She had had me worship her femininity. Now I had become initiated into her priesthood. I now abandoned everything I owned to become her disciple. I cast off all my own possessions, down to my underwear. From now on, I would strive to become as much like my goddess as possible. I would wear anything she discarded, and try to become as feminine as her. She had me model her underwear and swimwear after her, and mark my progress.
I did as much as I could with that unsightly bulge between my legs. I grew my own hair, breasts, and lost all my body hair. My voice changed pitch. Even as my dick shrank, I anticipated losing it altogether. I would become a girl just like her, only not natural like her.
At last she got everything when I finally had my penis removed. As a token of my gift to her, I cooked it and ate it before her. Finally after all this time, she allowed me to touch her. I caressed her skin not as a lover but as a sister.
Diary: Britney Lookalike
An interesting news story caught my eye this weekend. It seems that teen pop star Britney Spears had a lookalike contest, the winner of which would get to hang around with her backstage at one of her concerts. Naturally, all the teeny-boppers in the world who idolize her and want to be just like her. So did 23-year old Robert Stephens. He's been practicing all his life to be just like Britney Spears. He dressed up like her and won the contest hands down. At the concert, when he claimed his prize, the press mistook him for Britney herself, he looks so much like her, and her publicists went ballistic and threw him out.
What a lucky bastard!
I remember hearing about a guy who idolized Elle MacPherson so much that he became a lookalike of her. Now that's dedication. I would love to do that, too. Britney is incredibly beautiful. I imagine he went the whole nine yards, meaning that he wasn't wearing anything masculine underneath. He looks so much like her - and she looks pretty damned feminine - that he must put in hours of practice. He must even move like her. That's incredibly cool. The guy made himself into one of the most beautiful girls on the planet. What an ambition! What a fantasy!
Imagine being forced to become a lookalike of a supermodel...
What a lucky bastard!
I remember hearing about a guy who idolized Elle MacPherson so much that he became a lookalike of her. Now that's dedication. I would love to do that, too. Britney is incredibly beautiful. I imagine he went the whole nine yards, meaning that he wasn't wearing anything masculine underneath. He looks so much like her - and she looks pretty damned feminine - that he must put in hours of practice. He must even move like her. That's incredibly cool. The guy made himself into one of the most beautiful girls on the planet. What an ambition! What a fantasy!
Imagine being forced to become a lookalike of a supermodel...
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