No, that's not quite right.
. . . the girls derided me after I came so quickly, and chained me back up. They began to laugh at me as I hung there. They began to put makeup on my face, and shave my body, and say that I might as well be a girl, I'm so useless with them.
They pushed the joke even further by occasionally touching my prick and watching me come just as quickly again. They said I was sexier this way. I was ashamed, but they knew that, and forced me to wear their clothes. they always masturbated me when they did this. When I grew back my body hair, they treated me like shit, like an imposter of manhood. I might as well be a girl, they said, and dressed me up again. It came to the point where I was so nervous about growing back my body hair, and in short, appearing more masculine, that I couldn't come anymore at all when I was masculine. Only when they seemed to enjoy me more , that is, when shaven, made up, and wearing their dainty little lacy and silky lingerie that I could come.
The reality of this perplexed and shamed me at first, but I grew accustomed. I begged to be shaven and effeminated constantly. They complied, thinking this to be quite phenomenal. They responded very positively to me when I was feminine. I began to perceive this, and begged to wear their clothing. They complied and fucked me. Eventually, the Officer asked me if I felt that I had changed at all since my capture, if I repented for fighting on the wrong side.
"I'll never repent! Under my system, I always had the freedom to do what I want! Here your dissidents are chained and tortured." I said this with a girlish air, trying to be feminine to impress the girls.
"Oh? Would you return then, to your homeland, as you are, and forsake your new way of life? Don't answer now. We will release you tomorrow, and you can do as you wish."
I hesitated. I looked at myself, and realized that I was becoming a transsexual. I was wearing women's clothes and enjoying it. Enjoying it tremendously. It was, as a matter of fact, the most thrilling sexual experience that I had ever had. But I had to escape. I was, after all, free!
When they unbound me, I began to set out for home. They had supplied me with my old uniform, but I felt unnatural in it, especially the gitch. So I bought some girl's stuff, and put it on for my return. I felt so much better in girl's panties, a bra, some nice stockings, a miniskirt and makeup. I also preferred the perfume and jewelry. But I realized that I still seemed masculine. The people here didn't care. I got no double takes or weird looks. I even saw some other transsexuals. It was normal here. I returned to the officer's, to meet with the girls again. I threw myself at their feet, begging for their forgiveness. I would stay with them for ever, so that they could show me the ways of femininity. I aspired to be a girl now, after all of their incredible praise and adulation for my femininity. They agreed.
Since then, I have begun to take estrogen, and other hormones which will make me grow tits, and shrink my waist, and distribute my body fat accordingly. But I refuse to ever have a sex change. I need my penis. I have become the girls sex slave: they turned out to be lesbians, and they love fucking girls. But they also want to feel something hard in their cunts. That's where I come in. I look and act and feel like a girl, except for my dick. I love being transsexual. Even the Officer finds me beautiful now. Just yesterday, I seduced him. . .
Fiction: Captured by Commies!
The Communists brought me into their CO's office in chains. I had managed to avoid being wounded, and he seemed impressed at my bulk and machismo.
"My, a healthy ladies' man, no doubt?"
I refused to answer.
"Leave him here with me. I certainly have some use for him."
The soldiers left and I was alone with the Officer, chained to the ceiling by my hands and to the floor by my feet. He looked me up and down with disgust, and spat upon my uniform. "So, you think of yourself as the devout Capitalist soldier, eh? I shall endeavor to change your mind, my friend, before I release you to your kind. But first, you must tell me everything that you know."
"I am Sergeant Andrew T. Manley of the 101st Airborne Division. My serial Number is AY345-9833-098-001."
"But of course. I suppose that you know nothing else, hmm?" I remained silent, defiantly. "I have ways of making you talk, Sargeant. I do not want to resort to barbarism. Please, to make things easier for the both of us. . . talk!"
Still, I kept my mouth shut, and stewed with anger.
"Well, if it must be so, then you have only yourself to blame."
He tightened the chains, and I was stretched out completely. He pressed a button on his desk, and two beautiful women emerged, dressed in scanty little mini-skirts. They tore off my clothes at the Officer's command. They both giggled. I hadn't seen a woman in weeks. I popped an instant woody. "What is so funny, girls? So you find him attractive?" They nodded yes. "Then you can play with him later. First, we shall have some fun of our own."
The three proceeded to engage in the most incredible menage a trois I had ever seen. I was so horny that I could hardly handle it. They all looked at me and laughed at me, for missing out.
This went on every day, in fact, and I just stayed there chained. The girls fed me only the tiniest bits of food, enough to keep me alive, and always cuddled me a bit, makeing me even hornier. This went on for so long that I can't even imagine how many days it was. I must have lost most of my bulk, because I almost escaped from my bonds one time, being so much skinnier.
One day, he looked at my erect cock, and asked me if I wanted sex. By now I answered him when he asked such things, because he had me in his power. I answered in the affirmative. He let me fuck the girls. I was overjoyed, but as soon as my dick touched their heavenly bodies, I came. Back into the chains I went, totally unfulfilled. For the next aeon, he teased me much as he did before, by having the girls touch me sensuously, but never letting me release. I was going nuts for sex, for their sex.
One day, he brought in another soldier. He was totally obedient to his CO, and, upon command, sucked my dick in front of the Officer and the girls. I was disgusted, and he sucked on and on and on, until I came, just for the release. He swallowed. The girls laughed at me, and called me a homosexual. From then on, they perpetually derided me. They were now violent with me when they fed me. That made me want them even more, to prove my manhood. But the cocksucker kept coming back, first in a week, then six days, then five, then four, and eventually daily. I became used to him, and closed my eyes thinking of the girls as he blew me. I enjoyed it so much, and I always convinced myself that the girls were behind it. I fantasized about them only. At first.
Then I began to realize that they were infernal bitches, and looked forward to my usual blowjob by the male soldier. To my horror, I began to fantasize about him. I grew to accept his sucking me, though, and the fact that I enjoyed it. But it took a long time.
Soon later, the Officer untied me, and allowed me to have sex. He gave me a choice: the girls, or the man. To prove my masculinity to the stupid sluts, I fucked them. But they were unresponsive, as if I were unable to titillate them at all. I couldn't even come, the event was so horribly humbling. I went back to my chains, mortified. I would get them. The officer allowed this weekly, and each time I took the girls, and each time, they humiliated me. Finally, I gave up, and went to the guy. He started by sucking my dick, and then fondled it, and snuggled up to me, and I reluctantly reciprocated. I fucked him up the ass with shame, came for the first time in ages, and went back to my chains. I could no longer come with the girls, but the guy was being quite responsive. I began to enjoy it, and fervently. Eventually, the girls were simply no longer an option. I had to fuck the guy. I would suck him and fuck him and thoroughly enjoy it.
One day, he demanded to fuck me. I complied reluctantly, but soon it became a mutual thing: I would fuck him, and he would fuck me. I was now a total fag.
But the girls started to act funny. They were even more violent to me, and they seemed to saddle up to him all the time, as if they could seduce him. I was jealous!
He fucked them right in front of me, and I was outraged. I struggled to tear free of my bonds to kill the sluts, but it was useless. He was totally satisfied, more than I had ever seen him.
When I was allowed to fuck him, he refused at first, saying that the girls were so much better, that they would let him do the fucking and really enjoy it, and not want to stick anything in his ass. Furthermore, he revealed to me that he preferred pussy. I was outraged, but I couldn't do without him. So I promised to let him fuck me, and that I would try to be more feminine.
Thereafter, I asked the Officer if he could arrange to have my legs shaved, and the rest of my body too. My hair had already grown quite long. He complied. The girls shaved me, laughing derisively at me, reminding me of what a man I used to be. I resented being called a man. I beseeched them to show me how to be feminine. They did. I began to wear their clothes.
This was the ultimate in femininity. I was totally in drag, and I came all over myself when I could. I seduced him as a girl, and he was again very warm to me. The Officer supplied me with estrogen, and I grew tits and developed a waist. I was a transsexual. And I liked it. But they never let me get a sex change. I remain this way to this day, free in their system, ever grateful for their turning me into something better: a girl.
"My, a healthy ladies' man, no doubt?"
I refused to answer.
"Leave him here with me. I certainly have some use for him."
The soldiers left and I was alone with the Officer, chained to the ceiling by my hands and to the floor by my feet. He looked me up and down with disgust, and spat upon my uniform. "So, you think of yourself as the devout Capitalist soldier, eh? I shall endeavor to change your mind, my friend, before I release you to your kind. But first, you must tell me everything that you know."
"I am Sergeant Andrew T. Manley of the 101st Airborne Division. My serial Number is AY345-9833-098-001."
"But of course. I suppose that you know nothing else, hmm?" I remained silent, defiantly. "I have ways of making you talk, Sargeant. I do not want to resort to barbarism. Please, to make things easier for the both of us. . . talk!"
Still, I kept my mouth shut, and stewed with anger.
"Well, if it must be so, then you have only yourself to blame."
He tightened the chains, and I was stretched out completely. He pressed a button on his desk, and two beautiful women emerged, dressed in scanty little mini-skirts. They tore off my clothes at the Officer's command. They both giggled. I hadn't seen a woman in weeks. I popped an instant woody. "What is so funny, girls? So you find him attractive?" They nodded yes. "Then you can play with him later. First, we shall have some fun of our own."
The three proceeded to engage in the most incredible menage a trois I had ever seen. I was so horny that I could hardly handle it. They all looked at me and laughed at me, for missing out.
This went on every day, in fact, and I just stayed there chained. The girls fed me only the tiniest bits of food, enough to keep me alive, and always cuddled me a bit, makeing me even hornier. This went on for so long that I can't even imagine how many days it was. I must have lost most of my bulk, because I almost escaped from my bonds one time, being so much skinnier.
One day, he looked at my erect cock, and asked me if I wanted sex. By now I answered him when he asked such things, because he had me in his power. I answered in the affirmative. He let me fuck the girls. I was overjoyed, but as soon as my dick touched their heavenly bodies, I came. Back into the chains I went, totally unfulfilled. For the next aeon, he teased me much as he did before, by having the girls touch me sensuously, but never letting me release. I was going nuts for sex, for their sex.
One day, he brought in another soldier. He was totally obedient to his CO, and, upon command, sucked my dick in front of the Officer and the girls. I was disgusted, and he sucked on and on and on, until I came, just for the release. He swallowed. The girls laughed at me, and called me a homosexual. From then on, they perpetually derided me. They were now violent with me when they fed me. That made me want them even more, to prove my manhood. But the cocksucker kept coming back, first in a week, then six days, then five, then four, and eventually daily. I became used to him, and closed my eyes thinking of the girls as he blew me. I enjoyed it so much, and I always convinced myself that the girls were behind it. I fantasized about them only. At first.
Then I began to realize that they were infernal bitches, and looked forward to my usual blowjob by the male soldier. To my horror, I began to fantasize about him. I grew to accept his sucking me, though, and the fact that I enjoyed it. But it took a long time.
Soon later, the Officer untied me, and allowed me to have sex. He gave me a choice: the girls, or the man. To prove my masculinity to the stupid sluts, I fucked them. But they were unresponsive, as if I were unable to titillate them at all. I couldn't even come, the event was so horribly humbling. I went back to my chains, mortified. I would get them. The officer allowed this weekly, and each time I took the girls, and each time, they humiliated me. Finally, I gave up, and went to the guy. He started by sucking my dick, and then fondled it, and snuggled up to me, and I reluctantly reciprocated. I fucked him up the ass with shame, came for the first time in ages, and went back to my chains. I could no longer come with the girls, but the guy was being quite responsive. I began to enjoy it, and fervently. Eventually, the girls were simply no longer an option. I had to fuck the guy. I would suck him and fuck him and thoroughly enjoy it.
One day, he demanded to fuck me. I complied reluctantly, but soon it became a mutual thing: I would fuck him, and he would fuck me. I was now a total fag.
But the girls started to act funny. They were even more violent to me, and they seemed to saddle up to him all the time, as if they could seduce him. I was jealous!
He fucked them right in front of me, and I was outraged. I struggled to tear free of my bonds to kill the sluts, but it was useless. He was totally satisfied, more than I had ever seen him.
When I was allowed to fuck him, he refused at first, saying that the girls were so much better, that they would let him do the fucking and really enjoy it, and not want to stick anything in his ass. Furthermore, he revealed to me that he preferred pussy. I was outraged, but I couldn't do without him. So I promised to let him fuck me, and that I would try to be more feminine.
Thereafter, I asked the Officer if he could arrange to have my legs shaved, and the rest of my body too. My hair had already grown quite long. He complied. The girls shaved me, laughing derisively at me, reminding me of what a man I used to be. I resented being called a man. I beseeched them to show me how to be feminine. They did. I began to wear their clothes.
This was the ultimate in femininity. I was totally in drag, and I came all over myself when I could. I seduced him as a girl, and he was again very warm to me. The Officer supplied me with estrogen, and I grew tits and developed a waist. I was a transsexual. And I liked it. But they never let me get a sex change. I remain this way to this day, free in their system, ever grateful for their turning me into something better: a girl.
Diary: Fantasizing About a Week-Long Retreat
I am dreaming up concrete plans for a week's retreat in seclusion to explore the depths of my affinity for femininity. One day, I suppose, when I have some money saved up, I'll rent a place in the country, isolated, perhaps in the winter, where I can be alone and no one will disturb me. I'll take it for at least a week, and make sure that no one knows where I am, or what it is I am doing.
I will either have accumulated over time a whole assortment of panties and bras and lingerie, or I'll buy it all on the way up, and an assortment of makeup, including lipstick, eyeliner, mascara, eyeshadow, and perhaps even rouge and nail polish. My hair will be long and thick. I'll bring a razor, or bottles of Nair, and remove all of my unsightly man hair, from my arms, my legs, my chest, my face, my back, my ass, my bikini line. I'll be shaven smooth to the skin, like a girl, for a little while at least. Then I'll shower, and abandon my male clothes. I'll slip into the sexy lacy little panties awaiting me outside, and slowly relish getting all dressed up. I'll pull on the silk stockings, hook them up to my garter belt, and parade around for a little while like a girl. I'll spray a bit of perfume on myself, and make up my face. Then I'll put on whatever sexy skirt and blouse or dress or whatever suits me best, and be a girl for the rest of the week. I'll walk, talk, eat like a girl. I'll sit like a girl, pee like a girl, think like a girl. I'll admire myself in the mirror, because I want to see how beautifully feminine I have become. I'll just stick around the place, not to leave, and masturbate about a hundred times, always careful not to soil my clothes. No, better yet, I'll torture myself by waiting until night before I allow myself to do it, and do it until I am totally satisfied. I'll wash up and go to bed in a silky nighty, without panties or anything. I'll wake up in the morning and repeat everything, until I either get sick of it or vow to change my sex for real. And I'll have to model bikinis and swimsuits and lingerie often. If I feel really kinky, I'll shove a dildo up my ass when I masturbate.
If I feel very successful, I'll venture out of my seclusion, at first unseen, but soon in public, as a woman. As I gain confidence, I'll pick up guys and fuck them, or let them fuck me. But I doubt that I'll get that much into it. If I find that I'm feeling that feminine, I'll force myself to prefer male bodies. Most likely, I will simply wear the clothes and feverishly anticipate my eventual release.
The more I think of it, the more I would like to do this soon. I want to discover my long-repressed sexuality. This desire is extraordinarily powerful. But I think that my desire to fuck women is more powerful, only rarer, and simply because it is social. When I see people, I always want to fuck the pretty women. Always. Or rather, I want to worship them by falling in love with them and showering them with gifts and affection. My fantasy, though, is much more personal, more pervading, more commanding. I perpetually think of it when I'm home. When I'm out, and I pass by lingerie stores, I think whimsically about owning certain items. I have lately been accused on e-mail of being a woman. I wasn't thinking about it at the time, but the comment made me want to answer sarcastically -- but honestly -- that I was busy dressing up in girl's underwear to care about what he said, or something like that. I was almost flattered that he would call me a woman. What a compliment, to be associated with perfection!
How perfect the female body is. I recently cut out a Page 3 Girl, the prettiest, sexiest one I've seen in ages. Somehow, she exudes femininity. She wears a blue checkered sort of bra, probably from a bikini, and jean shorts up to her belly button, with the top button subtly, but erotically undone. Underneath the shorts is probably a matching bottom. She is photographed on her left side, and her right arm is raised, her hand pushing through her brown hair. A few strands of hair sensuously rest upon her bare shoulder. She leans on a stone wall, and shows off her hourglass shape by curving with her waist. Her ribs protrude the slightest bit above her firm, curvaceously flat belly. Her pretty face has an air of sensuous indifference, of basking in the glow of her own, self-conscious femininity, as if she is slightly bored of being so perfect, and resents that she is an object of desire for lowly men, despite her obvious, but malicious relish for her own beauty. She knows that she is beautiful, and hates men for finding her so, but uses her natural gift of femininity to lure her lustful but brutishly lowly admirers into her trap, to be taken advantage of.
Notice that I always associate women with manipulation. Genetically, they are. They are made, apparently, to attract our gifts of protection and money and security. When we can't provide it any longer, they dump us. Our sex, which is the most important thing in them to us, is useless to them. Our sex is just a toy, a pastime to them. They only pretend to enjoy it, because it makes us think that we are worth something to them besides our money and power. Oh, well. They simply rule.
I will either have accumulated over time a whole assortment of panties and bras and lingerie, or I'll buy it all on the way up, and an assortment of makeup, including lipstick, eyeliner, mascara, eyeshadow, and perhaps even rouge and nail polish. My hair will be long and thick. I'll bring a razor, or bottles of Nair, and remove all of my unsightly man hair, from my arms, my legs, my chest, my face, my back, my ass, my bikini line. I'll be shaven smooth to the skin, like a girl, for a little while at least. Then I'll shower, and abandon my male clothes. I'll slip into the sexy lacy little panties awaiting me outside, and slowly relish getting all dressed up. I'll pull on the silk stockings, hook them up to my garter belt, and parade around for a little while like a girl. I'll spray a bit of perfume on myself, and make up my face. Then I'll put on whatever sexy skirt and blouse or dress or whatever suits me best, and be a girl for the rest of the week. I'll walk, talk, eat like a girl. I'll sit like a girl, pee like a girl, think like a girl. I'll admire myself in the mirror, because I want to see how beautifully feminine I have become. I'll just stick around the place, not to leave, and masturbate about a hundred times, always careful not to soil my clothes. No, better yet, I'll torture myself by waiting until night before I allow myself to do it, and do it until I am totally satisfied. I'll wash up and go to bed in a silky nighty, without panties or anything. I'll wake up in the morning and repeat everything, until I either get sick of it or vow to change my sex for real. And I'll have to model bikinis and swimsuits and lingerie often. If I feel really kinky, I'll shove a dildo up my ass when I masturbate.
If I feel very successful, I'll venture out of my seclusion, at first unseen, but soon in public, as a woman. As I gain confidence, I'll pick up guys and fuck them, or let them fuck me. But I doubt that I'll get that much into it. If I find that I'm feeling that feminine, I'll force myself to prefer male bodies. Most likely, I will simply wear the clothes and feverishly anticipate my eventual release.
The more I think of it, the more I would like to do this soon. I want to discover my long-repressed sexuality. This desire is extraordinarily powerful. But I think that my desire to fuck women is more powerful, only rarer, and simply because it is social. When I see people, I always want to fuck the pretty women. Always. Or rather, I want to worship them by falling in love with them and showering them with gifts and affection. My fantasy, though, is much more personal, more pervading, more commanding. I perpetually think of it when I'm home. When I'm out, and I pass by lingerie stores, I think whimsically about owning certain items. I have lately been accused on e-mail of being a woman. I wasn't thinking about it at the time, but the comment made me want to answer sarcastically -- but honestly -- that I was busy dressing up in girl's underwear to care about what he said, or something like that. I was almost flattered that he would call me a woman. What a compliment, to be associated with perfection!
How perfect the female body is. I recently cut out a Page 3 Girl, the prettiest, sexiest one I've seen in ages. Somehow, she exudes femininity. She wears a blue checkered sort of bra, probably from a bikini, and jean shorts up to her belly button, with the top button subtly, but erotically undone. Underneath the shorts is probably a matching bottom. She is photographed on her left side, and her right arm is raised, her hand pushing through her brown hair. A few strands of hair sensuously rest upon her bare shoulder. She leans on a stone wall, and shows off her hourglass shape by curving with her waist. Her ribs protrude the slightest bit above her firm, curvaceously flat belly. Her pretty face has an air of sensuous indifference, of basking in the glow of her own, self-conscious femininity, as if she is slightly bored of being so perfect, and resents that she is an object of desire for lowly men, despite her obvious, but malicious relish for her own beauty. She knows that she is beautiful, and hates men for finding her so, but uses her natural gift of femininity to lure her lustful but brutishly lowly admirers into her trap, to be taken advantage of.
Notice that I always associate women with manipulation. Genetically, they are. They are made, apparently, to attract our gifts of protection and money and security. When we can't provide it any longer, they dump us. Our sex, which is the most important thing in them to us, is useless to them. Our sex is just a toy, a pastime to them. They only pretend to enjoy it, because it makes us think that we are worth something to them besides our money and power. Oh, well. They simply rule.
Fiction: Coerced into Slavery
I fucked her sensuously, but she seemed bored. She made me stop. I was right into it, so it took some time.
"Rob," she said, "We have to try something new. I'm sick of just fucking like this."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Well. . . I have always had this fantasy. . ." she purred. I was newly aroused.
"What is it?"
"Well. . . I don't think you'd like it. No man would do it. . ."
"You'd be surprised at what a man will do. What is it? Don't be afraid. Don't be ashamed."
"No," she resolved, "I just can't tell you outright. You have to guess."
"Very well," I answered, always enjoying her delicious coyness, and her sexy mind games. "Is it anal sex?"
"No, no!"
"Tit fucking?"
"Nope."
"Shit? Piss?"
She shook her head, biting her lip.
"Another man? Another woman? Domination?"
She vigorously shook her head. I was at a loss. "C'mon, tell me," I implored, "I don't know."
She writhed around seductively in acute embarrassment, and beckoned me to bring my head closer, so that she could whisper in my ear.
"Rob," she whispered breathlessly, licking my ear and caressing it with her lips, "If I ask you to do something, will you promise to do it?"
I looked at her supiciously. "Depends what."
She caressed me and rubbed herself onto me. "Won't you do it? For me?"
With such an incentive, I was hornier than I ever thought possible. "Sure," I said huskily, as I caressed her and kissed her neck.
"Um. . . could you pick up my panties off the floor? And my bra?"
I obeyed, thinking that she would put them back on and striptease me again. She was about to order me to do something, but she hesitated, preferring to whisper it salaciously in my ear: "Now, put them on."
I was surprised. How could such a thing turn her on? Not thinking twice of it, I put them on. She passionately rubbed herself all over me, and had the most intense orgasm. I came, too, by her randiness and rubbing.
The next night, as we started going hot and heavy again, she urged me to wear her clothes again. Again, I complied, not thinking twice of it. This became more and more frequent as the days went on. Eventually, she would merely snap the elastic of her panties, and I would immediately remove them from her and put them on myself directly. Sex is sex, I thought, so I continued. I also began to doubt my manhood, because I noticed (and she as well) that I was now aroused as soon as she even hinted at my wearing her clothes.
I began to look forward to it as much as she did. We had fantastic sex this way, and I rarely penetrated her. I began to associate the clothes with good sex. I felt masculine, despite my trappings. Eventually, she seemed to lose interest in this game. She again resorted to the same tactics that got me into her clothes to begin with, and urged me to act more feminine. I did this comically at first, to humour her. I liked this better than penetration. I began to enjoy it even more. I shamefully, however, began to admit to myself that it was indeed better to be in a feminine state of mind. I had to feel as feminine as the sex goddess before me to feel fulfilled.
Eventually, she tired of this again. She began to give me the choice of whether I wanted to do it my way or hers. When I did it her way, I enjoyed myself so much more, so I more frequently did it. I felt so good being feminine. Soon, I began to request it, and she would grudgingly give me leave.
I wore her panties all the time now at home, and became sexually and psychologically enslaved to her. I begged her to let me worship her by letting me rub my feminized body onto her perfect model of womanhood. She allowed me, but became bored. She let me become her personal servant. I never left the house anymore. I lived to serve my goddess of sex. I was well rewarded. How I loved the feel of silk or lace on my monstrously ugly prick when I imagined being a girl. But she betrayed me.
She started bringing home other men. She fucked them, and made me watch clandestinely. I hated it. But they were not allowed to worship her like I was. So I laughed. Once, she brought home a homosexual to watch me worship. He found it quite compelling. He asked her if I were homosexual, and she answered, "Of course he is! Do you think he could be so feminine without being gay?"
"I don't believe it. If he is, then let him blow me."
I hadn't realized the extent of her power. I kneeled down before him and sucked his glorious prick dry until I exploded with ecstasy. I had longed for a dick. I didn't even know it. I felt so much more feminine, and I began to enjoy the company of men. They would fuck me all over, and I would love it. I was a total female, except for my shape.
She then contrived to have me take Gyna's mixture each time I sucked dick, and fucked like a girl. I would smear it on their dicks, suck them dry, and swallow it with their loads. It tasted great. Sure enough, within time, my dick shrivelled up and became a cunt; I grew tits and my waist shrank. My body hair fell out. I became a girl, physically as well as mentally. I fucked some men for a long time thereafter, enjoying it thoroughly, although I became bored.
Then she came to me, hornier than ever, and told me her truest fantasy. "Rob, I am a lesbian, and I love you. I want to fuck you." It took some time for me to become accustomed to pussy, but she slowly converted me again. Ever since, we have been lesbian lovers. I love pussy even more than I did when I was a man, because now I can truly appreciate what it is to have one, and to feel a pretty girl licking it clean.
"Rob," she said, "We have to try something new. I'm sick of just fucking like this."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Well. . . I have always had this fantasy. . ." she purred. I was newly aroused.
"What is it?"
"Well. . . I don't think you'd like it. No man would do it. . ."
"You'd be surprised at what a man will do. What is it? Don't be afraid. Don't be ashamed."
"No," she resolved, "I just can't tell you outright. You have to guess."
"Very well," I answered, always enjoying her delicious coyness, and her sexy mind games. "Is it anal sex?"
"No, no!"
"Tit fucking?"
"Nope."
"Shit? Piss?"
She shook her head, biting her lip.
"Another man? Another woman? Domination?"
She vigorously shook her head. I was at a loss. "C'mon, tell me," I implored, "I don't know."
She writhed around seductively in acute embarrassment, and beckoned me to bring my head closer, so that she could whisper in my ear.
"Rob," she whispered breathlessly, licking my ear and caressing it with her lips, "If I ask you to do something, will you promise to do it?"
I looked at her supiciously. "Depends what."
She caressed me and rubbed herself onto me. "Won't you do it? For me?"
With such an incentive, I was hornier than I ever thought possible. "Sure," I said huskily, as I caressed her and kissed her neck.
"Um. . . could you pick up my panties off the floor? And my bra?"
I obeyed, thinking that she would put them back on and striptease me again. She was about to order me to do something, but she hesitated, preferring to whisper it salaciously in my ear: "Now, put them on."
I was surprised. How could such a thing turn her on? Not thinking twice of it, I put them on. She passionately rubbed herself all over me, and had the most intense orgasm. I came, too, by her randiness and rubbing.
The next night, as we started going hot and heavy again, she urged me to wear her clothes again. Again, I complied, not thinking twice of it. This became more and more frequent as the days went on. Eventually, she would merely snap the elastic of her panties, and I would immediately remove them from her and put them on myself directly. Sex is sex, I thought, so I continued. I also began to doubt my manhood, because I noticed (and she as well) that I was now aroused as soon as she even hinted at my wearing her clothes.
I began to look forward to it as much as she did. We had fantastic sex this way, and I rarely penetrated her. I began to associate the clothes with good sex. I felt masculine, despite my trappings. Eventually, she seemed to lose interest in this game. She again resorted to the same tactics that got me into her clothes to begin with, and urged me to act more feminine. I did this comically at first, to humour her. I liked this better than penetration. I began to enjoy it even more. I shamefully, however, began to admit to myself that it was indeed better to be in a feminine state of mind. I had to feel as feminine as the sex goddess before me to feel fulfilled.
Eventually, she tired of this again. She began to give me the choice of whether I wanted to do it my way or hers. When I did it her way, I enjoyed myself so much more, so I more frequently did it. I felt so good being feminine. Soon, I began to request it, and she would grudgingly give me leave.
I wore her panties all the time now at home, and became sexually and psychologically enslaved to her. I begged her to let me worship her by letting me rub my feminized body onto her perfect model of womanhood. She allowed me, but became bored. She let me become her personal servant. I never left the house anymore. I lived to serve my goddess of sex. I was well rewarded. How I loved the feel of silk or lace on my monstrously ugly prick when I imagined being a girl. But she betrayed me.
She started bringing home other men. She fucked them, and made me watch clandestinely. I hated it. But they were not allowed to worship her like I was. So I laughed. Once, she brought home a homosexual to watch me worship. He found it quite compelling. He asked her if I were homosexual, and she answered, "Of course he is! Do you think he could be so feminine without being gay?"
"I don't believe it. If he is, then let him blow me."
I hadn't realized the extent of her power. I kneeled down before him and sucked his glorious prick dry until I exploded with ecstasy. I had longed for a dick. I didn't even know it. I felt so much more feminine, and I began to enjoy the company of men. They would fuck me all over, and I would love it. I was a total female, except for my shape.
She then contrived to have me take Gyna's mixture each time I sucked dick, and fucked like a girl. I would smear it on their dicks, suck them dry, and swallow it with their loads. It tasted great. Sure enough, within time, my dick shrivelled up and became a cunt; I grew tits and my waist shrank. My body hair fell out. I became a girl, physically as well as mentally. I fucked some men for a long time thereafter, enjoying it thoroughly, although I became bored.
Then she came to me, hornier than ever, and told me her truest fantasy. "Rob, I am a lesbian, and I love you. I want to fuck you." It took some time for me to become accustomed to pussy, but she slowly converted me again. Ever since, we have been lesbian lovers. I love pussy even more than I did when I was a man, because now I can truly appreciate what it is to have one, and to feel a pretty girl licking it clean.
Fiction: Enslaved and Forced to Become a Woman
The woman wouldn't let me go. I was threatened with death. She would really shoot me if I tried to bolt. So I stayed. She made me strip. I was naked in front of her, and I felt embarrassed. She laughed at the size of my penis. I was forced to stand there and let her make fun of me. She wouldn't touch me. I had to be her slave. I did everything for her. At first I was truculent, but she beat me with a billy club. When I was truly insubordinate, she would shove it up my ass.
I served as her naked slave for weeks. I slept naked on the floor at the foot of her bed, chained to a bedpost. I couldn't climb onto the bed and kill her, because the chain was too short. If I misbehaved she would torture me. Never did she let me become sexually satisfied. She placed a cup on my penis that prevented it from being touched. How I longed for relief! She skimped around all day in her lingerie to torture my brain.
About two years later, two years of perpetual shame, she told me that she would allow me to wear clothing. She would throw me into a room and allow me to choose any garment that I want, and wear it for as long as I pleased. I was allowed to pick a wardrobe.
She threw me in, and the air was cold. She turned on the lights, and I discovered that I was in a lingerie shop. There was nothing in any way masculine in the room. The only clothing was women's underwear. I had no choice but to grab some girls' underwear for warmth. I draped silk on my body, and it immediately warmed me. But not as much as I wished. She made it colder in the room, and no matter what amount of clothing I piled onto me, I could not warm up. She told me to try something on. I refused. I would not be forced to be a transvestite! She relented and permitted me to serve her for another year.
On that anniversary, she allowed me to re-enter the lingerie closet and pick a wardrobe again. But I was accustomed to nakedness. She still did not allow me any sexual pleasure, and oh, how she aroused me. She would tease me. . . I again refused.
She seemed to warm up to me more, out of familiarity. She told me about how to be a woman, and expected me to do as she did. I had to, or would die. She was so pleasant about it, that I actually enjoyed acting like her, my exalted goddess.
When she threw me into the lingerie store that year, I again felt apprehensive. But she now refused to let me leave without anything on. To humour her, I put on the most unflattering lingerie that I could find. I came as soon as it touched my cock. I was disgusted.
She threw me back in, and forced me to take another. Again, I repeated the action.
The next time, she made me try on something else, and let me wear it for much longer. It felt so warm on my body. I liked it. I began to experiment with other clothes, halfheartedly, because she was never satisfied with what I took. I became a lingerie model for her. I tried to act as femininely as possible, and the more I was feminine, the more she appreciated it. I began to plot what I would wear, to make it the most revealing possible. I began to enjoy wearing the sexiest clothes. . . She loved to see me that way. I began to truly love acting like a woman. I noticed that my penis was shrinking each time I acted femininely. At first I was alarmed, but the pleasure was such that I could no resist. I continued, heedless. I started engaging in homosexual sex. My breasts began to grow, and my hips. My waist and genitalia continued to shrink. I began to look like a girl. My body hair fell out. One day, my dick was gone, swallowed into a hole of flesh forming on my crotch. I had a cunt. At last, I became female. I could truly fuck like a girl! I am now a woman. I treat my own slave in much the same way.
I served as her naked slave for weeks. I slept naked on the floor at the foot of her bed, chained to a bedpost. I couldn't climb onto the bed and kill her, because the chain was too short. If I misbehaved she would torture me. Never did she let me become sexually satisfied. She placed a cup on my penis that prevented it from being touched. How I longed for relief! She skimped around all day in her lingerie to torture my brain.
About two years later, two years of perpetual shame, she told me that she would allow me to wear clothing. She would throw me into a room and allow me to choose any garment that I want, and wear it for as long as I pleased. I was allowed to pick a wardrobe.
She threw me in, and the air was cold. She turned on the lights, and I discovered that I was in a lingerie shop. There was nothing in any way masculine in the room. The only clothing was women's underwear. I had no choice but to grab some girls' underwear for warmth. I draped silk on my body, and it immediately warmed me. But not as much as I wished. She made it colder in the room, and no matter what amount of clothing I piled onto me, I could not warm up. She told me to try something on. I refused. I would not be forced to be a transvestite! She relented and permitted me to serve her for another year.
On that anniversary, she allowed me to re-enter the lingerie closet and pick a wardrobe again. But I was accustomed to nakedness. She still did not allow me any sexual pleasure, and oh, how she aroused me. She would tease me. . . I again refused.
She seemed to warm up to me more, out of familiarity. She told me about how to be a woman, and expected me to do as she did. I had to, or would die. She was so pleasant about it, that I actually enjoyed acting like her, my exalted goddess.
When she threw me into the lingerie store that year, I again felt apprehensive. But she now refused to let me leave without anything on. To humour her, I put on the most unflattering lingerie that I could find. I came as soon as it touched my cock. I was disgusted.
She threw me back in, and forced me to take another. Again, I repeated the action.
The next time, she made me try on something else, and let me wear it for much longer. It felt so warm on my body. I liked it. I began to experiment with other clothes, halfheartedly, because she was never satisfied with what I took. I became a lingerie model for her. I tried to act as femininely as possible, and the more I was feminine, the more she appreciated it. I began to plot what I would wear, to make it the most revealing possible. I began to enjoy wearing the sexiest clothes. . . She loved to see me that way. I began to truly love acting like a woman. I noticed that my penis was shrinking each time I acted femininely. At first I was alarmed, but the pleasure was such that I could no resist. I continued, heedless. I started engaging in homosexual sex. My breasts began to grow, and my hips. My waist and genitalia continued to shrink. I began to look like a girl. My body hair fell out. One day, my dick was gone, swallowed into a hole of flesh forming on my crotch. I had a cunt. At last, I became female. I could truly fuck like a girl! I am now a woman. I treat my own slave in much the same way.
Fiction: Everybody Else is Doing it
I noticed that many of my co-workers were disappearing, and being replaced with women. At first, I attributed this to affirmative action/employment equity run amock, but I soon realized that even in public, women outnumbered men. I wasn't that I noticed only women in my perpetual sexual fantasizing, but there were actually more women everywhere. Their numbers seemed to increase by the day. I was soon surrounded by women, many of them quite beautiful. They were tall, strapping, the type who would be fun to have dominate you. They had an air of power which I find strangely attractive. Unfortunately, I never had any nerve.
Eventually, I began to feel both like a sex object in the office, and strangely, I felt oppressed. I was being bossed around and given the most menial tasks. These new women were really tough to work with. They flirted with me and came on to me. Many were very aggressive. I had to draw the line. A few of them I fucked, not necessarily because it pleased me, but because I felt threatened. One girl actually forced herself upon me, and I had no way of defending myself. One could say that it was rape. I tried to avoid women for a while, but they were all over me. I couldn't escape.
One girl I fucked told me how good it felt to fianlly have a dick inside her. She was actually a virgin! She told me how hard it was becoming to find a man nowadays, but not in the sense that they normally tell you, like "I'm so glad I have finally found a man who can really satisfy me," or "Gee, a man I can trust," etc. No, in this case, she just wanted to get laid, and mentioned it quite frankly. She was simply glad to have gotten laid, and I just happened to be the prick who did it. Oddly, it was true: men were so difficult to find; even my buddies no longer returned my calls. I called on Andy personally, but some woman told me that he went on a trip to "discover his true self." And he didn't even tell me.
The great shock of epiphany came at last when I tried to pick up this really hot looking damsel on the subway who was wearing this short little mini skirt and a tight see-through blouse. I could see her little white panties creeping into her crotch. I sat next to her, and dropped a line. She turned around suavely, took off her shades. Staring back at me was Andy, but with gorgeous long hair, and a very pretty, feminine frown. She said: "sorry, Rob. It just wouldn't be right." She got up and sat elsewhere.
It was Andy, but not Andy; I could swear, by some manner in which she walked, talked, the fact that she knew my name, that it was Andy in drag. But she was so. . . feminine. Just moments before, I imagined sticking my head up her skirt and. . . But it was Andy. Devoured by curiosity, I pursued her, and came on even harder, even though my heart wasn't in it any more. I just had to be sure that she wasn't Andy in drag. I asked her things, alluded to things, that only Andy would know. She seemed uncomfortable. Finally, I asked her outright.
"Yes, Rob, it's me, Andrea. You used to call me Andy. I am now a girl. Is that a problem?"
I was quite taken aback by this. "Prove it."
"You grew up on the East side, and you have a birthmark on your left shoulder blade. You used to play basketball in high school. You used to hide a stack of dirty magazines under your dresser when you were a boy. Your--"
"Holy shit! It really is you! How. . . why. . ?"
"I can't explain here. You'd have to talk to me in private sometime. You know that you're quite sexy, don't you, now that I can see you from this perspective." Andy rubbed my thigh with his--hers, I mean--and gave me a woody. Creeped out, I bolted out the door, as the train had conveniently just stopped.
Imagine! Andy, the guy I roomed with! We had shared in so many sexist pranks and had fucked so many chicks! Women were our life! And now, he becomes a chick! I couldn't dare find out if he was really as female as he claimed to be.
Weeks later, I found out the truth. A girl picked me up, and I went to her place to fuck her. Easy sex like that became habitual. I was getting picked up every time I left the house. When I got there, I was thrown onto the bed, stripped down viciously, and fucked. Brutally. I loved it. But when she reached orgasm, she began to cry. Always the sensitive type, I comforted her.
"There, there," I said, smoothly.
"You don't understand," she sobbed. "I didn't mean to be so rough. I always wanted to have a man caress me gently and make love to me tenderly, without any violence. But I. . . I lose control, and I hurt him, and get all wild. Why can't I ever control myself, and really get laid? I'm not a man anymore! Why must I still act like one?"
I froze. My heart sank. I left her there crying and put on my clothes.
"What's wrong? Where are you going?"
"Uh. . . I gotta go. I've got an appointment. . ." I stammered.
"Please don't leave me."
"I really must go."
"Please? I need you."
"Well, uh. . . no, I really have to get going."
"I need you. I want you to understand. Or else I'll kill you," she said, as she reached into her dresser, still lying on the bed, and pulled out a gun.
"All right, if you put it that way, I'll stay."
She made me remove my clothes again. Then she told me how she had had a sex change, by some new technique, and how much more confident she felt. But she needed sex so badly, and there are so few men left. It's such a great technique, she said. She needs me to fuck her constantly, or else she'll die. So she fucked me again, and again, and again. I was brutalized each time. When she fell asleep, I grabbed her gun, blew her head off, and ran away.
When I got home, two female cops were waiting for me. They hauled me into my house, fucked me, and threw me naked into the squad car, to hoots and hollers from the many female neighbours.
In the station, they threw me into a cell, and had some other bitch come in and interrogate me. I was still naked.
"So why did you kill that girl? You wanna go to prison? Huh? I have a mind to kick your ass, you little punk."
I cowered in fear at this serious threat. "She was going to kill me. She was going berserk because I was leaving and she pulled the gun on me. I wrestled it away from her and it went off by accident, and--"
"BULLSHIT!" she screamed, and boxed me across the head. "She was going to keep you all to herself, eh? Not gonna happen!" She bent over and whispered salaciously in my ear: "I've got you now, sugar. All to myself. I can keep you here in this prison for a long time, and nobody can touch you except me. And oh, am I gonna touch you." She grabbed my dick, and started stroking it. Then she threw me down on the ground and fucked me.
When she was done, the door swung open, and a man entered the room. "Burns! Get the fuck out of here! Quit fucking my prisoners, or I'll have you put up on charges." Burns muttered and left without a word.
"So you're the white slave who shot his mistress, eh? Chicks must be mad about you."
"Yeah. They can't keep their cunts off of me."
"Well you'd better get out of here. You're one of the last holdouts we have, and you've got to survive. Otherwise, the whole human race will disappear."
"What do you mean?"
"Haven't you noticed all the women around? Are you blind? Haven't yo wondered where all your friends went? Well, your buddies have probably all fucked you by now, and you haven't even noticed! Everybody's signing up for Guina's operation nowadays. Everybody wants to be a girl. You and I are a dying breed. I'll tell you now to resist as long as you can, or else you're in for it. You don't want to be a girl, do you?"
Just as I was about to vehemently affirm my masculinity, I considered how much power women had now, and for a split second I doubted. "Hell, no!"
"Then get out of here, and go into our retreat. They won't bother you there. Your cock'll need a rest, I think."
He was right. The bite marks were beginning to add up. Days later, I was in a camp with a dozen other men, and I was greeted warmly. Not a woman in sight.
As I pondered the situation, I noticed that I began to crave sex again. I masturbated constantly. I was always thinking of my perfect woman. I began to wish that I had something to remember women by. A piece of jewelry, handwriting, clothing, anything! Then I doscovered the warehouse. It had tonnes of female clothing in it, of every type. One time, I stole in there and jerked off looking at a dress. Gradually, I moved onto better things, like panties and swimsuits. Then I had to touch them. Then, I had to rub myself off with them. Then I did the unthinkable. I wore them over my clothes. I was in drag. Slowly, as I succumbed more and more often to this wicked temptation, I began to realize that women's clothing gave me a more satisfying orgasm than women themselves. I began to wear girls' clothing naked. Then I began to act more feminine in them, to heighten the effect. I grew my hair during this time. I sometimes dared to venture back to the camp with girls' clothes on underneath. I loved it so much, but I was so ashamed! The kinkiness of it was unbearable. I went back all the time. Eventually, I was dressed like a girl more often than not. I wondered what the other men would think. Finally, I decided to take a plunge. I dressed up completely like a girl once, and sachayed into the cmp. The men were sex-starved, and they ran me down and tried to fuck me. When they removed my panties, they stopped in shocked silence. Then they turned me over and took turns reaming me up the ass. I was so ashamed. I enjoyed having a dick inside me!
They left me there alone, and I went back to the warehouse. Every night thereafter, I went back and had sex with the men. They knew it was me, the transvestite, but they didn't care. Neither did I. Or rather, I did care, enormously, because I loved the taste of come in my mouth, and the fucking, and the being female! I was their whore for a few months before they suddenly refused to have me anymore. I went back home, as a woman.
I masturbated constantly with my clothes. I threw out my old wardrobe and replaced it with lingerie and other girls' stuff. I went totally feminine. My penis seemed to shrivel up after each homosexual experience, but I didn't mind. It eventually disappeared into a fold appearing at my crotch. At the same time, my hips grew, and my tits grew. My body hair fell out. I was becoming a real girl. When I looked at the panties' labels once, I understood, and laughed gaily. They were made by Gyna Inc., the people who develloped the sex change. Everybody wants to be perfect. It just so happens that femininity is perfection!
Diary: Science Says It's Possible!
How nice it is to think that my recent problems with women can be solved by admitting that I am a woman trapped inside a man's body. My overwhelming desire to wear clothes designed to make girls extremely appealing, it arouses me to think kinkily, and is an obvious sign that my sexuality is innately feminine. To rephrase, I wear women's underwear because I want to be a girl. How compelling to think that I can just abandon my masculinity and become a girl by tossing off my male inhibitions and becoming a full-time transvestite. I would feel so much more attractive and powerful, and even more so when I finally get my breast implants, and eventually get a sex change.
I have learned many interesting things today while perusing an OMNI magazine. I have discovered that genitals are somehow interchangeable. I had read before of a certain breed of tiger that its females, after giving birth, become virtual males: their clitorises enlarge and protrude, becoming penises. Similarly, in men of all species, the penis is simply a lump of flesh sticking out of what would normally develop as a vagina. It's all a matter of hormones. And gonads. There are rare cases of people who have testes or ovaries, but who become, by some defect, the opposite sex at birth, or even at puberty!
Now, here I am, wearing, on the outside, men's clothes, but underneath a pair of pantihose which my mother discarded and the black lacy panties which I stole from a friend's sister. How strange! How cool it would be if it were possible to switch sex spontaneously. . .
Here is an interesting excerpt from an interview with Roger Gorski, an american biologist:
Just imagine the possibilities, even in fiction! I could alter that steamy little tale above a bit and include actual science! How wonderful!
I have learned many interesting things today while perusing an OMNI magazine. I have discovered that genitals are somehow interchangeable. I had read before of a certain breed of tiger that its females, after giving birth, become virtual males: their clitorises enlarge and protrude, becoming penises. Similarly, in men of all species, the penis is simply a lump of flesh sticking out of what would normally develop as a vagina. It's all a matter of hormones. And gonads. There are rare cases of people who have testes or ovaries, but who become, by some defect, the opposite sex at birth, or even at puberty!
Now, here I am, wearing, on the outside, men's clothes, but underneath a pair of pantihose which my mother discarded and the black lacy panties which I stole from a friend's sister. How strange! How cool it would be if it were possible to switch sex spontaneously. . .
Here is an interesting excerpt from an interview with Roger Gorski, an american biologist:
OMNI: . . .What is the TFM [testicular feminizing male]?
GORSKI: Here you have the genetic male whose testes, although undescended, still produce normal amounts of testosterone. But the TFM has genetically lost the androgen receptor all over the body--including the brain. This genetic male cannot respond to testosterone. So what is the phenotype [external characteristics] of this individual? Female! Female external sex organs, breasts, body fat distribution. The internal sex organs, however, are not female. Early in fetal life the testes produce another hormone, Muellerian duct inhibiting factor [MIF], that suppresses development of such female organs as the uterus and Fallopian tubes. MIF is not a steroid and doesn't need the androgen receptor to operate. Apparently MIF is normally secreted in the TFM, because those who function sexually as women often have to go to a clinician because intercourse is painful. That's because the deepest part of the vagina devellops from the Muellerian duct, which both sexes possess in early embryonic life and which is suppressed by MIF.
The human male testes also normally secrete small amounts of estrogen. Because the TFM can't respond to testosterone during the prenatal period of sex differentiation, he develops as a female. And at puberty, when these testes become active, he responds to the increased quantity of estrogen, developing breasts and becoming sexually active as a female. These individuals rarely know they are male. They're born looking like girls, are treated by parents and peers as girls, and so act like girls. They are both phenotypically and psychosexually female (132).
Stein, Douglas. "Interview: Roger Gorski." Omni Magazine Oct. 1990: 70+.
Just imagine the possibilities, even in fiction! I could alter that steamy little tale above a bit and include actual science! How wonderful!
Diary: Bitter Regrets
Rereading all of that is vaguely arousing, but not as much as when I wrote it. I seem to be saturating my need for transvesticism and transsexualism. How unfortunate. Or is it?
As expected, I am a bit shocked about what I wrote. I am not at all turned on by the homoeroticism right now. I can only think of pussy. I want some pussy. I need some pussy. I need to fuck a nice, lovely chick. But can I? I somehow doubt it. What is going on here? Am I wrecking myself, or what? Let me explain.
For a long time, I have found it impossible to get aroused when I'm with a girl. Not that I've had much opportunity. But I am not as turned on by them as perhaps I should be. I danced with CC__, and with B__ and with Br__, my band's groupies, and failed to get a woody. Br__ and C__ aren't exactly my type, but B__ is, despite her age. I can't imagine fucking her, though. I was so damned uncomfortable when Cr__ started making out with me last year. I felt nothing. Nothing at all. S__ scares me. She's cute, but I can't seem to feel horny for her enough to move on her. I don't even think I like her anymore. She hurt me so badly! I can't forgive her for that. I have a problem with women.
Ever since Br__ dumped me so horribly, I can't take sex seriously. It all seems to me to be a big mistake, an illusion that the whole world avidly believes in. It's such a facade. I can no longer think of sex seriously when confronted with the reality of it. It used to be so easy to idealise girls and worship them from afar, romantically, and when I finally got one, I maintained the fantasy. She was such an actress. The whole time, she was playing a role. I recall that time when she freaked out on the phone and ran screaming out of her apartment brandishing a knife. I raced up there, worried at first, but somehow, at the back of my mind, I knew that I had nothing to fear; that she was totally safe, not at all serious. It was the type of thing you see in a play or a movie. Real people don't take things so seriously. Indeed, she didn't. I found her later, and she admitted that she felt foolish, knowing that she wouldn't do anything with that knife. I knew it too, but I was just as bad as her by playing my own role.
Now I notice that people all around me do the same. I get nostalgic at times, watching the game unfold in front of me, and I hope for fortune to throw some sex goddess my way. Then, as I watch more closely, I begin to realize that it's all a fantasy, a way of looking at things. A woman, I once thought, is a totally different species. Socially, we segregate ourselves by sex at youth. Only later do our hormones pull us together. If not for that, perhaps we would stay away completely. As we mature, we keep these strange ideas about the opposite sex, and idealize them. When we fall in love, we feel like they are goddesses. We worship their diferences, because their physicality makes them something else. I spent fifteen months thinking of Br__ that way. She was a woman, an entity on her own only in that she was female. I couldn't care that she was human.
Now when I look at a girl, I see instead the similarities, and lose sexual interest. What's the use if they're essentially the same? A girl farts, shits, pisses, pukes, eats sleeps, etc. just like I do. There's nothing romantic about a couple of mounds of flesh on the chest, a tiny waist, big hips and a fleshy hole in the crotch. It's all human skin and fat and bone, It's all just like me, only built differently. When I think of tits, they seem to me to be nothing more than lumpy globs of fat with nipples on them. They're not so great. But when I see them, I am at first seized with intense desire and curiosity. It slowly fades. A cunt is a smelly bloody thing. It's not sexy in and of itself, either. Women seem top be soft, sort of childlike-featured adults. Big fucking deal. I imagine a girl sucking me off, remember that she must have done it many times before, and the romantic feeling disappears. The same with sex. How can it be special? It's just genital friction, marinated in illusions of romance, steeped in fantasy. It has no meaning.
S__ tells me about the guy she fucked at some trailer park on Victoria day weekend when she and her boyfriend annually break up. What's the attraction? She fucks another guy. She abandons every thought of the guy to whom she has attached herself for five long fucking years just for a meaningless fuck. Why did that bother me so much? Why did it make me so jealous? I used to jerk myself thinking of fucking her, and then, all of a sudden, the idea of her fucking the trailer park guy pops in and I go flaccid. Why does it bother me? I think it's because it so cruelly shatters my illusions of a somewhat permanent relationship. How can she betray her boyfriend like that? I have no problem imagining her fucking her boyfriend. But anyone else? It's painful. Perhaps I feel grossly inadequate at the same time. Why not me? It's both, I guess. Come to think of it, It must be the latter. The former is just a redirection of negative emotion. But it's partially valid, too. I feel so jealous when I think of it that way. Oh well.
The point is that reality has no place in sex. It's a fantasy world. That's why I enjoy dressing up in girl's panties so damned much. It's totally unreal, and there's no way that my fantasies can get shattered, because there's nobody there. It's futile to put girls on such a pedestal. The only charm they have is the hormonal fantasy they come close to. They are only as good as they are similar to the ephemeral dream-girl. That's why I don't even bother. I'm so tragically picky that I can't even imagine dating a girl right now. It's just too god-damned painful. It's so shattering. I don't like having my illusions destroyed. Sure, it enlightens me, but to what price? I'm sure I'll get over it soon. I just have to sort it out some more. This is very helpful, this writing.
Why must I be so hung up on this fantasy of femine perfection? Is everybody simply a slave to an ideal? Do they constantly strive to find that perfect person, and fail miserably every time, only to try again and again? Don't they realize how impossible it is to acheive something like that? Perhaps many do, yet they can continue. I myself have such a clear idea of what I want. That's how I fell in love with S__. One must want to fall in love for it to happen. People like my buddy E__ fall in love constantly. I fall in love once in a blue moon. I don't want to fall in love because I know that it will fail. Why bother? Sure, I can get sex. If I do end up being such a good friend too, I'm fucking a friend. Somehow, I realize now that I am no longer in love with S__, it seems disrespectful to want to fuck a friend. It's sort of insulting. It's a failure to see a person for what she really is. I don't know if I could fuck her if she gave me an opportunity. I could be such a good friend of hers, or I could lose all respect for her now that the veil in front of me has been removed. I think that I have lost a lot of respect for her since she threw herself at J__ right in front of me. Oh, how she wounded me! How could she? She broke my heart without even knowing it. That makes me realize even more that girls are just like us. Unlike my ideal, a real girl can be aroused by a whole multitude of men. That's totally fair, but it seems unfair. Why should reality be so different from fantasy? How can I relate, when these fantasies are innate? What can I do?
It seems that there are two options: live in a fantasy world, or live in reality. Fantasy seems awfully enticing. It's all under my own control. But reality is after all reality. I can count on it not to ever change. It's unpredictable, spontaneous, fulfilling. Fantasy is not. Fantasy, however, can be quite rich. where else can I envision this perfect woman? She does not exist in reality. Real women are too real, too intense. A dream girl, however, I can't touch. I need the touch of other humans, especially sexy girls. Or silk and lace. I can decide right here, right now, whether I want to just fantasize for the rest of my life or actually confront reality and get aroused without any fantasy. Impossible! Let's just live the dream if we can. . .
I'll live the life that I want. I'll drive home from the university where I teach, pull the Porsche into the garage, and go into the house, dressed in my suit, and say hello to my wife, who does something on her own for her money. She'll kiss me hello, and follow me into the bedroom, where I remove my clothing and put on some of her lingerie, which I select. She'll stay clothed, and I'll just masturbate constantly as I worship the ground upon which she walkes, lick her feet, serve as her little french maid. I'm her slave. For all the time we're together, I'm hers. I keep my body shaven and my hair long like hers, and I put on jewelry and makeup like hers, and perfume. I'll be female for her. I'll even fuck her as she wants me to.
Physically, she's blonde, has firm fist sized tits, long silky legs, and lots of agressive spirit, and at the same time, lots of logic. She thinks just like me. She fantasizes about me, about me wearing her clothes and being her little lesbian bitch to fuck. She must be somewhat meatier than S__, but without an ounce of fat on her body. Her skin has to be as pale as mine, and as silky and hairless as is humanly possible.
On a more realistic level, I am seiously considering ordering lingerie through the mail. Whenever I get any kind of catalogue, I'll order a one-piece swimsuit, a bikini or two, silk panties, lace panties, both with matching bra, two one piece undies, one silky, the other lacy, a garter belt, and stockings to match. I'll get varieties of colours. That's pretty much all I need. When I have my own place, and I isolate myself, I'll shave my body hair to be totally femininely smooth, and live like a girl for a week or two. I'll wear only girls' clothes, I'll wear makeup and perfume, and maybe even skirts and dresses. I'll be masturbating constantly.
But I'll probably lose interest after a while. I'll regret it after I drop my first load. But I'll have to press on. I am determined. Doing this will either purge this from my system, or make it my sexual staple. Thinking about it makes me hope for the latter! How kinky it is, how depraved. I want to dress up like a girl again. How fantastic! I simply can't adequately describe the feeling of wanting to be a girl. I want to turn more and more into a girl every time I masturbate with girls' clothes on. After a couple of thousnd times, My dick will fall off, and I'll have a fully developed cunt in its place. Then I'll go and get laid. But I want to return to manhood each time, just so I can do it again. I love the way it humbles my masculinity. This is exactly what homophobia's all about: the fear of becoming feminine. I'm not afraid. I want it, badly, but only temporarily.
God help me though, that I'll never have the guts to do this with a girl, or even to let anyone at all know about it. That's part of the attraction, though. While I do it, I imagine myself sachaying femininely, confidently, as a faggoty transsexual wearing lingerie, pretending to be a girl. Let them drop their jaws in amazement as I show how unafraid I am of being feminine, of showing my own femininity. They're afraid of it. They'll never understand, because, they're so concerned with being male. I'll suck them off just for kicks, even though it doesn't turn me on to think of men, just to see them squirm as they realize that a man is doing it, and they enjoy it just as much. The horror! HAHA! Then I'll go and cavort with girls, giggly and frivolous, but just as feminine. Then I'll come all over myself from the experience. It's so naughty to think of being feminine. Men are afraid of losing their masculinity, but they don't realize how cool it is to be a girl. Argh! I've got to get those little black panties on!
I can just imagine it: in my isolation retreat, I get a visit from a man unexpectedly, and I seduce him. I tease him, letting him think that I am a girl for a while, and at the last minute show him my dick, and let him understand the power of femininity. It controls mankind. Although that's not the end for which I seek it. Now, off to bed, and a nice set of undies!
As expected, I am a bit shocked about what I wrote. I am not at all turned on by the homoeroticism right now. I can only think of pussy. I want some pussy. I need some pussy. I need to fuck a nice, lovely chick. But can I? I somehow doubt it. What is going on here? Am I wrecking myself, or what? Let me explain.
For a long time, I have found it impossible to get aroused when I'm with a girl. Not that I've had much opportunity. But I am not as turned on by them as perhaps I should be. I danced with CC__, and with B__ and with Br__, my band's groupies, and failed to get a woody. Br__ and C__ aren't exactly my type, but B__ is, despite her age. I can't imagine fucking her, though. I was so damned uncomfortable when Cr__ started making out with me last year. I felt nothing. Nothing at all. S__ scares me. She's cute, but I can't seem to feel horny for her enough to move on her. I don't even think I like her anymore. She hurt me so badly! I can't forgive her for that. I have a problem with women.
Ever since Br__ dumped me so horribly, I can't take sex seriously. It all seems to me to be a big mistake, an illusion that the whole world avidly believes in. It's such a facade. I can no longer think of sex seriously when confronted with the reality of it. It used to be so easy to idealise girls and worship them from afar, romantically, and when I finally got one, I maintained the fantasy. She was such an actress. The whole time, she was playing a role. I recall that time when she freaked out on the phone and ran screaming out of her apartment brandishing a knife. I raced up there, worried at first, but somehow, at the back of my mind, I knew that I had nothing to fear; that she was totally safe, not at all serious. It was the type of thing you see in a play or a movie. Real people don't take things so seriously. Indeed, she didn't. I found her later, and she admitted that she felt foolish, knowing that she wouldn't do anything with that knife. I knew it too, but I was just as bad as her by playing my own role.
Now I notice that people all around me do the same. I get nostalgic at times, watching the game unfold in front of me, and I hope for fortune to throw some sex goddess my way. Then, as I watch more closely, I begin to realize that it's all a fantasy, a way of looking at things. A woman, I once thought, is a totally different species. Socially, we segregate ourselves by sex at youth. Only later do our hormones pull us together. If not for that, perhaps we would stay away completely. As we mature, we keep these strange ideas about the opposite sex, and idealize them. When we fall in love, we feel like they are goddesses. We worship their diferences, because their physicality makes them something else. I spent fifteen months thinking of Br__ that way. She was a woman, an entity on her own only in that she was female. I couldn't care that she was human.
Now when I look at a girl, I see instead the similarities, and lose sexual interest. What's the use if they're essentially the same? A girl farts, shits, pisses, pukes, eats sleeps, etc. just like I do. There's nothing romantic about a couple of mounds of flesh on the chest, a tiny waist, big hips and a fleshy hole in the crotch. It's all human skin and fat and bone, It's all just like me, only built differently. When I think of tits, they seem to me to be nothing more than lumpy globs of fat with nipples on them. They're not so great. But when I see them, I am at first seized with intense desire and curiosity. It slowly fades. A cunt is a smelly bloody thing. It's not sexy in and of itself, either. Women seem top be soft, sort of childlike-featured adults. Big fucking deal. I imagine a girl sucking me off, remember that she must have done it many times before, and the romantic feeling disappears. The same with sex. How can it be special? It's just genital friction, marinated in illusions of romance, steeped in fantasy. It has no meaning.
S__ tells me about the guy she fucked at some trailer park on Victoria day weekend when she and her boyfriend annually break up. What's the attraction? She fucks another guy. She abandons every thought of the guy to whom she has attached herself for five long fucking years just for a meaningless fuck. Why did that bother me so much? Why did it make me so jealous? I used to jerk myself thinking of fucking her, and then, all of a sudden, the idea of her fucking the trailer park guy pops in and I go flaccid. Why does it bother me? I think it's because it so cruelly shatters my illusions of a somewhat permanent relationship. How can she betray her boyfriend like that? I have no problem imagining her fucking her boyfriend. But anyone else? It's painful. Perhaps I feel grossly inadequate at the same time. Why not me? It's both, I guess. Come to think of it, It must be the latter. The former is just a redirection of negative emotion. But it's partially valid, too. I feel so jealous when I think of it that way. Oh well.
The point is that reality has no place in sex. It's a fantasy world. That's why I enjoy dressing up in girl's panties so damned much. It's totally unreal, and there's no way that my fantasies can get shattered, because there's nobody there. It's futile to put girls on such a pedestal. The only charm they have is the hormonal fantasy they come close to. They are only as good as they are similar to the ephemeral dream-girl. That's why I don't even bother. I'm so tragically picky that I can't even imagine dating a girl right now. It's just too god-damned painful. It's so shattering. I don't like having my illusions destroyed. Sure, it enlightens me, but to what price? I'm sure I'll get over it soon. I just have to sort it out some more. This is very helpful, this writing.
Why must I be so hung up on this fantasy of femine perfection? Is everybody simply a slave to an ideal? Do they constantly strive to find that perfect person, and fail miserably every time, only to try again and again? Don't they realize how impossible it is to acheive something like that? Perhaps many do, yet they can continue. I myself have such a clear idea of what I want. That's how I fell in love with S__. One must want to fall in love for it to happen. People like my buddy E__ fall in love constantly. I fall in love once in a blue moon. I don't want to fall in love because I know that it will fail. Why bother? Sure, I can get sex. If I do end up being such a good friend too, I'm fucking a friend. Somehow, I realize now that I am no longer in love with S__, it seems disrespectful to want to fuck a friend. It's sort of insulting. It's a failure to see a person for what she really is. I don't know if I could fuck her if she gave me an opportunity. I could be such a good friend of hers, or I could lose all respect for her now that the veil in front of me has been removed. I think that I have lost a lot of respect for her since she threw herself at J__ right in front of me. Oh, how she wounded me! How could she? She broke my heart without even knowing it. That makes me realize even more that girls are just like us. Unlike my ideal, a real girl can be aroused by a whole multitude of men. That's totally fair, but it seems unfair. Why should reality be so different from fantasy? How can I relate, when these fantasies are innate? What can I do?
It seems that there are two options: live in a fantasy world, or live in reality. Fantasy seems awfully enticing. It's all under my own control. But reality is after all reality. I can count on it not to ever change. It's unpredictable, spontaneous, fulfilling. Fantasy is not. Fantasy, however, can be quite rich. where else can I envision this perfect woman? She does not exist in reality. Real women are too real, too intense. A dream girl, however, I can't touch. I need the touch of other humans, especially sexy girls. Or silk and lace. I can decide right here, right now, whether I want to just fantasize for the rest of my life or actually confront reality and get aroused without any fantasy. Impossible! Let's just live the dream if we can. . .
I'll live the life that I want. I'll drive home from the university where I teach, pull the Porsche into the garage, and go into the house, dressed in my suit, and say hello to my wife, who does something on her own for her money. She'll kiss me hello, and follow me into the bedroom, where I remove my clothing and put on some of her lingerie, which I select. She'll stay clothed, and I'll just masturbate constantly as I worship the ground upon which she walkes, lick her feet, serve as her little french maid. I'm her slave. For all the time we're together, I'm hers. I keep my body shaven and my hair long like hers, and I put on jewelry and makeup like hers, and perfume. I'll be female for her. I'll even fuck her as she wants me to.
Physically, she's blonde, has firm fist sized tits, long silky legs, and lots of agressive spirit, and at the same time, lots of logic. She thinks just like me. She fantasizes about me, about me wearing her clothes and being her little lesbian bitch to fuck. She must be somewhat meatier than S__, but without an ounce of fat on her body. Her skin has to be as pale as mine, and as silky and hairless as is humanly possible.
On a more realistic level, I am seiously considering ordering lingerie through the mail. Whenever I get any kind of catalogue, I'll order a one-piece swimsuit, a bikini or two, silk panties, lace panties, both with matching bra, two one piece undies, one silky, the other lacy, a garter belt, and stockings to match. I'll get varieties of colours. That's pretty much all I need. When I have my own place, and I isolate myself, I'll shave my body hair to be totally femininely smooth, and live like a girl for a week or two. I'll wear only girls' clothes, I'll wear makeup and perfume, and maybe even skirts and dresses. I'll be masturbating constantly.
But I'll probably lose interest after a while. I'll regret it after I drop my first load. But I'll have to press on. I am determined. Doing this will either purge this from my system, or make it my sexual staple. Thinking about it makes me hope for the latter! How kinky it is, how depraved. I want to dress up like a girl again. How fantastic! I simply can't adequately describe the feeling of wanting to be a girl. I want to turn more and more into a girl every time I masturbate with girls' clothes on. After a couple of thousnd times, My dick will fall off, and I'll have a fully developed cunt in its place. Then I'll go and get laid. But I want to return to manhood each time, just so I can do it again. I love the way it humbles my masculinity. This is exactly what homophobia's all about: the fear of becoming feminine. I'm not afraid. I want it, badly, but only temporarily.
God help me though, that I'll never have the guts to do this with a girl, or even to let anyone at all know about it. That's part of the attraction, though. While I do it, I imagine myself sachaying femininely, confidently, as a faggoty transsexual wearing lingerie, pretending to be a girl. Let them drop their jaws in amazement as I show how unafraid I am of being feminine, of showing my own femininity. They're afraid of it. They'll never understand, because, they're so concerned with being male. I'll suck them off just for kicks, even though it doesn't turn me on to think of men, just to see them squirm as they realize that a man is doing it, and they enjoy it just as much. The horror! HAHA! Then I'll go and cavort with girls, giggly and frivolous, but just as feminine. Then I'll come all over myself from the experience. It's so naughty to think of being feminine. Men are afraid of losing their masculinity, but they don't realize how cool it is to be a girl. Argh! I've got to get those little black panties on!
I can just imagine it: in my isolation retreat, I get a visit from a man unexpectedly, and I seduce him. I tease him, letting him think that I am a girl for a while, and at the last minute show him my dick, and let him understand the power of femininity. It controls mankind. Although that's not the end for which I seek it. Now, off to bed, and a nice set of undies!
Fiction: First Attempt, or the Floodgates Open, or even, Going Off the Deep End
My tongue slips and slides on a hard spike of male flesh. I nibble a bit on the purple head, suck it like a salty purple lollipop. I gently rub it around my face, and lick it slowly, in a spiral from the hairy root to the very tip. I intentionally leave a ring of lipstick around the circumference, and slowly, but ever so gently run my nail along its length like I had just done with my tongue. Then I grab it hard with my right hand and suck it dry, jerking and sucking, sucking harder and harder, and jerking vigorously. I can taste the salty cum start trickling into my mouth. I moan with feminine pleasure, knowing what is to come. But I stop just as that tell-tale quiver begins, and giggle salaciously at the torture to which I subject this beautiful beast. I lick his muscular, smooth, hairless chest quickly, and have them bring in two more, tied down just like this one, and just as muscular and handsome and masculine.
I introduce myself to their pricks, one by one, by tonguing them both, getting a taste for what I want. Then I grab the two dicks at my side, and start sucking viciously on the first again, until he screams in intense, shameful pleasure. I gargle and swallow.
My other men I toy with some more, as the first has lost consciousness. I rub myself on them with my knee, and suck and kiss their cocks. I eventually lose a bit of interest. One squirts all over my leg. I scoop it up with my finger and lick it clean. This one gets a solid kick in the nuts for that. They roll him away to be eunoched. The last one suffers my ultimate punishment. I open up my lacy robe, slip off my silk panties, careful not to remove the garter belt, and start rubbing my own prick naked against him and his. He cries out in agony, as I make him come before me. Hah. Too feminine, for you, hmmm?
The first, whom I have managed to prevent from climaxing, grunts in distaste and acute arousal. I can tell by his pulsating penis. He tries to turn his head away, but always looks back again with a perverse pleasure. I know that he longs to be as feminine as I am. I purr and cuddle up to him, caressing his balls, and fondling them, tickling them. I give the signal to the eunochs, and they turn him around and bend him over. For the sake of embarrassing him, I fuck him up the ass. I no longer feel any pleasure doing this violent male action anymore. I much prefer to spread my legs and pretend that a dick goes into my cunt while I myself get reamed up the ass. Any dick inside me is better than a dick not inside me. I last forever up his ass, and just for kicks, I come in there, and let him know about it. He has been growling with pain and gratitude. I kiss him tenderly on the mouth, licking his lips as I do so. The eunochs lift him up again, and I grab his dick again. Finally, he speaks: "You fucking whore bitch cunt slut. . ." he sobs. I take offence, and bite his cock. I viciously chew it, ripping it off, still hard in my mouth. The stump gushes blood. "See? That's how it feels to menstruate, jerk." I continue sucking his dick, and as it bleeds and loses hardness, I shove it into his mouth, which screams in agony. I return to the one who has passed out coming all over me, and revive him. I force him to suck me off, and he obliges most tenderly, and most readily.
I finish up and slip my panties back on, and await my next victims, reminiscing. . .
It all began when I was still in my very early twenties. Women and men became more and more estranged. Men became sex objects, but retained the power too. Women thought that this was another scam, to take away the beauty industry from them, and make men the objects of admiration. Enough was enough, so they revolted.
They had discovered back in late '95 a certain gene infusion which made all women and some very lucky men immortal. Women no longer needed men. So they stopped having sex with us. What for, they figured? We don't need their money or their power anymore. Why should we give them what they want? Only those very lucky men who could be tamed were kept as sex slaves. The others were made crazy for sex. The war began, but the women won, simply because men were generally too desperate for sex. The men were enslaved, and immortalised by some new development of the first infusion. So then, all the military men were destroyed, and the rest ran away to avoid slavery or death.
The women were quite rigourous. They eliminated all of those they found. By eliminated, I mean that they either changed them into homosexuals, for their viewing enjoyment, or turned them into women. Those who became women were the obsequious ones, and they were grotesque copies. Quite rarely, a man would display genuine femininity, and become a real woman. At least, as real as he can possibly get. Those are never quite right. . .
At any rate, all men were eventually captured, simply for lack of sex. Homosexuals thrived, because the women loved to watch them and then fuck each other in large orgies or in private. All women became beautiful and sexcrazed because of the gene infusion. So the homos turned themselves in, and some even became girls. The lucky bastards! But they can never be fully feminine, just for lack of experience.
When I was captured, I was truculent. They tortured me, and all of us, for not co-operating. But they enjoyed us the most. They sucked us off for kicks. They rubbed us up and down. Then they offered us the greatest sex, and would not give it. They made us totally horny, and never let us come. It was sheer agony. A few actually went mad, and were destroyed. I kept my cool, though. I reveled in the sexy femininty around me. I worshipped them, and they knew it. I offered them my body, and they took it.
However, they tricked us all. They started sending in the fags to suck us, and we actually were allowed to release. None of us could at first, but we all eventually took it for what it was. In the meantime, the girls danced for us to make us horny. They gradually made it more and more impossible to ignore the men. We began to look more at them than the girls. They enjoyed flipping around our sexual preferences. Even fags were sometimes made hetero, and then forced back. They had men sensuously fuck us up the ass. Some were dressed like women. We were helpless. At least, the others were. They are now running around in those delicious fag shows. I never lost interest in the girls. I would always imagine them sucking me while the men did the dirty work. Their plan had backfired.
I introduce myself to their pricks, one by one, by tonguing them both, getting a taste for what I want. Then I grab the two dicks at my side, and start sucking viciously on the first again, until he screams in intense, shameful pleasure. I gargle and swallow.
My other men I toy with some more, as the first has lost consciousness. I rub myself on them with my knee, and suck and kiss their cocks. I eventually lose a bit of interest. One squirts all over my leg. I scoop it up with my finger and lick it clean. This one gets a solid kick in the nuts for that. They roll him away to be eunoched. The last one suffers my ultimate punishment. I open up my lacy robe, slip off my silk panties, careful not to remove the garter belt, and start rubbing my own prick naked against him and his. He cries out in agony, as I make him come before me. Hah. Too feminine, for you, hmmm?
The first, whom I have managed to prevent from climaxing, grunts in distaste and acute arousal. I can tell by his pulsating penis. He tries to turn his head away, but always looks back again with a perverse pleasure. I know that he longs to be as feminine as I am. I purr and cuddle up to him, caressing his balls, and fondling them, tickling them. I give the signal to the eunochs, and they turn him around and bend him over. For the sake of embarrassing him, I fuck him up the ass. I no longer feel any pleasure doing this violent male action anymore. I much prefer to spread my legs and pretend that a dick goes into my cunt while I myself get reamed up the ass. Any dick inside me is better than a dick not inside me. I last forever up his ass, and just for kicks, I come in there, and let him know about it. He has been growling with pain and gratitude. I kiss him tenderly on the mouth, licking his lips as I do so. The eunochs lift him up again, and I grab his dick again. Finally, he speaks: "You fucking whore bitch cunt slut. . ." he sobs. I take offence, and bite his cock. I viciously chew it, ripping it off, still hard in my mouth. The stump gushes blood. "See? That's how it feels to menstruate, jerk." I continue sucking his dick, and as it bleeds and loses hardness, I shove it into his mouth, which screams in agony. I return to the one who has passed out coming all over me, and revive him. I force him to suck me off, and he obliges most tenderly, and most readily.
I finish up and slip my panties back on, and await my next victims, reminiscing. . .
It all began when I was still in my very early twenties. Women and men became more and more estranged. Men became sex objects, but retained the power too. Women thought that this was another scam, to take away the beauty industry from them, and make men the objects of admiration. Enough was enough, so they revolted.
They had discovered back in late '95 a certain gene infusion which made all women and some very lucky men immortal. Women no longer needed men. So they stopped having sex with us. What for, they figured? We don't need their money or their power anymore. Why should we give them what they want? Only those very lucky men who could be tamed were kept as sex slaves. The others were made crazy for sex. The war began, but the women won, simply because men were generally too desperate for sex. The men were enslaved, and immortalised by some new development of the first infusion. So then, all the military men were destroyed, and the rest ran away to avoid slavery or death.
The women were quite rigourous. They eliminated all of those they found. By eliminated, I mean that they either changed them into homosexuals, for their viewing enjoyment, or turned them into women. Those who became women were the obsequious ones, and they were grotesque copies. Quite rarely, a man would display genuine femininity, and become a real woman. At least, as real as he can possibly get. Those are never quite right. . .
At any rate, all men were eventually captured, simply for lack of sex. Homosexuals thrived, because the women loved to watch them and then fuck each other in large orgies or in private. All women became beautiful and sexcrazed because of the gene infusion. So the homos turned themselves in, and some even became girls. The lucky bastards! But they can never be fully feminine, just for lack of experience.
When I was captured, I was truculent. They tortured me, and all of us, for not co-operating. But they enjoyed us the most. They sucked us off for kicks. They rubbed us up and down. Then they offered us the greatest sex, and would not give it. They made us totally horny, and never let us come. It was sheer agony. A few actually went mad, and were destroyed. I kept my cool, though. I reveled in the sexy femininty around me. I worshipped them, and they knew it. I offered them my body, and they took it.
However, they tricked us all. They started sending in the fags to suck us, and we actually were allowed to release. None of us could at first, but we all eventually took it for what it was. In the meantime, the girls danced for us to make us horny. They gradually made it more and more impossible to ignore the men. We began to look more at them than the girls. They enjoyed flipping around our sexual preferences. Even fags were sometimes made hetero, and then forced back. They had men sensuously fuck us up the ass. Some were dressed like women. We were helpless. At least, the others were. They are now running around in those delicious fag shows. I never lost interest in the girls. I would always imagine them sucking me while the men did the dirty work. Their plan had backfired.
They knew. They tortured me more and more. They sent in men and only men, but I resisted. They grew angry, and beat me up. They kicked me in the nuts. They tortured me more and more. I hated every moment, but they would never forgive me. One day, they came back to me. They let loose and allowed me to do what I would. I could have run away, and they would have allowed me. There were rumors of gangs of men living outside, free from feminine rule, but immortal like them, enjoying their own slave women. These were very rare. I could have made it there, too. I had Carte Blanche.
Instead, I dropped to my knees, and kissed their feet, licked them clean. They were quite happy, as I jerked off all over myself, not daring to stain them with my vile liquid. They are still so incredible!
More and more frequently, they let me loose and allowed me to serve them like a eunoch, but in sexy thongs and in the nude, and I did so most gladly, just because they are the most fantastic specimens of femininity. Ah, the feminine! How smooth, silky, steamy. . . They began to tire of my obsequiousness. They tied me up now and again, to torture me as they did at first. How I moaned and cried. Eventually, my Mistress made me snap on some of her panties, and then rubbed me around. I still focussed on her, but the panties made it so much better. Soon, she did it agian, and watched as I relished it until she removed the panties. She then cracked a wicked grin, and hatched her plot.
She dressed me up and left me there to watch her. I almost came. I was touching a garment which had been in contact with her cunt. She let me loose a few times and allowed me to worship her in an ultimate homage, by wearing her clothes. How amazing it was! I came regularly, but not on her clothes. That would have been sacrilege! She eventually allowed me to keep some of her clothes. Whenever she would release me, I would rush to ge dressed in my new clothes, and gamboll around like a girl. I wanted so badly to be one. . .
She was most impressed. She allowed me to masturbate on her. She allowed me to rub onto her. That was the most heavenly moment of my entire life (that life, anyway): I wore her white lace panties, which just barely covered my dick. The lacy elastic gripped tight on my hip. My body was by then totally bare, by electrolysis. I had grown my hair femininely. My brassiere was tight on my flat chest, but the silk and lace made my nipples hard. I had on my garter belt, with the white stockings. She wore crimson panties, skimpy as mine, and a very pretty, flowery brassiere, and stockings to match. At first, I worshipped her silently, in absolute awe. Then, for the first time ever, she let me touch her body. I caressed it all over with my hands, then my nose, my lips, my tongue. She stood powerfully, like a goddess, as I affectionately worshipped. Then I began to hump, and she touched me all over. I could feel our smooth silky skin touching together, and the lace and silk rustling together. She had me strip her slowly until she was naked, and I broke into a religious stupor. I came all over her. She cleaned it off as I passed out at her feet.
After that, I was determined to follow up. She let me sometimes. But if I tried to fuck her, she would kick me in the balls and watch me squirm. Sometimes. But I didn't like to fuck as much as I liked to dress up. She had given me a choice, as I was loosened at all times, and exploring sex with her constantly: I could either fuck, or dress up. I gradually began to simply dress up. I never fucked her again. She became angry, and had some other men come in as sex toys, and torture them before my eyes. She would always orgasm. I wanted her to believe that she was still my goddess. So she tested me. She made me join in her sexcapades. I sucked my first dick under her direction. It was uncomfortable at first. I vomited when I first had come in my mouth. But soon, I grew accustomed to it. I still did not enjoy it though. I wanted to worship pussy after all.
She then took away all of my clothes, and I was left male again. She would only allow me to wear them again if I displayed femininity. So I did. I absolutely required my lingerie. I began to act more and more girlish. But it wasn't enough. When she saw me sucking a dick again, she gave me some pantyhose. I came all over myself. As my sucking improved, she let me wear various unflattering, incomplete things, like old woman's undies, and her skirts. Then for a long time, I wore leotards. Soon, I was permitted to wear bathing suits. I returned to heaven. I always had the choice to return to something I had worn. I still wear the swimsuits from time to time. Anyway, I slowly got up to the point where I loved to suck dick, just because I got to become more feminine by it.
I began to fuck some of them up the ass, just to get my big, combersome masculinity into their tight, virginal little buns. I needed to release my male need to dominate. Eventually, that too became useless. I had them fuck me instead. Right up the ass. I still do sometimes, when I feel kinky. Then, I met some other transexualized men. We sucked each other's dicks passionately. How I loved 69. We started to play with dildoes. But I still worshipped my mistress's body. I wanted to be like her. I was finally given a girl's body, but kept the dick. It's a show of loyalty and reverence: I can never be totally female. So now I have lesbian sex with my mistress whenever possible, and we play together at torturing men. How I love to convince them that I am a sexy girl, and then make them realize that I am still a man, and make them enjoy me more that they would a female. I love the taste of come in my mouth. I love to have a dick inside of me. But better yet is my mistress's dildo, as ahe fucks the shit out of me, literally. I love women. I love to be a woman. I also love to make men think that they want to be women. Just like me.
Instead, I dropped to my knees, and kissed their feet, licked them clean. They were quite happy, as I jerked off all over myself, not daring to stain them with my vile liquid. They are still so incredible!
More and more frequently, they let me loose and allowed me to serve them like a eunoch, but in sexy thongs and in the nude, and I did so most gladly, just because they are the most fantastic specimens of femininity. Ah, the feminine! How smooth, silky, steamy. . . They began to tire of my obsequiousness. They tied me up now and again, to torture me as they did at first. How I moaned and cried. Eventually, my Mistress made me snap on some of her panties, and then rubbed me around. I still focussed on her, but the panties made it so much better. Soon, she did it agian, and watched as I relished it until she removed the panties. She then cracked a wicked grin, and hatched her plot.
She dressed me up and left me there to watch her. I almost came. I was touching a garment which had been in contact with her cunt. She let me loose a few times and allowed me to worship her in an ultimate homage, by wearing her clothes. How amazing it was! I came regularly, but not on her clothes. That would have been sacrilege! She eventually allowed me to keep some of her clothes. Whenever she would release me, I would rush to ge dressed in my new clothes, and gamboll around like a girl. I wanted so badly to be one. . .
She was most impressed. She allowed me to masturbate on her. She allowed me to rub onto her. That was the most heavenly moment of my entire life (that life, anyway): I wore her white lace panties, which just barely covered my dick. The lacy elastic gripped tight on my hip. My body was by then totally bare, by electrolysis. I had grown my hair femininely. My brassiere was tight on my flat chest, but the silk and lace made my nipples hard. I had on my garter belt, with the white stockings. She wore crimson panties, skimpy as mine, and a very pretty, flowery brassiere, and stockings to match. At first, I worshipped her silently, in absolute awe. Then, for the first time ever, she let me touch her body. I caressed it all over with my hands, then my nose, my lips, my tongue. She stood powerfully, like a goddess, as I affectionately worshipped. Then I began to hump, and she touched me all over. I could feel our smooth silky skin touching together, and the lace and silk rustling together. She had me strip her slowly until she was naked, and I broke into a religious stupor. I came all over her. She cleaned it off as I passed out at her feet.
After that, I was determined to follow up. She let me sometimes. But if I tried to fuck her, she would kick me in the balls and watch me squirm. Sometimes. But I didn't like to fuck as much as I liked to dress up. She had given me a choice, as I was loosened at all times, and exploring sex with her constantly: I could either fuck, or dress up. I gradually began to simply dress up. I never fucked her again. She became angry, and had some other men come in as sex toys, and torture them before my eyes. She would always orgasm. I wanted her to believe that she was still my goddess. So she tested me. She made me join in her sexcapades. I sucked my first dick under her direction. It was uncomfortable at first. I vomited when I first had come in my mouth. But soon, I grew accustomed to it. I still did not enjoy it though. I wanted to worship pussy after all.
She then took away all of my clothes, and I was left male again. She would only allow me to wear them again if I displayed femininity. So I did. I absolutely required my lingerie. I began to act more and more girlish. But it wasn't enough. When she saw me sucking a dick again, she gave me some pantyhose. I came all over myself. As my sucking improved, she let me wear various unflattering, incomplete things, like old woman's undies, and her skirts. Then for a long time, I wore leotards. Soon, I was permitted to wear bathing suits. I returned to heaven. I always had the choice to return to something I had worn. I still wear the swimsuits from time to time. Anyway, I slowly got up to the point where I loved to suck dick, just because I got to become more feminine by it.
I began to fuck some of them up the ass, just to get my big, combersome masculinity into their tight, virginal little buns. I needed to release my male need to dominate. Eventually, that too became useless. I had them fuck me instead. Right up the ass. I still do sometimes, when I feel kinky. Then, I met some other transexualized men. We sucked each other's dicks passionately. How I loved 69. We started to play with dildoes. But I still worshipped my mistress's body. I wanted to be like her. I was finally given a girl's body, but kept the dick. It's a show of loyalty and reverence: I can never be totally female. So now I have lesbian sex with my mistress whenever possible, and we play together at torturing men. How I love to convince them that I am a sexy girl, and then make them realize that I am still a man, and make them enjoy me more that they would a female. I love the taste of come in my mouth. I love to have a dick inside of me. But better yet is my mistress's dildo, as ahe fucks the shit out of me, literally. I love women. I love to be a woman. I also love to make men think that they want to be women. Just like me.
Diary: the Truth Will Set You Free
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Diary: Dipping a Toe in the Pool
I am beginning to understand what I must do. I do have a style, and I must be merciless with it. I need a copy of Strunk & White. I must explore my own depravity, and put it through the scrutiny of my writing style. If only I had something to write about. . .
I can try writing about cats. But that would get quite dull without context. I could also write about women, and sex, but I might arouse myself so much that I would never be able to complete it. Ah, yes, women. They are the most puzzling feature of life. And I am not talking about relationships. In fact, I am not even talking, I am writing. However, I need privacy if I am to do this. I simply cannot do it with anyone around. There! Now let's Go.
What an odd sensation, to see a perfectly formed human female strut by in her summer clothes. Hormones pump into my blood and make me sweat. This past weekend, I saw many beautiful women, particularly at the concert, but none were as shockingly attractive as the one I spotted on Yonge St. during my first trip to Area 2. She emerged from Hayden St. or some other, and my eyes immediately popped out of my head. She was the perfect specimen of human femininity, yet she lacked the single feature which usually affects me the most. I shall explain (and reword) later. She was fairly tall, but not towering, perhaps five foot eight. She wore the summer fashion of the day, which any red-blooded male must appreciate with a religious fervor: denim shorts caressing only the curves of her buttocks, hanging loosely on her hips and exposing her deliciously smooth thighs and navel to every roving eye, and a tiny little t-shirt exposing the belly all the way up to the ribs. Her shirt was black, like her hair and sunglasses, and her skin tanned brown and fluid like Canadian Maple Syrup. Her incredible legs carried her quickly and confidently around the corner onto Yonge. Her shorts seemed to hang on her hips just below the waist, just hang, as if they were suspended only by a desire to feel her smooth creamy skin, and her waist, slim and as curvaceous as a Cosine, made her skin appear liquid, as delectable as root beer. Fuck, was she ever hot! And there's more, and I'll get back to this!
I can try writing about cats. But that would get quite dull without context. I could also write about women, and sex, but I might arouse myself so much that I would never be able to complete it. Ah, yes, women. They are the most puzzling feature of life. And I am not talking about relationships. In fact, I am not even talking, I am writing. However, I need privacy if I am to do this. I simply cannot do it with anyone around. There! Now let's Go.
What an odd sensation, to see a perfectly formed human female strut by in her summer clothes. Hormones pump into my blood and make me sweat. This past weekend, I saw many beautiful women, particularly at the concert, but none were as shockingly attractive as the one I spotted on Yonge St. during my first trip to Area 2. She emerged from Hayden St. or some other, and my eyes immediately popped out of my head. She was the perfect specimen of human femininity, yet she lacked the single feature which usually affects me the most. I shall explain (and reword) later. She was fairly tall, but not towering, perhaps five foot eight. She wore the summer fashion of the day, which any red-blooded male must appreciate with a religious fervor: denim shorts caressing only the curves of her buttocks, hanging loosely on her hips and exposing her deliciously smooth thighs and navel to every roving eye, and a tiny little t-shirt exposing the belly all the way up to the ribs. Her shirt was black, like her hair and sunglasses, and her skin tanned brown and fluid like Canadian Maple Syrup. Her incredible legs carried her quickly and confidently around the corner onto Yonge. Her shorts seemed to hang on her hips just below the waist, just hang, as if they were suspended only by a desire to feel her smooth creamy skin, and her waist, slim and as curvaceous as a Cosine, made her skin appear liquid, as delectable as root beer. Fuck, was she ever hot! And there's more, and I'll get back to this!
Diary: Needing to Read to Write Better
Why am I so uninspired? It must be because of so many hours spent at my dead-end job. I do nothing constructive. I suppose I should start writing things that I like instead of this pointless drivel. I can't get anywhere with this. I need to get into the same spirit I was in during the school year. Ah, what memorable satires I wrote! If only my mood allowed me . . .
I should read Catch-22 again. There is something in that book that I missed, that is very important to me right now, which I am on the verge of discovering. I feel as though that secret is coming to me, and that I must experience something very soon to discover exactly what it is.
I was thinking today (a rare moment indeed, considering the brainless idiocy that I earn money for) that engineers are actually somewhat admirable. They are (or at least should be) clever, adaptable, and intelligent, yet unafraid to get their hands dirty on some greasy machine. In fact, they love it. I, on the other hand, love to get down and dirty with words, twist them into my purposes, stretch them to fit my needs. Language is an invention like any other, and is open to innovations and improvements. People love my satirical lexical humour. So do I. I should not be afraid to delve into the bottom of the sewer of language, where all of the interesting things are. I will find out what makes it tick. I will dismantle it and reassemble it, over and over again, with the greatest attention to the smallest detail, and work in my own improvements.
For example, Poe's stories are in drastic need of improvement, if not grammatically, but in terms of plot. Or rather, his lyric genius must be extricated from his fantastically unjust stories. How barbaric of him to have the narrator of The Pit and the Pendulum survive his ordeal because of a timely rescue lasting an entire two lines! He (Poe, that is) might as well have roasted his tale over an open flame and devoured it whole, or battered it mercilessly with an axe, rather than ending it that way. Improving it could be well worth the effort.
I should also reread [famous author, redacted], and read some of it for the first time. Soon I will discover the flaw if there is one. The same goes for Heller. Is there a flaw in either? I just loved those books . . . [obscure author] is a bit too irrational for my liking. He does have a lot to say, though... I should get reading!
I should read Catch-22 again. There is something in that book that I missed, that is very important to me right now, which I am on the verge of discovering. I feel as though that secret is coming to me, and that I must experience something very soon to discover exactly what it is.
I was thinking today (a rare moment indeed, considering the brainless idiocy that I earn money for) that engineers are actually somewhat admirable. They are (or at least should be) clever, adaptable, and intelligent, yet unafraid to get their hands dirty on some greasy machine. In fact, they love it. I, on the other hand, love to get down and dirty with words, twist them into my purposes, stretch them to fit my needs. Language is an invention like any other, and is open to innovations and improvements. People love my satirical lexical humour. So do I. I should not be afraid to delve into the bottom of the sewer of language, where all of the interesting things are. I will find out what makes it tick. I will dismantle it and reassemble it, over and over again, with the greatest attention to the smallest detail, and work in my own improvements.
For example, Poe's stories are in drastic need of improvement, if not grammatically, but in terms of plot. Or rather, his lyric genius must be extricated from his fantastically unjust stories. How barbaric of him to have the narrator of The Pit and the Pendulum survive his ordeal because of a timely rescue lasting an entire two lines! He (Poe, that is) might as well have roasted his tale over an open flame and devoured it whole, or battered it mercilessly with an axe, rather than ending it that way. Improving it could be well worth the effort.
I should also reread [famous author, redacted], and read some of it for the first time. Soon I will discover the flaw if there is one. The same goes for Heller. Is there a flaw in either? I just loved those books . . . [obscure author] is a bit too irrational for my liking. He does have a lot to say, though... I should get reading!
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