I was walking down the street, minding my own business, when suddenly, at a street corner, a white van screeches to the curb in front of me, opens its doors, and I get pushed in. No sooner do I land on the floor of the van does the door slam behind me and we speed away, screeching tires again, as a velvet bag goes over my head.
I hear women's voices all around me. "You never should have cheated on Marcia, you scumball. We're going to destroy you!" says one, threateningly.
Now, I have no idea who Marcia is. I've never met anyone by that name, much less cheated on her. In fact, I haven't had a girlfriend in months, and I'm the one who got cheated on and dumped. I try to explain that it's all a terrible mistake, but they were having none of it.
"John, don't be such a snivelling coward. Do you really think we'd let you off that easily?"
"But I'm not John! I swear! You've got to believe me! Look at my ID, it's in my back pocket!"
"Do you take us for fools? We know it's you, John, and you've been very, very naughty, and you will be punished. Are you going to take it like a man, or bitch and moan like a girl?"
After much pleading for my life, and them kicking me in the nuts, slapping, and punching my head, the van stops and they hustle me out of it and into some building. I have no clue where I am.
They tear the hood off my head and drag me kicking and screaming into a sort of bathroom, where they cut away all my clothes, lather me with some noxious-smelling substance, and spray me down. To my horror, all of my body hair washes away in the spray.
They restrain me again and wrap my limp penis in some sort of sleeve, which they then tuck between my butt cheeks, and tie. I feel something soft and silky being slid up my now smooth legs, which turns out to be some sort of underwear. Then I somehow have a bra put on me, matching the underwear, and I know I'm in trouble.
Unable to move, I feel a sharp pain around my navel, as two women lean over me. I feel something dangling from the spot where they put a hole in me.
They violently flip me over, and I can hear a soft buzzing sound approaching. For the next few hours, I feel them cutting into the skin of my lower back, and giggling about a "tramp stamp."
Next they wrap a corset around me, and while a group of them work on squeezing the air out of me as they tighten the waist, others take advantage of my almost fainting by slipping stockings onto each of my bald legs, and hooking them onto the garters of the corset, which, it turns out, has a sort of frilly skirt to it. Then they attach shoes with tight straps around my ankles.
They strap me down to a sort of chair, and start working on my face. There's a knife being pressed to my throat, so I don't dare to move. I hear buzzing again, and feel sharp pain as they colour my lips, cheeks and eyes. At the same time, they pinch my earlobes a few times with some kind of tool. Finally, they buzz off every hair on my head, and glue a blonde wig to my scalp.
At this point, they jab my arm with a needle, and as I gasp, they grasp my jaw, keeping it open, and press the knife even harder against my throat. They grab my tongue, and pinch it hard with another tool. It's agony. I can't withdraw it reflexively, because the tool has too firm a hold on it. As they remove the tool, they threaten me some more, as they attach something metallic to my tongue. Finally, they let go, and I can feel a pea-sized metallic lump on the top of my tongue.
Finally, they let me go. I stumble out of the chair to their laughter, nearly breaking my ankle as I lose my balance on my high stilletoes. They point me to a mirrored wall, but it takes me a few moments to recognize myself. I am now utterly feminized. If not for the broad shoulders and over-large hands, I'd look just like a sexy woman. My crotch is especially shockingly convincing, because my cock is tucked out of the way.
"Why have you done this to me?" I ask plaintively.
"John, Marcia was very, very upset when she found out about you and that tramp Vanessa."
"I'm NOT JOHN!" I scream, terrified and furious.
"No, you certainly are not, John," says the ringleader, snickering, "Not anymore."
All the other girls laugh heartily as I cower in the corner.
"From now on," the ringleader continues menacingly, "you yourself will be known as Vanessa, now that you look so much like her."
I am speechless.
"And just so you know, there's no turning back now. We've tattooed makeup onto your face, pierced your ears a few times, and your belly button, and your tongue, and given you a butterfly tattoo just above your ass. Your body hair won't be growing back for weeks, and nobody knows where you are. We've already injected you with your dose of hormones for the day. From now on, you serve Marcia hand and foot. Understand?"
Horrified, I nod my head. I stare at myself in the mirror. I'm astounded that all it took was a few hours to turn me into a girl.
"Now, Vanessa, let's go to your mistress, so you can pledge your eternal servitude."
I meekly follow her out of the salon, girls tittering behind my back. I can't walk very quickly with these stillettoes on, and they hurt my feet. I'm terrified to fall behind her, because I'm afraid of what she'll do to me. I am terribly conscious of my new appearance, as the pain on my face, my ears, my navel, my waist, my lower back, and my feet contrasts sharply against the softness and delicacy of my stockings, panties, corset, and bra. My penis swells painfully, restrained in its sleeve, as I take in my new femininity.
As we approach an ornate door, I am instructed to approach Marcia with my head bowed, walk slowly and meekly to her throne, and bow before her, begging for forgiveness, and offering myself to her service forever as a small token of remorse for my cheating on her. The first parts are not at all difficult, since I am horribly ashamed of what's happened to me. The next is not so easy, since I have no idea who Marcia is, and I am apparently being punished for someone else's crimes.
Before I can even speak, she screams at me. I haven't even looked at her yet. I still don't know what her face looks like, since my head has been bowed all this time.
"John... or should I say, Vanessa, you fucking scumbag! I hope you realize just how badly you fucked up! You're worthless! WORTHLESS! And now see where your few minutes of infedelity have landed you! I thought you would have known better!"
"Yes, your majesty," I reply meekly, too afraid to try to contradict her.
"Now, to show me just how sorry you are, Vanessa, you'll prove to me just how serious you are about renouncing your womanizing ways."
A muscular man, much bigger than me, and wearing no more than a thong, comes up to me, and picks me up off the ground, leaving me on my knees before him. He takes out his cock, a massive, throbbing, muscular thing which puts mine to shame, and sticks it in my face. He slaps my cheek with it. I have no choice, so I grasp it, hands trembling, and bring it to my mouth. I close my eyes as I put my lips around it, and feel it twitch.
I try not to notice the taste too much. I notice that he seems to twitch and groan when my studded tongue touches his head a certain way. I am so feminized! I am sucking cock! My own cock swells uncomfortably again between my butt cheeks. This is so unbelievably dirty! I find my hand jacking the base as I realize that I have tattoos and piercings the likes of which only the sluttiest skanks ever get. I am wearing clothes designed to make women look sexy. I'm more feminine than many women!
I gasp when I feel a pair of hands grab my waist and pull me up to my feet. I am careful not to let go of the penis in my hand, and quickly put it back into my mouth. Only now I feel another cock rubbing against my silky ass. Strong, powerful hands have me by my now shrunken waist. One hand lets go, and tugs at my panties. A dick head probes along my butt, and finds the opening. I gasp as it tears its way into me, but the penis in my mouth takes advantage of this loss of control to pump deeper, into my throat.
I have cock all over me, and I cringe with pain with each thrust into my ass. I can hardly concentrate on the one in my mouth. Soon enough, I feel the one in my ass pumping hot lava into me, relax, and withdraw. The strong hands release my little waist, and I resume tickling the dick head in my mouth with my tongue stud.
Finally, his body twitches and jerks, and I taste some salty paste in my mouth. I gag as he pumps his cock further in my mouth than I can control, and reflexively withdraw, and semen squirts all over my face. I wipe it off on the back of my hand in disgust.
"Swallow it!" commands Marcia from her throne. "Swallow it, or I won't be convinced that you really are sorry."
Glancing down at my new outfit, I realize that it's not worth fighting, so I lick the jizz off my hand and swallow it, like the obedient slut that I am, and look at her for some sign of approval.
Instead, I see shock. I shake free of my reverie and understand why.
"You're not John. Who is this? Tyra, who is this man?"
"Why, Marcia, that's Vanessa now!"
"No, that's not what I mean. This is not the man I wanted you to punish!"
"What!?!"
"Who are you? Why didn't you resist?"
"But I did resist!" I protest. "I pleaded with them to check my ID. I told them I'm not John. But they did all this anyway!"
"Are you gay or something? Why did you suck Moe's cock then?"
"I didn't think I had a choice!"
"Oh my God! What have we done!"
With that, hysteria breaks loose in the room. Girls are crying and screaming, some are laughing. I am standing there in the middle of this chaos, still in my sexy lingerie and shoes, still tasting Moe's cum.
"We're so sorry," says Tyra into my ear, "We've made a terrible mistake. Please come with me."
Tyra seems like an entirely different person now as she leads me by the hand out of the room again. She leads me back to the salon, and hands me back my torn clothes.
"Here," she says, "put your stuff back on, and get out of here! And don't you dare tell anyone what happened!"
"You've got to be kidding me! I look like a fucking bimbo! How can I not tell anyone after what you've done to me! You yourself told me that there's no turning back!"
"Look, aside from the piercings and the permanent makeup, nobody ever has to see anything else."
"You made me do gay things! And you gave me hormones! What the fuck is that going to do to me?!?"
"You sucked that cock all on your own, boy. You've got only yourself to blame. Now get out!"
Showing a fierceness that she didn't show before, she shooed me out the door, still wearing my lingerie. I put my own clothes back on over top of it, took off the earrings, and staggered home in the darkness, only dimly aware of where I was and which direction I needed to go.
Fantasy: My First Fantasy
This is what I used to fantasize about when I was a boy:
Women are determined to catch men, and turn them into girls for their amusement. Men catch on and learn to resist. They catch me, and start turning me. They start me off with pantyhose. I know that my only hope is to have some layer to protect me, so I put the pantyhose on over my own underwear. But the girliness seeps through somehow anyway, and I'm tainted. The women catch on, and force me to do it without protection. I try to cling to something masculine: first, a t-shirt, then maybe a watch or a ring -- anything at all. But at last, I am left completely without protection.
(In reality, that's exactly how I progressed. I didn't dare wear anything else, because it was too feminine; even this was dangerously girlie, and I risked becoming feminized each time I wore it.)
The problem is temptation: a small, weak part of me wants to give in to the girls, because it feels so good. But I must continue to resist. Without the protection, I feel utterly helpless, and I fear the next stage: leotards!
(once again, I had to move forward slowly. I couldn't just wear a swimsuit without protection, because it's far more feminine. At first, I tried it on with my underwear on, but I wanted more. I couldn't dare, so I dreamed up this fantasy of leotards, which were in fashion at the time. I did this by wearing a swimsuit over pantyhose. Eventually, I found a real leotard, but only after it was much too late.)
The women force me to wear pantyhose ten times before I get leotards. Halfway through it my fear turns to curiosity. By the end, it's fantasy. When at last the first ultra-feminine shock of leotards hits me, my fear returns. It's too much! What have I done! I must resist! I can't give in to this girliness, or else all is lost! But they will force me to wear leotards 100 times before I am worthy of wearing a one-piece swimsuit. The thought horrifies and excites me at the same time.
I ease into the transition, because the leotard tights are similar to pantyhose, but with the added terror of the bodysuit, with its high leg cuts. Bathing suits, of course, look just like the leotard without the tights.
(I probably gave in almost immediately to the swimsuit. I was still very apprehensive about it for a long time, and only wore it when I was desperately overcome.)
Sooner than I realize, I finish my 100-leotard initiation. I am given a fairly modest one-piece swimsuit. I must wear 1000 of these before I can touch a bikini. I nervously put it on, wishing I had some protection again. The sensation is so intensely feminine that I come almost immediately. I am blown away. I know now that I am utterly feminized in my heart, and only my body remains. I love the idea of wearing 1000 one-piece swimsuits, but I can't wait to put on a bikini.
(I now have discovered a less modest swimsuit, and after a few lame attempts in my own underwear, furtively, nervously, afraid of being caught, I dare to do it completely unprotected. The sensation utterly destroys my inhibitions. I am overwhelmed by its femininity, and I know now that there's no point in pretending to protect myself. I am beyond protection now.)
The 1000 swimsuit trial drives me insane with desire for a bikini. I desperately want a bikini! But the women won't let me have one. At some point, I manage to sneak into their storeroom, and secretly put one on outside of their schedule. I know that they schedule it this way to properly prepare us for womanhood, and that breaking with the schedule puts me at risk of becoming too feminine, but I don't care!
(I don't have access to any bikinis. I must rationalize my lack of one by pretending that I have to go through an ordeal before I am worthy. But my fantasies won't be restrained. I fantasize about lingerie, too, even though it's practically inconceivable to me to ever get any.)
I make a habit of sneaking to the store after wearing a one-piece all day. I am now trying on bikinis, teddies, garter belts, stockings, and everything I can get my hands on. Nobody needs to know! By the time I get to bikinis legitimately, the women are surprised at how easily I handle it, and how easily I put it on. They suspect, but I don't care! I'm supposed to wear 10,000 bikinis before I can wear any kind of panties, but I've already done that, so what do they know?
(I stole bikini bottoms from someone's dresser. I couldn't dare with the bra, because I was both afraid of getting caught, and convinced myself that the bra wouldn't do anything for me. It's not like I really wanted to be that girlish, after all, I told myself. It was just another defense mechanism, even this late in the game. Eventually, I stole another bikini, but with the bra this time. I could hardly just go with the panties anymore, because now I craved the fully feminine outfit.)
The women, it turns out, have known all along about my secret escapades. In fact, they secretly encouraged it. The schedule is fake, and is made to test my desire, and push it over the edge. We laugh about it as I put on an bustier, panties, stockings, and shoes, and go merrily along being girlie.
(At this point in the fantasy, I come all over myself, and suffer terrible guilt and shame.)
Women are determined to catch men, and turn them into girls for their amusement. Men catch on and learn to resist. They catch me, and start turning me. They start me off with pantyhose. I know that my only hope is to have some layer to protect me, so I put the pantyhose on over my own underwear. But the girliness seeps through somehow anyway, and I'm tainted. The women catch on, and force me to do it without protection. I try to cling to something masculine: first, a t-shirt, then maybe a watch or a ring -- anything at all. But at last, I am left completely without protection.
(In reality, that's exactly how I progressed. I didn't dare wear anything else, because it was too feminine; even this was dangerously girlie, and I risked becoming feminized each time I wore it.)
The problem is temptation: a small, weak part of me wants to give in to the girls, because it feels so good. But I must continue to resist. Without the protection, I feel utterly helpless, and I fear the next stage: leotards!
(once again, I had to move forward slowly. I couldn't just wear a swimsuit without protection, because it's far more feminine. At first, I tried it on with my underwear on, but I wanted more. I couldn't dare, so I dreamed up this fantasy of leotards, which were in fashion at the time. I did this by wearing a swimsuit over pantyhose. Eventually, I found a real leotard, but only after it was much too late.)
The women force me to wear pantyhose ten times before I get leotards. Halfway through it my fear turns to curiosity. By the end, it's fantasy. When at last the first ultra-feminine shock of leotards hits me, my fear returns. It's too much! What have I done! I must resist! I can't give in to this girliness, or else all is lost! But they will force me to wear leotards 100 times before I am worthy of wearing a one-piece swimsuit. The thought horrifies and excites me at the same time.
I ease into the transition, because the leotard tights are similar to pantyhose, but with the added terror of the bodysuit, with its high leg cuts. Bathing suits, of course, look just like the leotard without the tights.
(I probably gave in almost immediately to the swimsuit. I was still very apprehensive about it for a long time, and only wore it when I was desperately overcome.)
Sooner than I realize, I finish my 100-leotard initiation. I am given a fairly modest one-piece swimsuit. I must wear 1000 of these before I can touch a bikini. I nervously put it on, wishing I had some protection again. The sensation is so intensely feminine that I come almost immediately. I am blown away. I know now that I am utterly feminized in my heart, and only my body remains. I love the idea of wearing 1000 one-piece swimsuits, but I can't wait to put on a bikini.
(I now have discovered a less modest swimsuit, and after a few lame attempts in my own underwear, furtively, nervously, afraid of being caught, I dare to do it completely unprotected. The sensation utterly destroys my inhibitions. I am overwhelmed by its femininity, and I know now that there's no point in pretending to protect myself. I am beyond protection now.)
The 1000 swimsuit trial drives me insane with desire for a bikini. I desperately want a bikini! But the women won't let me have one. At some point, I manage to sneak into their storeroom, and secretly put one on outside of their schedule. I know that they schedule it this way to properly prepare us for womanhood, and that breaking with the schedule puts me at risk of becoming too feminine, but I don't care!
(I don't have access to any bikinis. I must rationalize my lack of one by pretending that I have to go through an ordeal before I am worthy. But my fantasies won't be restrained. I fantasize about lingerie, too, even though it's practically inconceivable to me to ever get any.)
I make a habit of sneaking to the store after wearing a one-piece all day. I am now trying on bikinis, teddies, garter belts, stockings, and everything I can get my hands on. Nobody needs to know! By the time I get to bikinis legitimately, the women are surprised at how easily I handle it, and how easily I put it on. They suspect, but I don't care! I'm supposed to wear 10,000 bikinis before I can wear any kind of panties, but I've already done that, so what do they know?
(I stole bikini bottoms from someone's dresser. I couldn't dare with the bra, because I was both afraid of getting caught, and convinced myself that the bra wouldn't do anything for me. It's not like I really wanted to be that girlish, after all, I told myself. It was just another defense mechanism, even this late in the game. Eventually, I stole another bikini, but with the bra this time. I could hardly just go with the panties anymore, because now I craved the fully feminine outfit.)
The women, it turns out, have known all along about my secret escapades. In fact, they secretly encouraged it. The schedule is fake, and is made to test my desire, and push it over the edge. We laugh about it as I put on an bustier, panties, stockings, and shoes, and go merrily along being girlie.
(At this point in the fantasy, I come all over myself, and suffer terrible guilt and shame.)
I can't be trusted
My wife had a friend over today. While I went to work, they hung out around town, and spent some time sunbathing by the pool. Now they're out to dinner. Her friend left her bag in our place, and I'm all alone with some time to kill.
Of course I'm going to wear her bikini and sundress! And only I will ever know about it.
Of course I'm going to wear her bikini and sundress! And only I will ever know about it.
A Dream
I dreamed last night that my wife and I had a big soiree to attend. So I went to a mall to buy myself something to wear, but I was obsessed with buying girlie stuff. Back at home, getting ready, I put on black panties and black tights. My wife wasn't totally unhappy about it. I was going to wear a short, tight skirt, but she had me put on some pants instead and out we went.
The party is a blur of old high school acquaintances and evening wear. Of course, at some point I think I ended up without my pants, exposing my tights, but it was taken as perfectly normal.
When it was time to go home, we had to return my pants to the store for some reason. The owner was furious about having to deal with a tranny like me, and kicked us out of his store. Then he followed us with a gun, me happily without my pants again. I wasn't afraid of him at all. He kept missing, until finally I fought him, and woke up.
What was interesting about this was that my wife, who in reality has no clue about my secret, knew about and tolerated it, as long as it remained private. How I wish that were true, but I'm far too chicken to ever tell her.
The party is a blur of old high school acquaintances and evening wear. Of course, at some point I think I ended up without my pants, exposing my tights, but it was taken as perfectly normal.
When it was time to go home, we had to return my pants to the store for some reason. The owner was furious about having to deal with a tranny like me, and kicked us out of his store. Then he followed us with a gun, me happily without my pants again. I wasn't afraid of him at all. He kept missing, until finally I fought him, and woke up.
What was interesting about this was that my wife, who in reality has no clue about my secret, knew about and tolerated it, as long as it remained private. How I wish that were true, but I'm far too chicken to ever tell her.
Diary: Stages
The stages:
- awareness: subject becomes aware that some men wear women's clothing for a sexual kick
- - understands that it's not just for fags
- awakening: subject understands the erotic appeal
- understands the inherent femininity of women's underwear, skirts, bathing suits, etc.
- feels a slight flush of curiosity about bondage scenarios with forced feminization, and what it would do to a man
- experimentation: subject is curious enough to try for himself
- tries on some fetish (stockings, underwear, bathing suit, whatever) either by "force" (visit to a dominatrix) or out of boredom, and fulfills himself sexually with it
- tries on some fetish (stockings, underwear, bathing suit, whatever) either by "force" (visit to a dominatrix) or out of boredom, and fulfills himself sexually with it
- humiliation: subject begins to worry that his experiments are destroying his manhood
- as experimentation repeats, and becomes a habit, our subject denies himself as much as possible
- rationalizes by saying he likes the feel of tight silk against his crotch, that it has nothing to do with panties being feminine
- escalation: subject tries on skankier and skankier clothes, as his humiliation drives his desire (this may require more explanation)
- prolonged privation leads to exponentially increased desire: the longer he goes without wearing panties (or whatever), the more extreme his fantasies become.
This is absolutely key: his fantasies from the beginning are about becoming feminine, but he's hardly even aware of it. It drives his first fantasies, but doesn't fully enter his consciousness, because he's rationalizing it. As he denies himself, the fantasies, unfulfilled, have more time to develop, and creep more into his conscious mind. When he eventually gives in to his irrational desires, mere panties aren't good enough: in his fantasies, he's becoming completely female, and so he wants his reality to come closer to his overwhelming fantasy. He gets himself a bra, and is shocked at how it magnifies his climax. It also magnifies his shame, and leads him to deny himself again. This in turn leads to even more outrageous fantasies, which he eventually fulfills by wearing something even more feminine. Before he knows it, he's wearing lingerie, stockings, heels, makeup, etc. and hating himself more and more for it. - "I'm not gay"
- subject is in denial about his secret cocksucking fantasies
- subject invariably feels deep shame when he comes, and when not under the grip of his fantasies, wants to abandon them (which makes them so much more potent)
- prolonged privation leads to exponentially increased desire: the longer he goes without wearing panties (or whatever), the more extreme his fantasies become.
- capitulation: subject accepts and understands that he now wants to be a girl (still privately)
- accepts that he dresses up because he wants to be feminine
- unabashedly fantasizes about sucking cock
- exhibition: subject comes out of closet
- everything was hidden up to now.
- wears at least something feminine at all times
- strives to go out in drag, hoping to pass
- parties at gay bars, trolling for cock
- gets fucked by men
- transformation: subject strives to physically become a woman through surgery, hormones, etc.
- ultimate fulfillment: growing boobs, having vaginoplasty, feeling a cock pump giz into neovagina
A Morning Adventure
I took the morning off from work because I'm expecting a delivery of furniture between 10:30 and 12:30. We've just moved, and I've been surrounded by clutter for the last few days, including piles of ___'s underwear, shoes, and various other fantasy-inducing ultra-feminine items. I've been holding it together quite well, mainly from the fatigue of lugging heavy boxes and furniture, but every now and then something catches my eye, and I briefly speculate about putting on something girly.
I crawled into bed last night completely free of such thoughts. As I drifted off to sleep, I nearly jolted awake remembering that I would have the morning mostly to myself! I immediately began to fantasize about wearing stockings, or maybe ___'s fishnet tights. I'd have her entire wardrobe at my disposal. I fell asleep thinking about some of her more elaborate lingerie.
While I stayed in bed watching her get ready, I was eager to get into something -- anything! -- feminine. I wanted to slip into the black and pink silk nightie she had under her pillow. I wanted to steal a pair of her panties. I controlled myself, and waited patiently for her to leave. Then I calmly took care of some business while having a leisurely breakfast.
Unfortunately, I realized then that I had a quick errand to run, and that I had better do it well before the delivery arrives. But I didn't want to lose time I could have otherwise spent feminizing myself. The best solution, I realized, would be to put on some lingerie, and hide it with my regular clothes as I ran my errand. This would satisfy my craving, and it would give me the added thrill of secretly running around town in frilly panties.
With heart aflutter, I retired to the bedroom, carefully picking through piles of clothes, in search for ___'s black bustier, matching panties, and stockings. I was eager to feel stockings on my legs, and I wanted a feminine treat, and this is the most outrageously feminine outfit I could think of. I chuckled as I put on my own jeans and t-shirt, luxuriating in the sensation of my legs in stockings and garters. I didn't bother with socks, for an added thrill.
Within 10 minutes, I had accomplished my mission, and returned home completely undetected. I could now frolic around to my heart's content for an hour or so until the delivery arrived.
Naturally, I couldn't do this without proper shoes, so I rummaged through a box where I knew I could find the one pair of ___'s shoes I can actually squeeze my feet into. As I sat down near the front door to buckle the sandal strap of the first shoe around my ankles, I heard voices outside. I dismissed them, thinking they must be neighbors, and certainly not the deliverymen I was expecting to show up more than an hour later. As I was working my way into the other shoe, there was a knock on the door.
Panicked, I shouted to please give me a minute. Twice. With one shoe on, I hopped into the bedroom, desperate to divest myself of this embarrassing outfit. There was no way I could remove the shoes, stockings, and corset in any reasonable amount of time. There was no way I would let anyone catch the slightest hint of me like this. The only way was to put on my jeans and t-shirt again, with a loose sweater to avoid showing bra straps and cups through the shirt. But there was one more problem: my stockinged feet.
Since I had no time (nor desire, truly) to unhook the stockings from the garters, my feet were obviously in black hose. This would surely be most obvious to the deliverymen. I needed to hide my feet somehow. Amazingly, it took me an agonizing 5 seconds or so to think of putting on socks. When the idea finally occurred to me, I realized that I had no idea where my socks were. I was panicking, knowing that the deliverymen were waiting at the door. Then it came to me: while I had no idea which pile contained my socks, I remembered that some recently laundered ones sat on a chair, right by the front entrance. But that would also be suicidal. As I calmed myself down, I noticed a pair in a laundry basket, and coolly put them on.
The men dropped off my furniture, oblivious to the secrets I share with Victoria. They were an hour early, and caught me quite literally with my pants down. Within ten minutes of moving boxes around and a polite amount of small talk, they left.
I had dodged a bullet. As an added bonus, I now had the rest of the morning to play dress-up. I practically tore off my man clothes, and put the sexy sandals back on as soon as they were gone. Then I put on a gorgeous little skirt and strutted around for a while. I like to prolong my pleasure by doing mundane things around the house en femme. I write this now wearing the same outfit described above. Perhaps there will be more.
Have I learned nothing from my adventure this morning?
I crawled into bed last night completely free of such thoughts. As I drifted off to sleep, I nearly jolted awake remembering that I would have the morning mostly to myself! I immediately began to fantasize about wearing stockings, or maybe ___'s fishnet tights. I'd have her entire wardrobe at my disposal. I fell asleep thinking about some of her more elaborate lingerie.
While I stayed in bed watching her get ready, I was eager to get into something -- anything! -- feminine. I wanted to slip into the black and pink silk nightie she had under her pillow. I wanted to steal a pair of her panties. I controlled myself, and waited patiently for her to leave. Then I calmly took care of some business while having a leisurely breakfast.
Unfortunately, I realized then that I had a quick errand to run, and that I had better do it well before the delivery arrives. But I didn't want to lose time I could have otherwise spent feminizing myself. The best solution, I realized, would be to put on some lingerie, and hide it with my regular clothes as I ran my errand. This would satisfy my craving, and it would give me the added thrill of secretly running around town in frilly panties.
With heart aflutter, I retired to the bedroom, carefully picking through piles of clothes, in search for ___'s black bustier, matching panties, and stockings. I was eager to feel stockings on my legs, and I wanted a feminine treat, and this is the most outrageously feminine outfit I could think of. I chuckled as I put on my own jeans and t-shirt, luxuriating in the sensation of my legs in stockings and garters. I didn't bother with socks, for an added thrill.
Within 10 minutes, I had accomplished my mission, and returned home completely undetected. I could now frolic around to my heart's content for an hour or so until the delivery arrived.
Naturally, I couldn't do this without proper shoes, so I rummaged through a box where I knew I could find the one pair of ___'s shoes I can actually squeeze my feet into. As I sat down near the front door to buckle the sandal strap of the first shoe around my ankles, I heard voices outside. I dismissed them, thinking they must be neighbors, and certainly not the deliverymen I was expecting to show up more than an hour later. As I was working my way into the other shoe, there was a knock on the door.
Panicked, I shouted to please give me a minute. Twice. With one shoe on, I hopped into the bedroom, desperate to divest myself of this embarrassing outfit. There was no way I could remove the shoes, stockings, and corset in any reasonable amount of time. There was no way I would let anyone catch the slightest hint of me like this. The only way was to put on my jeans and t-shirt again, with a loose sweater to avoid showing bra straps and cups through the shirt. But there was one more problem: my stockinged feet.
Since I had no time (nor desire, truly) to unhook the stockings from the garters, my feet were obviously in black hose. This would surely be most obvious to the deliverymen. I needed to hide my feet somehow. Amazingly, it took me an agonizing 5 seconds or so to think of putting on socks. When the idea finally occurred to me, I realized that I had no idea where my socks were. I was panicking, knowing that the deliverymen were waiting at the door. Then it came to me: while I had no idea which pile contained my socks, I remembered that some recently laundered ones sat on a chair, right by the front entrance. But that would also be suicidal. As I calmed myself down, I noticed a pair in a laundry basket, and coolly put them on.
The men dropped off my furniture, oblivious to the secrets I share with Victoria. They were an hour early, and caught me quite literally with my pants down. Within ten minutes of moving boxes around and a polite amount of small talk, they left.
I had dodged a bullet. As an added bonus, I now had the rest of the morning to play dress-up. I practically tore off my man clothes, and put the sexy sandals back on as soon as they were gone. Then I put on a gorgeous little skirt and strutted around for a while. I like to prolong my pleasure by doing mundane things around the house en femme. I write this now wearing the same outfit described above. Perhaps there will be more.
Have I learned nothing from my adventure this morning?
Changes
I'm taking a new stab at this. Previous attempts were far too explicit and potentially non-anonymous. What can I say? I was in the grip of my delusions. Looking back, it was little more than an exercise in exhibitionism.
While I stopped posting out of sheer embarrassment, I haven't stopped dressing up like a girl and frolicking about like a randy tart. I've also developed some ideas for content offline, which I am glad to start sharing. I have multiple streams of thought to dip into. Perhaps someone will even read it.
Updates will be irregular and infrequent. There will be no photos.
While I stopped posting out of sheer embarrassment, I haven't stopped dressing up like a girl and frolicking about like a randy tart. I've also developed some ideas for content offline, which I am glad to start sharing. I have multiple streams of thought to dip into. Perhaps someone will even read it.
Updates will be irregular and infrequent. There will be no photos.
Fantasy: Litérature Vérité
The fantasy had taken hold, and wouldn't let go. It was the usual scenarios, all mixed together. I was refining the back story over and over again, getting more and more excited as I circled around the denouement, coming closer and closer each time, from different angles.
I was captured by a bunch of evil girls who were forcing me to wear a bikini... or a one-piece swimsuit... or they had captured me long ago, and forced me to wear all kinds of other things, trying to feminize me, but I was resisting... Yes... but by now, I knew that I was close to my breaking point... No, I was well past my breaking point, and they had me right where they wanted: begging them to wear a one-piece bathing suit... Yes, I beg them, but they refuse... I've worn so much other stuff by now, over the course of my captivity, that I've even begun to turn girlish, but they never let me wear a bathing suit... Yes, and I absolutely must wear it, I'm obsessed with it... They know that I'm not ready for it, that it will utterly destroy what's left of my manhood, and they want to drag this on forever... Or maybe they know that it will set back my feminization, while I want desperately, but secretly, to accelerate it... yes, it's a trick: they want me to prove just how badly I want to be a girl, so they contrive to have me steal it...
My fantasy settles on the one-piece swimsuit. I shake loose of my reverie just enough to consciously reach my secret spot, between my bed and the wall, for my stash of girlie things. I rummage around, and pause after touching each item, trying to guess in the dark what I'm fondling, each time considering for a moment whether or not I'd rather wear that instead, and alter my fantasy accordingly.
Hmmm, my black bustier... lingerie is always fun, but I really can't get that image of Heidi Klum in her swimsuit out of my mind. I want to feel like that... How about my pink string bikini? That's pretty fun. But not as fun, oddly enough, as my silver bikini... oh, how I love the bra on that one... but no, the fantasy is about a one-piece. Yeah, that's right... I don't like these little cotton panties... ah, here it is!
I pull it out as quietly as possible, and put it down under the sheets beside me. I strip out of my shorts, thinking for a moment of keeping my shirt on. There's always something sexy about having girlie stuff on under my boy clothes, like it's an admission that I might look like a man on the outside, but on the inside, I'm utterly feminine. But even stronger is the idea of abandoning all connection to male attire, and succumbing completely to women's. I pull off my shirt, and remain naked for no longer than it takes to figure out where the front of my bathing suit is. I'm such a sissy that I can expertly get dressed in women's underthings in the dark. The suit slides into place, and I slip my arms into the straps. I adjust the suit so that it sits right on my body. I tweak my nipple briefly, fantasizing about the cups of my swimsuit being properly filled. I let the mist of my imagination thicken back around me, and delve headlong back into my fantasy.
I'm still reworking the back story, although now I'm at the climax. I'm wearing a one-piece suit, and it's outrageously feminine, and I'm resisting letting it overtake me too fast. I'm on my stomach now, gently humping my balled-up shorts, savouring every long stroke. As I fondle my hips and my waist, I imagine myself standing up, in my fantasy scenario, wearing a swimsuit, looking every bit as feminine as Heidi Klum, fondling myself exactly as I am in my bed. The soft, tight, feminine fabric rubs and stretches on my enormous cock. In my mind, my cock shrinks away to nothingness, as I fully and wilfully succumb to irresistible womanhood. My captors catch me red-handed, and I show them how proud I am of defying them. No, wait... the fantasy shifts again... I am not caught, but I am secretly far more effeminated than they know. I am in a store full of women's swimwear and lingerie, and I strut around in my new body, scouting out what I'm going to wear next. What could I possibly wear that could top this in feminine sexiness? My mind drifts to lingerie, and I imagine myself selecting a nice pair of lacy bikini panties and a matching bra, trying them on...
My cock rubs vigorously against my balled-up shorts. It's ecstasy. I'm wearing a women's one-piece swimsuit, very high-cut and tight, and I become conscious that I'm already looking forward to wearing something even sexier. I'm such a fucking sissy! I love it! This realization amplifies my pleasure tenfold. I'm longing for sexy lingerie that I don't even possess! My massive erect penis, awash in extraordinary pleasure, is somehow blotted out in my mind, replaced by a soft, fleshy cunt. Flashes of fucking cross my mind, and I am the girl! I rub harder and harder, treading dangerously close to the point of no return. I don't want to come! I want this to go on forever! I imagine myself a slutty little bitch, fucking and sucking cock, and loving every second of it! Every time I come close to coming, I slow down, break the rhythm just enough, and continue.
I was captured by a bunch of evil girls who were forcing me to wear a bikini... or a one-piece swimsuit... or they had captured me long ago, and forced me to wear all kinds of other things, trying to feminize me, but I was resisting... Yes... but by now, I knew that I was close to my breaking point... No, I was well past my breaking point, and they had me right where they wanted: begging them to wear a one-piece bathing suit... Yes, I beg them, but they refuse... I've worn so much other stuff by now, over the course of my captivity, that I've even begun to turn girlish, but they never let me wear a bathing suit... Yes, and I absolutely must wear it, I'm obsessed with it... They know that I'm not ready for it, that it will utterly destroy what's left of my manhood, and they want to drag this on forever... Or maybe they know that it will set back my feminization, while I want desperately, but secretly, to accelerate it... yes, it's a trick: they want me to prove just how badly I want to be a girl, so they contrive to have me steal it...
My fantasy settles on the one-piece swimsuit. I shake loose of my reverie just enough to consciously reach my secret spot, between my bed and the wall, for my stash of girlie things. I rummage around, and pause after touching each item, trying to guess in the dark what I'm fondling, each time considering for a moment whether or not I'd rather wear that instead, and alter my fantasy accordingly.
Hmmm, my black bustier... lingerie is always fun, but I really can't get that image of Heidi Klum in her swimsuit out of my mind. I want to feel like that... How about my pink string bikini? That's pretty fun. But not as fun, oddly enough, as my silver bikini... oh, how I love the bra on that one... but no, the fantasy is about a one-piece. Yeah, that's right... I don't like these little cotton panties... ah, here it is!
I pull it out as quietly as possible, and put it down under the sheets beside me. I strip out of my shorts, thinking for a moment of keeping my shirt on. There's always something sexy about having girlie stuff on under my boy clothes, like it's an admission that I might look like a man on the outside, but on the inside, I'm utterly feminine. But even stronger is the idea of abandoning all connection to male attire, and succumbing completely to women's. I pull off my shirt, and remain naked for no longer than it takes to figure out where the front of my bathing suit is. I'm such a sissy that I can expertly get dressed in women's underthings in the dark. The suit slides into place, and I slip my arms into the straps. I adjust the suit so that it sits right on my body. I tweak my nipple briefly, fantasizing about the cups of my swimsuit being properly filled. I let the mist of my imagination thicken back around me, and delve headlong back into my fantasy.
I'm still reworking the back story, although now I'm at the climax. I'm wearing a one-piece suit, and it's outrageously feminine, and I'm resisting letting it overtake me too fast. I'm on my stomach now, gently humping my balled-up shorts, savouring every long stroke. As I fondle my hips and my waist, I imagine myself standing up, in my fantasy scenario, wearing a swimsuit, looking every bit as feminine as Heidi Klum, fondling myself exactly as I am in my bed. The soft, tight, feminine fabric rubs and stretches on my enormous cock. In my mind, my cock shrinks away to nothingness, as I fully and wilfully succumb to irresistible womanhood. My captors catch me red-handed, and I show them how proud I am of defying them. No, wait... the fantasy shifts again... I am not caught, but I am secretly far more effeminated than they know. I am in a store full of women's swimwear and lingerie, and I strut around in my new body, scouting out what I'm going to wear next. What could I possibly wear that could top this in feminine sexiness? My mind drifts to lingerie, and I imagine myself selecting a nice pair of lacy bikini panties and a matching bra, trying them on...
My cock rubs vigorously against my balled-up shorts. It's ecstasy. I'm wearing a women's one-piece swimsuit, very high-cut and tight, and I become conscious that I'm already looking forward to wearing something even sexier. I'm such a fucking sissy! I love it! This realization amplifies my pleasure tenfold. I'm longing for sexy lingerie that I don't even possess! My massive erect penis, awash in extraordinary pleasure, is somehow blotted out in my mind, replaced by a soft, fleshy cunt. Flashes of fucking cross my mind, and I am the girl! I rub harder and harder, treading dangerously close to the point of no return. I don't want to come! I want this to go on forever! I imagine myself a slutty little bitch, fucking and sucking cock, and loving every second of it! Every time I come close to coming, I slow down, break the rhythm just enough, and continue.
At last, I can no longer resist the lure of such massive pleasure, and I pass the point of no return. I do this consciously, and my fantasy dissolves a bit as I prepare for the imminent mess. The pleasure is phenomenal. It takes my breath away. My hand darts into the suit through one of the leg holes, and I cup it next to my dick's head, and pump a huge quantity of semen into it, to the point of overflowing. My legs shake with the intensity of it. The remaining mist of fantasy quickly disperses, and I find myself short of breath on my stomach, wearing a smelly blue girlie swimsuit, with a huge mess of giz in my hand, afraid to move for fear of spilling it all over my bedsheets. I have to be careful as I roll onto my back, and keep the swimsuit from touching the goo on my belly.
I reach for the nearby box of kleenex with my left hand. This is very tricky. Over time, it's inevitable: a growing yellowish stain grows on the belly of my swimsuit. I used to come right into it, heedless of the mess I made. But now I realize that I need to be more discreet, and more respectful of these wonderful items of clothing. They are like magical relics, which I must be careful to avoid defiling with my disgusting manhood. They are pristine vessels of femininity. Meanwhile, I carefully slide out of my swimsuit, after wiping as much away as I could from my right hand and belly. At some point I have no choice but to allow the swimsuit to touch a bit of semen. I clean the rest of the mess, put my shorts back on, and tuck the object of my sin back into its hiding place, a little bit ashamed and disgusted with myself, yet luxuriating in afterglow, the fantasy fulfilled as best as I can.
If I really spent some time developing my fantasy, I sometimes find myself fantasizing about how girlish and sissy I've been, and find myself doing it all over again, usually with some other article of clothing, only with not nearly as much pleasure. Then I fall asleep exhausted.
Diary: Contemplating Coming Clean
Lately I've been fantasizing about ordering some swimwear, lingerie and shoes online and having it delivered in a plain FedEx box to my office. I would then hide my new fetish items somewhere and indulge in them whenever my wife isn't around.
At times, I feel ridiculous about it. Will I be able to hide it properly from her? Will anyone notice where the packages are coming from when they arrive at the office? How often will I even be able to use it? Is it worth the risk? Other times, I am overwhelmed with longing for self-feminization. Last night, I masturbated in the dining room while browsing for such toys, imagining myself sneaking into the garage and slipping into that glorious silver one-piece swimsuit from Ujena, while T__ sleeps upstairs, none the wiser. I felt shame when I ejaculated, but I was aroused all night.
Even now, having made raucous love with her only an hour and a half ago, I gravitate here to ponder my secret feminization. I have finally developped the setting for my story: the fictional world and characters that I've sought all my life just happen to be centered around my perversion. I want to write about it, develop a web site around it, possibly make some money from it. How can I possibly do this in secret? I love my wife, but I have never had the guts to even hint at my secret desires. How can we be complete together when she doesn't know this most essential truth about me?
Thus, I have inevitably begun to imagine what it would be like for her to know. I would tell her somehow, break it to her gently, but unequivocably. What follows, I can only imagine now. I present a few scenarios, plausible or not, of how it might shake down.
Pessimistic
She's in denial at first. Then I prove it to her somehow. She's devastated. She's horrified. She cries for days, refuses to speak to me. She tells everybody, and I'm publicly shamed and humiliated. She files for an annulment. Meanwhile, I continue to cavort in my stash of undies, but I lose my intimate companion, my wife. Remember, I suffered such terrible despair before I met her. It would be unbearable, if not for my pathetic outlet.
Optimistic
Denial, as always. She understands immediately what I'm going through, and she's a bit surprised about it, but enthusiastic about sharing some clothes. She wants us to shop for lingerie as soon as possible, and we immediately romp around in her lingerie. It becomes a staple of our sex play.
Cautiously Optimistic
She hates the idea. I have crushed her image of me as a masculine sexual powerhouse. She's appalled that I've spent so much of my spare time over the years contemplating this sick delusion of mine. She's livid that I've worn her clothes, and masturbated in them. She weeps for days. She hates me. But she can't stay upset with me, because she loves me. She forgives me, and learns to understand and support my fetish. She adapts to it, and eventually finds it delightfully kinky. She indulges me once in a while, but I have to do her some serious favours to earn the right to do it. We work out a deal that when I buy her lingerie, I get some for me, too.
Realistic
She'll be devastated, there's no question. But she'll come around. She'll lose a lot of respect for me, and feel terribly betrayed that I never told her before we got married. She won't understand that I still love her, and that I'm not gay. She will insist that I stop, that I never do it again, and that I seek help to kick the habit.
I'm almost fantasizing about wearing that silver swimsuit in the bedroom with her. She'd indulge me to the point of having me shave my body and prance around like a girl. She'd do my makeup and we'd giggle like schoolgirls as we model lingerie.
Perhaps it's preposterous, but damn would it ever make my life easier. I wouldn't have to hide (unless I indulge when she's not around), and I could keep my stash in plain view. However, as I figured above, it's highly unlikely that she'd accept it. Moreover, the more I sneak around, and the more careless I get, the more I risk getting caught. Part of the reason I want my own stash is to avoid using her clothes, and therefore avoid damaging or soiling them. Also, I get to choose whatever strikes my fancy, as long as I can order it inconspicuously. The drawback, of course, is always the risk of her finding it, or worse, catching me in flagrante. It's pretty well guaranteed to happen eventually.
In conclusion, I really must come clean, no matter what. It's going to be extremely difficult, and most likely extremely painful, but it must be done, somehow. At least by telling her, it wouldn't be so much of a shock, and it wouldn't be so heartbreaking.
Too bad it'll never happen.
What I need to do is lead her to it. I've been thinking about really emphasising the lingerie for the next little while. Then I can start admitting at the very least that I have a thing for ladies' underwear. I can reinforce it slowly, and work up to how I have stolen some before. I can gauge her reaction to know how far to go. But I must not stop. I have to continue until she knows all about it, and is sworn to secrecy.
Fiction: How I Turned Into a Girl
- Started off as normal hetero bachelor. No girlfriend. Suspicious ex.
- Start going to the gym because ex humiliated me about my body.
- Notice a few little physical things (less body hair, softer build, sensitive nipples)
- Fag fantasies
- Begin to suspect that I’m slowly turning into a girl. At this point I can still reverse the process, if I can figure out what’s causing it.
- I put the pieces of the puzzle together bit by bit
- I think about what I’m becoming. In some ways I’m afraid, but in others I’m excited. I buy a sports bra, ostensibly because I want to hold down my budding titties, but also because I know how cool it looks on girls and I want to look cool too.
- I buy another bra, but this one’s frilly and lacy. I can’t wear the same one every day, can I? To avoid suspicion, I buy matching panties and pretend they’re for a girlfriend.
- Meanwhile, I pretty well figure out what’s happening. I do nothing to stop it. I pretend that I want to stop it.
- I embrace my new femininity.
I know it’s unbelievable, because nobody believes me. I don’t even believe it. The trouble is that it’s a fait accompli. There’s no denying that it happened. This is how I remember it.
I was a normal heterosexual male bachelor. I wasn’t even very promiscuous. I tended to have long-term relationships with women who eventually got sick of me and dumped me. I would settle into long gaps between relationships when I would refuse to have anything to do with women. I preferred to be alone. I only started to notice changes several months after breaking up with A__. We had been dating for about two and a half years.
I was always very slim. I never exercised much, so my physique wasn’t muscular. Don’t get me wrong: I was still pretty masculine. I still have broad shoulders, and big hands and feet. I’m just saying that I was no muscleman. In fact, that was one reason why A__ left me. It stung me so much when she told me that, that I started working out half-heartedly to try to beef up, even though it was already over. I didn’t want that to get in the way of a relationship ever again.
Anyway, I preened myself in the mirror at this time, deluding myself into thinking that I would get big and muscular. It seemed that my exercise had no effect. In fact, I looked even softer than I had before I started. It was very subtle. The only area that seemed to be getting bigger was my pectorals, but they looked soft and roundish, not hard and square like they’re supposed to. I was disappointed by this discovery, but resolved to work even harder to become buff.
At the gym, I kept my eye on the men for tips on what kinds of exercise I should be doing, how many sets, how many repetitions, and so on. Mostly, I checked out the women, watching lecherously as their lithe bodies sweated and strained erotically beneath their form-fitting leotards. At least, that’s the way it was at first. I thought I was becoming envious of my male gym buddies. Or maybe I thought I was becoming awed by them. I became troublingly obsessed with their bodies. Actually, it only became troubling when I started dreaming about them.
Homoerotic dreams are quite commonplace. However, I had never experienced them with as much frequency as I had lately. I tried to convince myself that it was only temporary, that I was confused because of my recent break-up. I tried to concentrate all of my erotic energy towards thoughts of women. My memories of fucking A__ kept me straight, so to speak, even though they were sometimes painful.
Things gradually worsened. I noticed that I needed to shave less often. Even my body hair seemed more sparse. And still, my body would not become muscular. My pecs continued to grow slightly, almost imperceptibly. But they were still soft and round. They did not harden when I flexed. I know because I squeezed each while I flexed to inspect them. I could have sworn then that my nipples looked larger. They were certainly more sensitive.
Soon, people at the gym began asking me why I shave my legs. I had to try to persuade them that I never did, that I didn’t know what they were talking about. And it was true. My legs weren’t hairless, but they were pretty damned close. And I hadn’t done anything to them! Worse, I became self-conscious of my pecs. I thought they looked ridiculous, and I didn’t want any of the men to laugh at me. I blushed whenever I saw them. Frighteningly, my dreams about them became more frequent still, and started catching myself fantasizing about them. I imagined them sucking my sensitive nipples.
The more I looked at myself in the mirror, the more evident it became: I was growing tits! And they were becoming more and more noticeable. How could any girl ever find me attractive now? I was devastated. There was no way to escape the truth. I was not hallucinating. I was not dreaming. I couldn’t understand what was happening to me.
Clearly, something strange was afoot. First things first, though, I had to do something about my chest. My budding breasts were beginning to bounce when I jogged. I had to do something to keep them down, but without making it too obvious. First, I tried taping them down, but it was getting wasteful. Wearing a tight shirt made them stick out so much that they were actually accentuated. They even turned me on, they looked so feminine (Yes, I still had some heterosexual urges at that point). I had to wear loose shirts to the gym, and had to make sure that no one saw me bare-chested. Even that brought me some pretty strange looks from both men and women.
I had to face the reality of my situation: I needed a bra. I still clung stubbornly to my manhood. I bought the plainest, least sexy sports bra I could find. It wasn’t exactly manly, but at least it wasn’t frilly and lacy or flowery. It was just plain black. I was so embarrassed when I bought it. The sales clerk asked me if I wanted the matching shorts. I felt my face flush. She knew I was buying it for myself. I made a point of not changing at the gym anymore, even though I was so sweaty. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone seeing me wearing a bra. And with my tits, it didn’t look like anything else. I posed girlishly a few times, because my chest looked so sexy. I must admit that even then I didn’t entirely dislike them.
So why was I turning into a girl? Physically and psychologically, I was getting more and more feminine. I fantasized about men more than women. I lost my body hair, had tits, and seemed to be getting softer all over. I had to find a way to reverse the process while I still could. How could I face my friends? How could I ever pick up another girl?
I scoured my entire apartment for clues. I found nothing out of the ordinary. Then it occurred to me that my tap water tasted a little funny lately. I checked the outside plumbing and found some kind of extra pipe on my water meter. Was somebody pumping something into my water? I vowed to keep watch over my water meter, to see if anyone ever tampered with it.
Meanwhile, I had to stop going to the gym. My femininity was starting to show far too much. I could barely even hide it under my work clothes. I found myself leering at men. I began to preen to the mirror as a woman. I tucked my dick between my legs and pretended to be female. I stopped shaving my face (or even needing to) and started shaving my legs and my armpits. Finally, I caved in to the temptation and bought myself a prettier bra. Then I realized that it would look much prettier with matching panties. Pretty soon, my underwear drawer overflowed with lingerie. I looked gorgeous in my new underwear. It seemed to fit so much better, and highlight all my feminine parts. At first this was a guilty pleasure, but it soon became routine. Women’s underwear is so cool. I began to look forward to coming home from work, so that I could fondle my sexy undies.
When I finally confronted the water meter man, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to give up being a girl. I asked him meekly if he could look into it, and hoped that he wouldn’t so that I could continue my metamorphosis.
Fiction: The Truth
The TRUTH about crossdressing
Everybody knows that it's not cool for boys to wear women's clothes. We learn this at a very early age. When we are children, we don't understand gender at all, why or how boys and girls differ. We learn that there is no mixing of the two, and we segregate ourselves by gender. Boys play with boys, and girls play with girls. Those who do otherwise are mistrusted. They are automatically questionable. And we're all perfectly happy with this: boys don't want to be girls, and girls don't want to be boys. This is when we establish our sexual identity.
Now, when all of this is firmly engrained in our psyches, we come to accept some fundamental truths. Primarily, boys are forbidden from doing anything that identifies them with women; and most importantly, boys do not under any circumstances wear girls' clothes. We do permit the opposite, but only because something about femininity makes it unquestionable.
This simple truth proves that femininity is dominant. Masculinity, in spite of its emphasis on strength, size, and power, is hopelessly subordinate to its opposite. A woman who wears pants is still a woman; a man who wears a dress is not much of a man. Yet we pretend that men are dominant.
The TRUTH is that any man voluntarily wearing any article of women's clothing becomes irreversibly feminized. The degree to which this occurs is directly proportional to the degree of femininity of the article of clothing, and how close it is to the genitals. Lingerie has much more effect than, say, pink sweat pants. Everyone, especially men, innately knows this, but suspects that it isn't true.
Given that no self-respecting man would willingly sacrifice his sexual identity, how do men become transsexuals?
The answer is simple: men worship femininity; it is most natural to want to become that which one desires most. Therefore, men think that they can experiment with wearing women's clothes, but only at their peril. Those who dare are inevitably tainted.
I know this, because I have experienced it.
I discovered this by accident, as we all do. I was in my late teens, and furiously obsessed with girls. I masturbated all the time, fantasizing about their skin, their shape, their curves, their hair, their underwear. But I was shy, and no girl would want to talk to me. I contented myself with watching them from a distance, masturbating whenever I had a moment of privacy.
I worked at a public swimming pool during the summer, specifically so I could ogle the girls in their fantastic tight form-fitting swimsuits. It would have been unbearable if it weren't so fascinating. Every now and then, some absent-minded hottie would forget her swimsuit in a locker, and we'd hold it in the lost and found until she returned to claim it. Most of the time, they returned almost immediately, but every now and then something would remain forever.
I was so obsessed with femininity, and so curious about it, that I impulsively stole a one-piece swimsuit that had been in the lost and found box for the entire summer. I was drawn to it because I remembered the girl who had worn it, and I couldn't get a vivid picture of her glorious body in it out of my mind. I wanted desperately to touch it, because it had touched her. For weeks I did not dare, but I found myself deliberately brushing my hands against it whenever anyone came to claim anything else. Finally, I could no longer resist, and I furtively stuffed it into my bag when nobody was looking. All I wanted was to feel it in my hands, and worship her body from afar.
This became a key to my masturbation. I was in possession of something feminine, for the first time in my life, and it was completely at my mercy. I felt weak in its presence. It made me sweat and shake with nervousness. It was like trying to talk with a girl, only it couldn't reject or ignore me. I could fondle it whenever I wished. Inevitably, that was very frequent; and every time I did, I also masturbated.
But unfortunately, there was far more to it. It was so much more than a talisman of womanhood. I knew that my worship was abnormal. Why else was I so careful to avoid detection when I claimed it? I hid it in my bedroom, rather than leave it out in the open. I had a secret which I did not want to share with anyone. Why?
I was afraid of the stigma of being a boy who owned a girl's swimsuit. It had little to do with the fact that I had stolen it: it was more to do with an implicit betrayal of my gender. Somehow, worshipping women in this way was unacceptable, and I knew it all along. I should have been talking to girls, trying to seduce them, exploring their bodies in person. Instead, I was fondling the things that they wear, and pretending that it was a worthwhile substitute. But it goes even deeper than that. My fascination with feminine things was evidence of a lack of manhood. That's the true reason why I concealed my habit. The guilt and shame I felt when I thought of my hidden treasure only made my desire stronger.
At first I had planned to only borrow it. But soon after I took it home and jerked off with one hand as I fondled it with the other, I had already gotten it dirty with my effluvium. I could never return it in that state, so I happily decided to keep it. No-one would notice that it was missing, I rationalized. I could do as I pleased with it, so long as no-one ever discovered my secret. Having already defiled it, I succumbed to the fantasy I had been masturbating to: feeling that soft material, and what belongs within it, against my insatiable cock. I wrapped my penis in it and rubbed myself very quickly to the most fantastic orgasm I had ever felt as I imagined rubbing against Her body, encased in this glorious piece of stretchy cloth.
Thus rewarded, I repeated it time and time again, her delicious curves in my mind every time. I knew that this wasn't even close to the real thing, and it frustrated me. I was, as I said, well aware of the shamefulness of my actions. As often as I succumbed to these bouts of self-abuse, I hated myself for being so shy, and for having such an incriminating possession as this. I had no confidence that I could change my lot, so I continued. In a way, I knew that if anyone discovered my secret, they would question my manhood. What could I possibly be doing with a girl's bathing suit? Worse, I found myself fantasizing about touching other articles of girls' clothes with my dick. I desperately wanted to touch lace and silk and fishnet and leather. I longed to compare the sensation of these things on my penis.
Somehow, a seed began to grow in my head. The swimsuit, hidden underneath my dresser, taunted me, questioned my manhood. My awareness of it, combined with my utter lack of success with girls, constantly reminded me of how gay it was that I owned a girl's swimsuit. Unfortunately, this only made me desire it more: it was my secret, and it gave me such pleasure, that I didn't even care if I were gay, as long as I had my swimsuit. It's not like I wore it or anything. All I did was rub my penis against it.
I began to worry as I rubbed it against myself that I was rubbing away my manhood every time my penis made contact with women's clothes. The pleasure trumped any worry, and even fed off of it. I began to stretch it over my crotch, in an attempt to get maximum coverage over my private parts. It occurred to me then that this must be what it feels like to wear it. The thought struck me as terribly dangerous, and I came all over myself, my bedsheets, and my girlie swimsuit.
I could no longer rationalize having it in my possession. It was terrifyingly gay of me to own such a thing, and I knew it. I kept thinking to myself that I might as well be wearing it. The thought possessed me. I was now fatally curious. I tried to fight the impulse, for days. Somehow, I became desperate to feel the swimsuit stretched not only over my crotch, but over my entire body.
I knew what I would be risking. As a child, I would have thought that it would immediately turn me into a girl, the moment I put it on. That deep-seated certainty led me to be careful. I balked several times, and settled for mere rubbing. I reasoned that by inverting it, at least I would still be touching the outside, which I would be doing anyway if I were humping a girl. I also thought that by keeping on my own underwear, I would be protecting myself from any adverse affects of wearing it. At least I would still feel the spandex on my torso.
When I slid it on, inverted, over my gitch, I had to stop before I could get the shoulder straps in place. I was so shocked by the softness and tightness of it on my body that I knew that I had already given up any pretense at manhood. Even without the shoulder straps, I was already wearing a woman's swimsuit! I could no longer pretend that my secret was an innocent stage of boyhood, or showing curiosity in feminine things -- a normal impulse for a man who is interested in women. No, I was now guilty of performing acts of femininity. I had already gone too far. My hands shook as I pulled it off again, without having so much as touched myself.
I nearly wept with shame. Simultaneously, I shook with anticipation. An intense feeling of warmth and slitheriness came over me. I had an intense desire to move my hips in a feminine way. I had worn a girl's bathing suit! I was a transvestite! There was no turning back! I might as well go ahead now anyway. I picked it up again, and de-inverted it. I slid off my gitch, and pulled it onto my naked body. My hips gyrated as it stretched over my crotch. I did not hesitate to put my arms through the shoulder straps and pull it all into place.
Immediately, my mind was flooded with images of beautiful girls, including the previous owner of my swimsuit. I was like them, now! If the myths of my childhood were true, I would become female within a few minutes. The idea filled me with such unfathomable horniness that I nearly came. I felt the spandex on my waist, and the elastic of the leg holes, so much higher than anything I had ever imagined. Nobody would ever have to know about my secret! I wear girls' swimwear! And I absolutely LOVE it!
I didn't even want to touch my penis, because I knew that I would come almost immediately, and end this phenomenal pleasure. My mind wandered to fantasies of wearing a bikini, or even lingerie. How gay would that be? How unbelievably sexy would that be? I wanted my swimsuit to be even more feminine than it already was. Now that I knew what femininity was like, I didn't much care for my manhood anymore. I was now a certifiable transvestite sissy, and there was nothing that I could -- or would even want to -- do about it.
As I frolicked in my girlie swimsuit, and wished most intensely to lose my penis altogether in favour of a nice soft unobtrusive pussy, I understood the truth most vividly: what I knew as a child about boys wearing girls' clothes might not be true in a physical sense, but is certainly true psychologically. I was now a girl in spirit, if not in body, and I would always be tainted with this experience.
Imagine my embarassment when, the very day after my wonderful epiphany, the true owner of my swimsuit returned, asking if anyone had seen her swimsuit, which she last wore two months before at this very swimming pool. My co-worker (a girl) poked around the box for it, convinced that she had indeed seen it in the lost and found box. I was mortified. The girl was even prettier than before. I was so gay that I had stolen this girl's bathing suit, and worn it. She looked at me funny when she saw me blush. Somehow, she knew.
Everybody knows that it's not cool for boys to wear women's clothes. We learn this at a very early age. When we are children, we don't understand gender at all, why or how boys and girls differ. We learn that there is no mixing of the two, and we segregate ourselves by gender. Boys play with boys, and girls play with girls. Those who do otherwise are mistrusted. They are automatically questionable. And we're all perfectly happy with this: boys don't want to be girls, and girls don't want to be boys. This is when we establish our sexual identity.
Now, when all of this is firmly engrained in our psyches, we come to accept some fundamental truths. Primarily, boys are forbidden from doing anything that identifies them with women; and most importantly, boys do not under any circumstances wear girls' clothes. We do permit the opposite, but only because something about femininity makes it unquestionable.
This simple truth proves that femininity is dominant. Masculinity, in spite of its emphasis on strength, size, and power, is hopelessly subordinate to its opposite. A woman who wears pants is still a woman; a man who wears a dress is not much of a man. Yet we pretend that men are dominant.
The TRUTH is that any man voluntarily wearing any article of women's clothing becomes irreversibly feminized. The degree to which this occurs is directly proportional to the degree of femininity of the article of clothing, and how close it is to the genitals. Lingerie has much more effect than, say, pink sweat pants. Everyone, especially men, innately knows this, but suspects that it isn't true.
Given that no self-respecting man would willingly sacrifice his sexual identity, how do men become transsexuals?
The answer is simple: men worship femininity; it is most natural to want to become that which one desires most. Therefore, men think that they can experiment with wearing women's clothes, but only at their peril. Those who dare are inevitably tainted.
I know this, because I have experienced it.
I discovered this by accident, as we all do. I was in my late teens, and furiously obsessed with girls. I masturbated all the time, fantasizing about their skin, their shape, their curves, their hair, their underwear. But I was shy, and no girl would want to talk to me. I contented myself with watching them from a distance, masturbating whenever I had a moment of privacy.
I worked at a public swimming pool during the summer, specifically so I could ogle the girls in their fantastic tight form-fitting swimsuits. It would have been unbearable if it weren't so fascinating. Every now and then, some absent-minded hottie would forget her swimsuit in a locker, and we'd hold it in the lost and found until she returned to claim it. Most of the time, they returned almost immediately, but every now and then something would remain forever.
I was so obsessed with femininity, and so curious about it, that I impulsively stole a one-piece swimsuit that had been in the lost and found box for the entire summer. I was drawn to it because I remembered the girl who had worn it, and I couldn't get a vivid picture of her glorious body in it out of my mind. I wanted desperately to touch it, because it had touched her. For weeks I did not dare, but I found myself deliberately brushing my hands against it whenever anyone came to claim anything else. Finally, I could no longer resist, and I furtively stuffed it into my bag when nobody was looking. All I wanted was to feel it in my hands, and worship her body from afar.
This became a key to my masturbation. I was in possession of something feminine, for the first time in my life, and it was completely at my mercy. I felt weak in its presence. It made me sweat and shake with nervousness. It was like trying to talk with a girl, only it couldn't reject or ignore me. I could fondle it whenever I wished. Inevitably, that was very frequent; and every time I did, I also masturbated.
But unfortunately, there was far more to it. It was so much more than a talisman of womanhood. I knew that my worship was abnormal. Why else was I so careful to avoid detection when I claimed it? I hid it in my bedroom, rather than leave it out in the open. I had a secret which I did not want to share with anyone. Why?
I was afraid of the stigma of being a boy who owned a girl's swimsuit. It had little to do with the fact that I had stolen it: it was more to do with an implicit betrayal of my gender. Somehow, worshipping women in this way was unacceptable, and I knew it all along. I should have been talking to girls, trying to seduce them, exploring their bodies in person. Instead, I was fondling the things that they wear, and pretending that it was a worthwhile substitute. But it goes even deeper than that. My fascination with feminine things was evidence of a lack of manhood. That's the true reason why I concealed my habit. The guilt and shame I felt when I thought of my hidden treasure only made my desire stronger.
At first I had planned to only borrow it. But soon after I took it home and jerked off with one hand as I fondled it with the other, I had already gotten it dirty with my effluvium. I could never return it in that state, so I happily decided to keep it. No-one would notice that it was missing, I rationalized. I could do as I pleased with it, so long as no-one ever discovered my secret. Having already defiled it, I succumbed to the fantasy I had been masturbating to: feeling that soft material, and what belongs within it, against my insatiable cock. I wrapped my penis in it and rubbed myself very quickly to the most fantastic orgasm I had ever felt as I imagined rubbing against Her body, encased in this glorious piece of stretchy cloth.
Thus rewarded, I repeated it time and time again, her delicious curves in my mind every time. I knew that this wasn't even close to the real thing, and it frustrated me. I was, as I said, well aware of the shamefulness of my actions. As often as I succumbed to these bouts of self-abuse, I hated myself for being so shy, and for having such an incriminating possession as this. I had no confidence that I could change my lot, so I continued. In a way, I knew that if anyone discovered my secret, they would question my manhood. What could I possibly be doing with a girl's bathing suit? Worse, I found myself fantasizing about touching other articles of girls' clothes with my dick. I desperately wanted to touch lace and silk and fishnet and leather. I longed to compare the sensation of these things on my penis.
Somehow, a seed began to grow in my head. The swimsuit, hidden underneath my dresser, taunted me, questioned my manhood. My awareness of it, combined with my utter lack of success with girls, constantly reminded me of how gay it was that I owned a girl's swimsuit. Unfortunately, this only made me desire it more: it was my secret, and it gave me such pleasure, that I didn't even care if I were gay, as long as I had my swimsuit. It's not like I wore it or anything. All I did was rub my penis against it.
I began to worry as I rubbed it against myself that I was rubbing away my manhood every time my penis made contact with women's clothes. The pleasure trumped any worry, and even fed off of it. I began to stretch it over my crotch, in an attempt to get maximum coverage over my private parts. It occurred to me then that this must be what it feels like to wear it. The thought struck me as terribly dangerous, and I came all over myself, my bedsheets, and my girlie swimsuit.
I could no longer rationalize having it in my possession. It was terrifyingly gay of me to own such a thing, and I knew it. I kept thinking to myself that I might as well be wearing it. The thought possessed me. I was now fatally curious. I tried to fight the impulse, for days. Somehow, I became desperate to feel the swimsuit stretched not only over my crotch, but over my entire body.
I knew what I would be risking. As a child, I would have thought that it would immediately turn me into a girl, the moment I put it on. That deep-seated certainty led me to be careful. I balked several times, and settled for mere rubbing. I reasoned that by inverting it, at least I would still be touching the outside, which I would be doing anyway if I were humping a girl. I also thought that by keeping on my own underwear, I would be protecting myself from any adverse affects of wearing it. At least I would still feel the spandex on my torso.
When I slid it on, inverted, over my gitch, I had to stop before I could get the shoulder straps in place. I was so shocked by the softness and tightness of it on my body that I knew that I had already given up any pretense at manhood. Even without the shoulder straps, I was already wearing a woman's swimsuit! I could no longer pretend that my secret was an innocent stage of boyhood, or showing curiosity in feminine things -- a normal impulse for a man who is interested in women. No, I was now guilty of performing acts of femininity. I had already gone too far. My hands shook as I pulled it off again, without having so much as touched myself.
I nearly wept with shame. Simultaneously, I shook with anticipation. An intense feeling of warmth and slitheriness came over me. I had an intense desire to move my hips in a feminine way. I had worn a girl's bathing suit! I was a transvestite! There was no turning back! I might as well go ahead now anyway. I picked it up again, and de-inverted it. I slid off my gitch, and pulled it onto my naked body. My hips gyrated as it stretched over my crotch. I did not hesitate to put my arms through the shoulder straps and pull it all into place.
Immediately, my mind was flooded with images of beautiful girls, including the previous owner of my swimsuit. I was like them, now! If the myths of my childhood were true, I would become female within a few minutes. The idea filled me with such unfathomable horniness that I nearly came. I felt the spandex on my waist, and the elastic of the leg holes, so much higher than anything I had ever imagined. Nobody would ever have to know about my secret! I wear girls' swimwear! And I absolutely LOVE it!
I didn't even want to touch my penis, because I knew that I would come almost immediately, and end this phenomenal pleasure. My mind wandered to fantasies of wearing a bikini, or even lingerie. How gay would that be? How unbelievably sexy would that be? I wanted my swimsuit to be even more feminine than it already was. Now that I knew what femininity was like, I didn't much care for my manhood anymore. I was now a certifiable transvestite sissy, and there was nothing that I could -- or would even want to -- do about it.
As I frolicked in my girlie swimsuit, and wished most intensely to lose my penis altogether in favour of a nice soft unobtrusive pussy, I understood the truth most vividly: what I knew as a child about boys wearing girls' clothes might not be true in a physical sense, but is certainly true psychologically. I was now a girl in spirit, if not in body, and I would always be tainted with this experience.
Imagine my embarassment when, the very day after my wonderful epiphany, the true owner of my swimsuit returned, asking if anyone had seen her swimsuit, which she last wore two months before at this very swimming pool. My co-worker (a girl) poked around the box for it, convinced that she had indeed seen it in the lost and found box. I was mortified. The girl was even prettier than before. I was so gay that I had stolen this girl's bathing suit, and worn it. She looked at me funny when she saw me blush. Somehow, she knew.
I am wearing my Speedo
It's certainly much too small and tight, but the sensation is excruciatingly sexy. I have it stretched as much as it can, and it's cutting into my crotch a bit, but the leg cut goes above my hips. When I walk in it, it forces me to swing my hips girlishly because of the way it moves on my body. I'm tempted to run around town wearing it under my boy clothes, just to enjoy the sensation of it. I want to go for a swim in it.
I sure wish I looked more feminine.
I sure wish I looked more feminine.
Anticipation
Yesterday evening, I found myself with a bit of spare time and some freedom. On an impulse, I decided that this would be the time to buy the damn swimsuit already.
I had just eaten dinner with my fiancee. She was off to do some homework, and I had an appointment an hour later. The moment we parted ways, I knew that I had a golden opportunity to execute my plan.
I had already scouted the wares of a sporting goods store near my home. I had images of a black and red racing swimsuit, and I was excited about it. I had a twenty minute drive, and lots of time to ponder my coming adventure. I twitched with nervousness. My stomach bubbled and churned. All the same, I was determined to fulfill my twisted little fantasy.
I strode purposefully, my legs shaking, through the mall and into the store. As I walked in, a hot, shapely young store clerk walked in front of me, crouched down, and folded some clothes, exposing the upper part of her butt crack. I wandered around the men's clothing section, pretending to be interested in a shirt. I considered leaving, but I took a closer look at the women's swimwear section, and boldly headed in that direction. I slowly walked past it and into another display of discount men's t-shirts, no more than ten feet away from what I was really interested in.
The store was virtually empty. There were a couple of teenagers looking at baseball equipment, but quite far from my position. I snuck furtive glances at the object of my desire. Slowly, I made my way towards them, pretending that I wasn't interested. Finally, I dropped my pretenses, and started pawing at the swimsuits.
At first, I felt like an idiot standing there, fondling women's swimwear. But nobody was near, and I decided that I didn't care anymore. I took my time. I had no idea which size to take. I inspected a fiery red one, but rejected it for fear of drawing too much attention. The black and red I thought I had seen did not exist. There was a red and navy, but I didn't care for it. I needed black, primarily, and there were plenty of those. Finally, I settled on a black Speedo, size 6, fearing that it would be a bit too large. I folded it in my hand, trying to cover up my shameful purpose, and made my way to the cashier's counter.
I asked the girl at the counter a question about their return policy. It was the perfect cover. She gave no indication of finding it strange. I paid for it and walked out, less nervous but sick with anticipation.
I had little time to examine my purchase, much less try it on. I stuffed the shopping bag into the bag I was taking to my appointment, for fear that my finacee would find it if I left it behind. I anticipated that I would have time to play when I returned, imagining that my fiancee would not be coming over.
When I arrived, I shook with eagerness. Still, I had to resist. I had no idea whether or not she was coming. I started developing my fantasy. An hour into it, she suddenly walked through the door. I was shocked, and thanked my stars that I hadn't exposed my secret. Moments later, I fucked her in the bedroom, and we went to sleep. I had trouble keeping it up, because I was so much more interested in my secret stash.
All day today, I dreamed about the tiny amount of time I could have with my precious swimsuit. I was feeling somewhat disappointed that it wasn't the black and red I had originally imagined. I felt ridiculous for risking my relationship with my fiancee for a piece of clothing, a sex toy. Still, I couldn't help but reminisce on all the lovely things I had worn in the past, and how often. I looked forward to trying it on.
I had dinner with my fiancee again, but it was very difficult to free myself of her. When I finally succeeded, I rushed home, aching to complete my adventure. I tried it practically the moment I walked through the door. It was incredibly tight, especially around the waist. Somehow I managed to squeeze into it. I luxuriated in it for a few moments before struggling out of it again, afraid of being caught. I would have to be careful. I hid it in a secret place, and started writing this.
Unfortunately, I'm not very horny right now. I don't know why. Now that I have my swimsuit, I'm not particularly keen on it. I want another one.
I would love nothing more at this moment to repeat the exhilaration I felt browsing for women's bathing suits. I want to take more time, try a few on, find the right colour. It was fantastically exciting to do something so plainly perverted. I would rather have a slightly larger swimsuit.
Really, I just want more. I'll wear it again when I have some time to really concentrate on it. It should be fairly soon. Or maybe I'll play with some panties, or the bikini, which I have had access to all along, and come to it later. The beauty of it is that I have my own swimsuit now, and I can wear it whenever it's convenient.
Maybe I'll buy more, just for the thrill of it.
I had just eaten dinner with my fiancee. She was off to do some homework, and I had an appointment an hour later. The moment we parted ways, I knew that I had a golden opportunity to execute my plan.
I had already scouted the wares of a sporting goods store near my home. I had images of a black and red racing swimsuit, and I was excited about it. I had a twenty minute drive, and lots of time to ponder my coming adventure. I twitched with nervousness. My stomach bubbled and churned. All the same, I was determined to fulfill my twisted little fantasy.
I strode purposefully, my legs shaking, through the mall and into the store. As I walked in, a hot, shapely young store clerk walked in front of me, crouched down, and folded some clothes, exposing the upper part of her butt crack. I wandered around the men's clothing section, pretending to be interested in a shirt. I considered leaving, but I took a closer look at the women's swimwear section, and boldly headed in that direction. I slowly walked past it and into another display of discount men's t-shirts, no more than ten feet away from what I was really interested in.
The store was virtually empty. There were a couple of teenagers looking at baseball equipment, but quite far from my position. I snuck furtive glances at the object of my desire. Slowly, I made my way towards them, pretending that I wasn't interested. Finally, I dropped my pretenses, and started pawing at the swimsuits.
At first, I felt like an idiot standing there, fondling women's swimwear. But nobody was near, and I decided that I didn't care anymore. I took my time. I had no idea which size to take. I inspected a fiery red one, but rejected it for fear of drawing too much attention. The black and red I thought I had seen did not exist. There was a red and navy, but I didn't care for it. I needed black, primarily, and there were plenty of those. Finally, I settled on a black Speedo, size 6, fearing that it would be a bit too large. I folded it in my hand, trying to cover up my shameful purpose, and made my way to the cashier's counter.
I asked the girl at the counter a question about their return policy. It was the perfect cover. She gave no indication of finding it strange. I paid for it and walked out, less nervous but sick with anticipation.
I had little time to examine my purchase, much less try it on. I stuffed the shopping bag into the bag I was taking to my appointment, for fear that my finacee would find it if I left it behind. I anticipated that I would have time to play when I returned, imagining that my fiancee would not be coming over.
When I arrived, I shook with eagerness. Still, I had to resist. I had no idea whether or not she was coming. I started developing my fantasy. An hour into it, she suddenly walked through the door. I was shocked, and thanked my stars that I hadn't exposed my secret. Moments later, I fucked her in the bedroom, and we went to sleep. I had trouble keeping it up, because I was so much more interested in my secret stash.
All day today, I dreamed about the tiny amount of time I could have with my precious swimsuit. I was feeling somewhat disappointed that it wasn't the black and red I had originally imagined. I felt ridiculous for risking my relationship with my fiancee for a piece of clothing, a sex toy. Still, I couldn't help but reminisce on all the lovely things I had worn in the past, and how often. I looked forward to trying it on.
I had dinner with my fiancee again, but it was very difficult to free myself of her. When I finally succeeded, I rushed home, aching to complete my adventure. I tried it practically the moment I walked through the door. It was incredibly tight, especially around the waist. Somehow I managed to squeeze into it. I luxuriated in it for a few moments before struggling out of it again, afraid of being caught. I would have to be careful. I hid it in a secret place, and started writing this.
Unfortunately, I'm not very horny right now. I don't know why. Now that I have my swimsuit, I'm not particularly keen on it. I want another one.
I would love nothing more at this moment to repeat the exhilaration I felt browsing for women's bathing suits. I want to take more time, try a few on, find the right colour. It was fantastically exciting to do something so plainly perverted. I would rather have a slightly larger swimsuit.
Really, I just want more. I'll wear it again when I have some time to really concentrate on it. It should be fairly soon. Or maybe I'll play with some panties, or the bikini, which I have had access to all along, and come to it later. The beauty of it is that I have my own swimsuit now, and I can wear it whenever it's convenient.
Maybe I'll buy more, just for the thrill of it.
The Trouble With Having a Secret Identity
I've been obsessing about one-piece swimsuits for the last few weeks. I get like this when I don't have access to something I want to wear. I can't get it out of my mind, and it dominates my fantasies. Somehow, I always come back to this. I have a bikini dangling in the closet, just begging to be worn, but I'm not interested. I'm sick of it, having worn it no less than a couple dozen times. I'll wear it again, but I want something different now.
Like all feminine clothing, I want to wear it because it accentuates women's shapes. I want to morph into that shape myself. I want to feel what it's like to be female, inside that stretchy, soft fabric. I sweat just thinking about it. My fantasies take off like a rocket: fast, and straight up into the heavens, without a thought about practicality.
The main problem is that I don't have any access to a one-piece swimsuit. My fiancee doesn't have one (although she does have five bikinis, all of which I've secretly worn) so I'm unable to indulge. I'm formulating a plan to buy one, but it's not at all easy for me to do it. I can't allow anyone to know what I like to wear. I know that it's not all that big a deal, but I'm incredibly shy about buying my own girlie outfits. I've done it so many times by now, that you'd think I'd have no problem doing it. Only twice has anyone ever given me any kind of indication that they suspected what I was up to -- a terribly disheartening experience -- and one of those incidents occurred when I bought one of the many one-piece swimsuits I've owned (the other was about a bikini). Oddly enough, it's ok for men to buy lingerie for their lady friends, but not swimwear. Therefore, it's harder to explain. Nonetheless, I have bought as many as three swimsuits at one time for myself, and the clerk was completely convinced that I was buying them for a woman.
There's simply no way to escape questioning glares from clerks and other customers. I can spend many minutes circling the women's swimwear section of a store until I can summon up the courage to enter it. By then, I've already aroused suspicion from store employees wondering what I'm doing. Then there's the long, painful moments while I walk around the racks, looking for whatever it is I'm fantasizing about, not touching anything. Finally, if I've managed to get even that far, I'll start picking things out of the rack, my mouth dry like a towel, my face burning with embarassment. I'll look at colours, styles, prices, and will have a very difficult time deciding which one I like best; even more difficult is making the decision to pick it up off the rack, walk to the cashier's counter, and buy it. More often than not, I'll be standing in line with a bathing suit in my hands, obvious to anyone within fifty feet of me. Even if I buy something masculine to cover it up, it always shows. Finally, since there's no turning back once I'm in line, I'll reach the counter, where the cashier will confront me. Usually, there's no trouble. But sometimes, I'll get a dirty look, or a blush and a giggle. All that remains from there is the trip to the car with the swimsuit in a hopefully opaque bag.
Today I wandered around a sporting goods store, and didn't have the balls to browse the swimsuits. I made note of the section's location when I walked in, took the most roundabout route to get there, and just pretended that I wasn't interested. I did, however, notice that all of them were shaped just perfectly, with the racer back that I so desperately want. A black and red one even caught my eye, but I just walked right past it. I don't even know the price.
I could be wearing a sleek black and red racerback one-piece girlie swimsuit right now. But I'm not, because I'm a coward, and I'm ashamed of my secret fetish.
Eventually, my desire will be so overpowering that it will conquer my fear, and I'll have my precious swimsuit.
Like all feminine clothing, I want to wear it because it accentuates women's shapes. I want to morph into that shape myself. I want to feel what it's like to be female, inside that stretchy, soft fabric. I sweat just thinking about it. My fantasies take off like a rocket: fast, and straight up into the heavens, without a thought about practicality.
The main problem is that I don't have any access to a one-piece swimsuit. My fiancee doesn't have one (although she does have five bikinis, all of which I've secretly worn) so I'm unable to indulge. I'm formulating a plan to buy one, but it's not at all easy for me to do it. I can't allow anyone to know what I like to wear. I know that it's not all that big a deal, but I'm incredibly shy about buying my own girlie outfits. I've done it so many times by now, that you'd think I'd have no problem doing it. Only twice has anyone ever given me any kind of indication that they suspected what I was up to -- a terribly disheartening experience -- and one of those incidents occurred when I bought one of the many one-piece swimsuits I've owned (the other was about a bikini). Oddly enough, it's ok for men to buy lingerie for their lady friends, but not swimwear. Therefore, it's harder to explain. Nonetheless, I have bought as many as three swimsuits at one time for myself, and the clerk was completely convinced that I was buying them for a woman.
There's simply no way to escape questioning glares from clerks and other customers. I can spend many minutes circling the women's swimwear section of a store until I can summon up the courage to enter it. By then, I've already aroused suspicion from store employees wondering what I'm doing. Then there's the long, painful moments while I walk around the racks, looking for whatever it is I'm fantasizing about, not touching anything. Finally, if I've managed to get even that far, I'll start picking things out of the rack, my mouth dry like a towel, my face burning with embarassment. I'll look at colours, styles, prices, and will have a very difficult time deciding which one I like best; even more difficult is making the decision to pick it up off the rack, walk to the cashier's counter, and buy it. More often than not, I'll be standing in line with a bathing suit in my hands, obvious to anyone within fifty feet of me. Even if I buy something masculine to cover it up, it always shows. Finally, since there's no turning back once I'm in line, I'll reach the counter, where the cashier will confront me. Usually, there's no trouble. But sometimes, I'll get a dirty look, or a blush and a giggle. All that remains from there is the trip to the car with the swimsuit in a hopefully opaque bag.
Today I wandered around a sporting goods store, and didn't have the balls to browse the swimsuits. I made note of the section's location when I walked in, took the most roundabout route to get there, and just pretended that I wasn't interested. I did, however, notice that all of them were shaped just perfectly, with the racer back that I so desperately want. A black and red one even caught my eye, but I just walked right past it. I don't even know the price.
I could be wearing a sleek black and red racerback one-piece girlie swimsuit right now. But I'm not, because I'm a coward, and I'm ashamed of my secret fetish.
Eventually, my desire will be so overpowering that it will conquer my fear, and I'll have my precious swimsuit.
A Strange Dream
The other night I had a strange dream. I entered a bedroom at a house party, and on the bed was what I first thought to be a thin woman with a long manly nose, wearing a black teddy, and barely containing her ample, alabaster breasts. Then somehow, I recognized her to be myself. I asked her if she liked being female, and she answered softly, 'Yes.' I pressed her to confirm, because I knew that she used to be a man. 'I love it!' she answered, purring like a big cat. I then proceeded to make out with her.
I'm not sure that she was really me, but I felt like I was controlling her like a puppet. The words she spoke were mine. The thoughts and ideas behind them were mine. These thoughts were much more complex than the words might imply. They paused on how my Mistress would feel if I said anything but yes, and added that I loved it not only to please her, but because I realized that it was true. That's when I started necking.
Then the dream dissolved, and I don't remember anything else.
I think that while I fucked my fiancee that night, I imagined sucking cock.
I'm not sure that she was really me, but I felt like I was controlling her like a puppet. The words she spoke were mine. The thoughts and ideas behind them were mine. These thoughts were much more complex than the words might imply. They paused on how my Mistress would feel if I said anything but yes, and added that I loved it not only to please her, but because I realized that it was true. That's when I started necking.
Then the dream dissolved, and I don't remember anything else.
I think that while I fucked my fiancee that night, I imagined sucking cock.
Bathing Suits
There's something particularly sexy and feminine about women's swimwear. I could never quite put my finger on it. Lingerie is wonderful and sexy, too, but somehow, it doesn't make me quiver with desire like a nice bathing suit.
When I was a bachelor, I used to have no fewer than 5 bathing suits. I had a blue one-piece, which I wore more often than anything else, a red one-piece which was quite a bit too small, a hot pink string bikini, a silver bikini meant for serious swimmers, complete with a full bra, and a white thong bikini with lacy trim that covered practically nothing. I had lots of other stuff, too, including panties, a corset, stockings, garter belts, and a patent leather mini-dress. I wore all of it extensively, if privately, but especially the blue bathing suit.
There was nothing special about it. For some reason, I always went back to it. I don't think it necessarily made me feel more feminine than, say, the outfit I wore with the mini-dress (usually my black corset, black satin panties, garter belt, and fishnet stockings), but it was much more simple. It was a single item of girlie goodness that I could slip into and instantly feel like I was betraying my gender. The other stuff always made me feel like I needed to put on more: panties alone were never enough without a bra, and the garter belt would always get messy when my feminine fantasies became too much to bear. The one-piece bathing suit was excruciatingly, unmistakably female with very little effort.
Sadly, I had to dispose of all of it when my girlfriend moved in. I certainly didn't want her to find it. Now I secretly wear her stuff, but unfortunately, she has only two-piece bathing suits. Granted, when we met she only had two, and now she has five, but I desperately miss wearing a one-piece. There's something amazing about that soft, tight fabric, stretched over my waist, shaping me like a girl. Someday, I will have another.
When I was a bachelor, I used to have no fewer than 5 bathing suits. I had a blue one-piece, which I wore more often than anything else, a red one-piece which was quite a bit too small, a hot pink string bikini, a silver bikini meant for serious swimmers, complete with a full bra, and a white thong bikini with lacy trim that covered practically nothing. I had lots of other stuff, too, including panties, a corset, stockings, garter belts, and a patent leather mini-dress. I wore all of it extensively, if privately, but especially the blue bathing suit.
There was nothing special about it. For some reason, I always went back to it. I don't think it necessarily made me feel more feminine than, say, the outfit I wore with the mini-dress (usually my black corset, black satin panties, garter belt, and fishnet stockings), but it was much more simple. It was a single item of girlie goodness that I could slip into and instantly feel like I was betraying my gender. The other stuff always made me feel like I needed to put on more: panties alone were never enough without a bra, and the garter belt would always get messy when my feminine fantasies became too much to bear. The one-piece bathing suit was excruciatingly, unmistakably female with very little effort.
Sadly, I had to dispose of all of it when my girlfriend moved in. I certainly didn't want her to find it. Now I secretly wear her stuff, but unfortunately, she has only two-piece bathing suits. Granted, when we met she only had two, and now she has five, but I desperately miss wearing a one-piece. There's something amazing about that soft, tight fabric, stretched over my waist, shaping me like a girl. Someday, I will have another.
Getting in the mood
It seems that every time I'm alone at home, I can't help but get excited. My first impulse is to rummage through my girlfriend's dainties for something sexy to wear. If I know I have lots of time, I'll fantasize about it for hours, usually by writing dirty stories. You've probably guessed already that she's gone now. I think I'm going to wear her bikini again. I swear that I've worn it much more often than she has!
Hello, world.
Welcome to casualtranny. Just remember, all of this is a big secret. I would never admit publicly to anything I'm going to say here. This is a testbed for some kinky ideas I have always had. This is the painful first post.
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
Fantasy: Contrived Innocence
(A contrived situation where I somehow find myself innocently in women's underwear)
So here I am, wearing this one-piece women's swimsuit. It's not even remotely masculine. It can't in any way be mistaken for anything but a woman's swimsuit. The shape, first of all, is meant to accentuate hips, butt, and tits. The leg is so high-cut it's almost to my waist. My cock and balls are squashed snugly by the crotch, which is meant to contain nothing at all. The lycra is soft. It's got wires where my boobs should be, for support. And the colour doesn't help me much, either: it's primarily pink, with little flowers.
The first time was innocuous enough. I didn't know the speedos I had on were actually a female bikini bottom. I should have known from the lack of drawstring, and the way it hung off my hips, and seemed so high-cut. Otherwise, it was just simple navy blue. I hammed it up when I was told. I pretended that I wasn't mortally humiliated about being out in public wearing nothing but a woman's bikini bottom. I pretended that my manhood wasn't permanently and irrevocably destroyed. I don't think that I knew, however, how much I loved the idea.
I guess the fact that I didn't immediately change out of it didn't help. I tried to keep my composure. Not that it would have mattered, though. The seed was planted. I wondered immediately how it would feel to wear the matching top. The thought put a weird itch in my cock. I felt like I was the centre of attention, and I liked it. Above all, I loved the way the bikini panties felt on my body. Maybe keeping it on had less to do with keeping composure than with girlish pleasure.
When we got home from the beach, me still in my bikini panties, I thought about how it would feel to slip into some silk panties after my shower. With lace trim. And a bustier. Stockings. 3-inch heels. I wanted more.
So now as I prance around in this floral swimsuit, at the beach once more, gushing with pride as I explain how wonderfully erotic it is to be feminine, envying all the pretty girls for their sexy outfits, I can't help but think: damn it, this swimsuit, in spite of its feminine cut, girlish colours, and luxurious softness, isn't anywhere near feminine enough!
At first I denied it, but it only made me want it even more. It started that first day, when they asked me if I was going to make a habit of wearing bikini bottoms. I vigourously denied it, but the thought aroused me. By the time I heard the 20th joke about my mistake, I angrily defended myself, while at the same time inwardly swearing to never wear anything masculine again. I practically pictured it fitting me the way it was meant to, if you get my drift.
Naturally, I tried to return the faulty panties to the store, but they informed me that they don't accept returns of bathing suits that have been worn. I begged them to let me exchange it, but they refused. I ended up buying the matching top, and a one-piece that I tried to exchange it for. I couldn't wait to get out of my boy briefs!
It didn't take more than a couple of days to get used to walking in heels. Finding my size was a hassle, but it was worth it. I couldn't be feminine enough.
Now I tell people, in between mouthfuls of cock, that I fantasize about having my own pussy.
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