Now, I've gone pretty far. It's been a while since I've been able to update this document, but lots has happened. I've had to hide my stash. I put it in a locker at the [shopping mall]. I had to wear some of A__'s underwear for the past few weeks. One time I actually did retrieve my magic bag from the locker. Then I put it back. But this time, it's gone. I went to get it again, but the key didn't turn. My stuff is as good as gone.
That really put me off. I was looking forward to looking like a girl tonight. I had a big plan. I knew that A__ was leaving for the night. I could sleep alone. So that means that I can take advantage of her absence to wear women's underwear. I planned to get my stuff from my locker after work, get home, and change into my lingerie outfit. Then I would have put on my outerwear over top and gone to the bank and the grocery store, and no one would have noticed, except me. But that fell apart when I discovered that I couldn't have my stash anymore. Then I got home and A__ was waiting for me. She didn't leave until 7:15. I went shopping in my own clothes.
I was determined, however, to wear something. I wanted to do it all. I want this to be the night that I wear women's clothes all night. I've tried many times, but failed. So I took off and came back. I wanted to check out [the local discount stores], to see what they might have. I eventually returned from the supermarket to find an empty apartment. I had decided to try the lingerie store on [the nearest major street].
It took a little while. I was a very calm and deliberate shopper. I know what I want to wear. So I settled on a stretch lace teddy, a garter belt, and some black nylon stockings. It cost me $60! But I have my fix now.
I've gone as far as I dare right now. I'm wearing my new outfit. I cooked myself dinner with it on under my clothes. But now, after dinner, I'm wearing A__'s black mini-skirt and her white button-up t-shirt. I put on makeup for only the second time ever, and I didn't feel the least bit apprehensive about it. I put on eyeliner, eyeshadow, mascara, and lipstick. I preened myself in the mirror. My God, what a transformation! I might even look sexy, If I could shave my body hair! My legs look gorgeously sexy in these nylons, and that mini-skirt. My face even looks feminine. I'm as much like a girl now as I can be. The only thing I need now is a shave! I even let my hair down, which really helps a lot.
I have never gone nearly this far. I wish I could do this all the time. I've been fantasizing about escaping for a month or so, somewhere where no one can find me, and shaving every hair off my body, and becoming totally feminine for at least one whole day and night. I would put on makeup, a dress, lingerie underneath, and be totally cleanly shaven. Then I would sleep in a nightgown, wake up, and wear women's underwear for the whole time I'm there. That would be so incredible! I desperately want to do it, but it won't happen for at least another year. And now, for a little fantasy...
Fiction: Wardrobe Machine Malfunction
NEW! You no longer have to worry about buying clothes! Our tele-clothing service will dress you automatically! Download the latest fashions from our website, and PRESTO! You will be wearing a complete outfit, without even having to move!
This was the ad for the newest teleporter gizmo. You pick your outfit, step into the machine, and it tailors the latest styles for your precise measurements and zaps the new clothes right onto you. I tried it out at the store. You walk in there naked, and program whichever outfit you want to wear, and it just snugs onto you before you know what hit you. It was an amazing idea: no more having to shop for hours in the stores, trying to find clothes that fit. You could get the exact clothes you needed, just like that, in your exact size, and instantly. It wasn't cheap, but it sure was convenient.
So, unable to ever find time to shop for new suits, I bought one. I loved it. Snazzy suits, thousands to choose from, and instantly on me. I even got the ties I needed just like that. The damned thing even gave you a good pair of underwear. It was too perfect. It had to screw up.
I had slowly abandoned all of my own clothing. This was just far too convenient. Even on weekends, I stepped directly into the machine after a shower, and presto, some bumming around clothes. I had come to rely exclusively on this machine for my clothing needs.
So one day, while browsing through the catalogue, I picked the first non-descript pair of jeans I could find. Some of the clothes weren't presented on models. I picked worn blue jeans and a white t-shirt, white sports socks and sneakers. It zapped on my clothes, and I went about my business. Somehow, something felt different. The fit wasn't quite the same as it usually was. It was somewhat tighter on the waist, and my briefs felt a little high cut. I thought I might even have been wearing a thong. But it wasn't in any way uncomfortable: quite the opposite. I felt extra-snug, and a little exuberant. I think they even made me a bit horny.
I ran a few errands in town, and when I got home, I needed to piss. I unzipped my pants, and digging for my dick, felt silk. Silk? I thought. Why do they zap me silk underwear? I pissed without even thinking about it. The thought of silk underwear almost made it impossible to piss. It got me thinking of the kind of underwear that women wear, and what that kind of underwear covers. Also, the silk felt really nice against my skin.
So I went on that day, even hornier than before, thinking of how sexy my girlie looks in her undies. Ooooh, those curves, those beautiful round little curves!
I only noticed much later when I returned to the bathroom to take a dump that I was, in fact, not only wearing silk underwear, but women's silk underwear! I was shattered. The panties I had been wearing all day had lacy trim all around them. There was no mistaking them for some kind of effeminate men's briefs. They were women's panties. But what could I do? I had to take them off, and run around without underwear for the rest of the day. I knew that it would be quite uncomfortable, but I had no choice. I noticed the tag in my jeans as I pulled them back on: "Jeans for women." But at least they weren't as noticeable.
Clearly, I had made a little mistake. I chose women's clothing instead of men's. I would have to make sure that the people responsible for my machine heard my complaint. I strode to the phone, undies in hand, ready to give them Hell.
Just as I picked up the phone, I realized how stupid it would sound. First, I would have to admit that I just wore women's clothing all day, and that was just not something that I was prepared to do. They would know my name, and they would all laugh at me. "You wore women's clothes all day, and you didn't even notice?" they would ask, disbelieving. I turned livid with shame. What an embarrassing mistake! I could never complain. It was my own stupidity that got me into this fix in the first place. I would have to be careful in the future.
Months later, it happened again. I felt a little snug in my clothes as soon as I felt them on me, and I suspected immediately what had happened. I checked the programme on the machine: "Men's casual weekend wear: worn-in jeans, briefs, sports socks, white t-shirt, sneakers." That was exactly what I had been careful to order. I peeked into my pants, and saw, to my horror, that I was indeed wearing women's underwear again. I simply could not understand it. Nor could I forgive it. I mustered all my courage and called their toll-free hotline.
"Tele-clothing services, Amy speaking, how may I help you?"
"There's a problem with my machine."
"Yes sir? What is the machine doing?"
"It's not giving me the clothes I ordered."
"Could you give me more detail? Is it not fitting properly?"
"Yes, it fits perfectly."
"Is the colour wrong? Is the style a bit different?"
"The colour's fine, but the style's not right at all."
"All right, sir, I'll need your account number to look into it more closely."
I read her my account number.
"Men's casual weekend wear: worn-in jeans, briefs, sports socks, white t-shirt, sneakers," she read.
"That's what I ordered."
"And what did you receive, sir? Can you describe it to me?"
"It gave me the wrong kind of underwear."
"It didn't give you briefs?"
"No."
"What did it give you, sir?"
"It gave me, uh, well. . ."
"Sir?"
"It's kind of embarrassing."
"We can't solve the problem unless you tell us exactly what it is, sir."
"Well, it gave me, uh, women's underwear." My shame had taken the fight right out of me.
"Women's underwear? Are you sure, sir?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"Can you read me the UPC code, sir? Maybe they're just a particular style of men's bikini briefs."
"They're definitely not men's briefs."
"The UPC code, sir?"
I blushed as I undid the top button of my pants to get a look at the panties, suddenly realizing that I was still wearing them. "Hold on a minute, I can't see the tag."
"It should be on the back, sir."
"Hold on. I'll have to take them off."
I put down the receiver and slid out of my pants and undies. I found the tag: "40920-83831," I read. I heard her tapping at a keyboard and humming as she waited for the information to come up on her screen.
"Hmmmm. . . it seems that you have indeed received women's underwear, sir." I could hear her giggling a bit.
"What's so funny," I thundered.
"You've been wearing women's underwear, sir. I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh, it's just that--"
"Don't give me that!" I screamed. "I want a full refund and a new pair of underwear! And I want it now!"
"Yes sir. Right away sir. Just re-order the underwear that you want, and we'll zap it right onto you. We truly regret the error."
I hung up the phone and stormed back into the machine. They sent me my proper underwear, and I went on with my day.
The very next day, it started getting serious. I ordered bumming clothes again, but I didn't get anything even close to what I ordered. This time it gave me a long dress. Underneath, I had a matching set of panties and bra. I was both furious and acutely ashamed.
"Your orders are coming in wrong!" I thundered over the telephone.
"What do you mean sir?"
"I'm getting things that I can't wear!"
"What's wrong with the clothing, sir?"
"It's not what I ordered."
"I'm sorry sir, but it seems that you've had this problem before?"
"Yes!"
"I think we'll have to send someone over to service your machine, sir. When is a good time for you?"
I set up the appointment for later that day. Only after I hung up did I realize that I was still wearing a dress. I couldn't get through again all day. I tried to change into something more comfortable in the machine, but it was disconnected. "Warning," it read, "disconnected because of network problems. Please wait for repair crew." I was trapped in a dress, waiting for people to come and fix my machine.
I expected men to show up. But it was a pair of women. Men would have laughed it off. Women were cruel and merciless. They didn't have to laugh. Their looks said it all. It was the most embarrassing moment of my life: wearing women's clothes against my will in front of other women. Still, it was better than being totally naked.
I waited for them to leave before I got changed. I was getting sort of used to wearing a dress. It was pretty damned comfortable, I had to admit. But I also had to admit that it was strictly for girls. I wouldn't be caught dead wearing a dress again.
I pushed the buttons, and waited for my proper clothes to zap on. Imagine my anger when I stepped out of there wearing a one-piece women's swimsuit. It was so snug upon my body that I felt trapped inside it. I had never worn anything like it before. It was so high-cut above the thigh, and so smooth. I felt more than a bit ridiculous. I tried again, for the same outfit. This time, I ended up in a long black skirt, a coloured mini-t black stockings and high heels. I felt the skirt brush against my legs as I stumbled out again. I couldn't believe it. I had to try again. And again. Each time I wore another feminine garment. Nothing out of the batch was even remotely masculine. I was conducting a fashion show of women's clothes. I must have tried on thirty different outfits. I was less and less surprised each time. I was getting more and more embarrassed. I could not get out of women's clothing. I couldn't call back for more repairs. I was trapped. I even tried ordering women's clothing, hoping to get men's clothing in return. I got exactly what I ordered.
I could do no more. Here I was trapped in women's clothes. Nothing I did would get me anything else. I was being forced to dress like a girl. But I had to keep trying. Perhaps if I tried just underwear again it would work.
I ordered boxers, and ended up in black lace panties and a matching bra. I ordered matching silk panties and a bra, and got exactly what I ordered.
I was beginning to have a bit of fun with this. I could only laugh at my misfortune. I ordered a bathing suit again, and got it. It was as interesting to wear as before. I walked around a bit in it, and found it very arousing to have my dick so gently and softly squeezed. I traced the trim with my hands as I would have had the bathing suit been on a girl. I was starting to ham around, acting like a girl. I was getting curious. I wanted to try everything that I had never worn before. I ordered a bikini. It was fabulously sexy. I ordered all sorts of lingerie. I picked out a garter belt and silk stockings.
Finally, I ordered the sexiest lingerie I could find, but received plain old boxers instead. I was crestfallen. Then I realized that this was what I wanted all along. I had spent the whole day trying on women's clothes, and had actually liked it. I swore to never fall into that again.
The next morning, getting ready for work, the machine zapped me again. I gasped in horror again as I found myself wearing a silk teddy and stockings. Worse, the machine didn't let me go. I was strapped in somehow, struggling to get out. All I could move were my hips. I struggled to get out of the machine and the lingerie, but could not. Each gyration of my hips produced an incredible amount of pleasure. I tried to fight it, but it would not let up. I dropped to the floor when it released me, just before I climaxed. All crumpled on the floor, I could feel my sexy stockings caressing my legs. I struggled to regain my composure, and fought the urge to finish myself off. I managed to control myself, but could not bring myself to remove the lingerie. I felt so sexy in it. The suit I had ordered fell out of the machine somehow. I looked at it and put it on to go to work. But I still wore the lingerie underneath, and could barely concentrate all day because of what I had on under my clothes.
I came to look forward to wearing women's clothes. I prepared myself every day for it, and became increasingly satisfied. I tried on everything. I wanted to wear everything feminine in that catalogue. I began to shave my legs. Then the rest of my body. I wore only women's underwear under my clothes from then on.
Diary: Affirmation
And the secret comes out: the most intense sexual gratification I have ever experienced came while I wore women's underwear. I like to fantasize about becoming a girl by wearing lingerie and swimsuits and skirts. I love to wholly forsake my masculinity by imagining myself turning into a woman as I frolic in tight effeminate garments. I love to think that I can destroy my manhood by embracing feminine ways. I often think that I want to be a girl because girls get to wear such wonderful clothing all the time.
That said, let me begin another useless chronicle of my feminine side, which I will probably never read again. It only gets my juices flowing, as it were.
Science fiction always provides an easy way to explain the kind of metamorphosis that I want to experience. Here's another new fantasy, in the sci-fi genre.
Fiction: The Superhero Mind-Control Trap
I've been following that mysterious, glamourous, long-legged goddess around now for days, and it's getting harder and harder on my leg. I just can't keep up. Her legs are at least twice as long as mine, and unlike mine, they're svelte and muscular and perfectly shaped and functional. I don't think that she's noticed me. Somehow, she hasn't seen the limping troll trailing her everywhere she goes. I thought I'd be a bit more noticeable than that. But no. She's got better things to do, I'm sure.
I've learned a lot about her in my stalking. She seems awfully attached to some geek in the classier part of town. Come to think of it, I'm not entirely sure where he lives.
Anyway, I've found something out about him: he gallavants around the city in tights fighting crime. He's the famous Cockroach man: invincible with his cockroach like ability to withstand the most treacherous forces of nature, his proportional speed and strength, his keen sense of smell, and his astounding ability to adapt quickly. He has put more petty criminals--and arch-criminals, too--behind bars than the entire police force. But what a snotty little prick. If not for those super powers, I'd crush him under my foot and run off with that goddess, who probably has no clue about his little secret.
I found out in a fit of jealousy. I wanted to break his house apart when he was gone. I wanted to trash the place. He thinks he's so hot with all that money and all those women fawning over him. I waited for him to leave, and I managed to break into his house. The cocky bastard doesn't even bother locking his doors. Now that I think of it, why should he? He's a super crimefighter, after all.
Anyway, I was going to scout the place out, look for anything that I could use to ruin him, or to use against him in order to win that wonderfully beautiful woman of his. When I got into his closet, I was amazed to discover the tights that had made him famous. I had found the lair of the Cockroach man. I ran screaming out of that place as if it were infested. But I knew his secret, and I was ready to use it against him.
I thought of selling my tidbit of information to the government, or to one of those crazy scientists living in the hills outside of town. But then I realized that I'd probably be better off blackmailing him with that little secret. I wonder how much he'd pay to protect his secret identity.
It was pretty easy, actually. All I'd have to do is steal his outfit. He'd be ridiculous without it. Sure, he'd more than likely still have his super powers, but who the Hell cares? I didn't think he'd have the guts to come right out and admit to running around like some kinda freak in his garish reddish leotards.
Amazingly, and wouldn't you know it, just as I snuck into his closet, he came home. Not only that, he came home with that sex queen that I've been following around.
In short, she found me out, and she hid me. She didn't give me away. I don't know why. She managed to sneak me out of there quietly enough, without him noticing. "Meet me in the park at midnight," she hissed at me as I clambered down the front of the house.
She's a brave woman. She kept her appointment. She was alone, all alone at that hour in a crime-infested part of town, and wearing a tight little minidress. Unmolested. The cockroach must be watching over her, I thought. But I went ahead anyway.
I found myself in her apartment. It was a dream come true. She was so hot. She brought me to her bedroom, but, to my surprise, she left without a word, swinging her ass as she walked out seductively. She stuck her head back in. "Why don't you pick an outfit out for me," she purred, "And make it something skimpy and easy to remove."
I opened her closet, and my jaw dropped. I couldn't believe all the sexy lingerie she had hanging in there. Then I noticed the leotards: sleek, skimpy, black. My heart stopped momentarily when I realized that I had found the identity of the infamous Mindbender. I tried to sprint out of the room, but somehow, I knew that she was monitoring my thoughts. As if to confirm my suspicion, she grabbed me from across the room with her telekinesis and easily halted my movement. She took off what she was wearing right in front of me to reveal her outfit for me. She was even more stunning in person than on the news or in photos. Perfect athletic body, with all the yummy feminine parts that most women dream of having. She was absolutely gorgeous. But she was also a very, very bad person.
She took hold of my actions. I could no longer control my body. I prostrated myself at her feet, and began sucking them. She was laughing at me, even as she controlled my actions. She stood me up, and had me remove all my clothes. Here I was, naked in front of her, totally unable to resist her. I felt her telekinetic energies jerking me off, and doing it so well that I was overcome with pleasure, and embarrassed at the same time. I didn't want her to do this to me. I felt like I was being raped. She stopped just as I was losing it. "You like me so much," she giggled, "that you're almost coming where you stand!"
My heart pounded like a hammer on an anvil. She released me and let me fall to my knees. "I'm letting you have your own free will again. What do you want to do?"
I desperately wanted to escape. I hoped that she was happy to have made me feel like a weakling, and that she would allow me to run away naked, never to come near her again. I started to bolt.
Unfortunately, she was just playing games with me. She made me stop right at her door.
"Is that how to treat a lady?" she asked. She was sitting on her throne, devilishly toying with me. "If you try that again, I'll destroy you." And I knew from the look in her eye that she meant it.
"Now come here and give me a hug. And don't forget that if you don't, I not only can make you do it, but I can make you do other things, too."
She started rubbing her incredible body all over mine. It was ecstasy. I didn't even want to tear off her slinky tights. It felt so good to just feel her gyrating cunt through the spandex, and her whole firm and soft and round body writhing in my arms in sheer pleasure. She pushed me away suddenly, and rubbed my face into her crotch until she came. Her telekinetic powers were let loose as her body shook from orgasm, and she squeezed me violently and threw me down to the ground. Before she fell asleep, she went to the trouble of chaining me up to her wall as she brushed her teeth. I was still naked. And I wouldn't have escaped even if I had the chance.
The next day, she released me from my chains and told me to get dressed. I couldn't find my clothes anywhere. "What, didn't you pick something out from my closet, like I told you to last night?" She was petulant. I had incurred her displeasure. She took me by the scruff of my neck and pushed me back to the closet. "Choose an outfit. I can't have you running around naked, now, can I?
I stared, daunted, into her closet. Frilly corsets, silky teddies, pink, black, red, white, plum, panties, brassieres, garter belts, all kinds of sexy garments hung in front of me. I could feel her anger mounting. "Well?!?" she prompted.
"You mean, you want me to wear this?" I dared to ask.
"Of course I want you to wear that! You're my little bitch now, and you'll do as you're told. Or else I'll make you do something far less pleasant. Understand?"
Blindly, I grabbed something off the rack. It was a white satin teddy. I stood staring at it with incredulity. I couldn't fathom myself wearing it. Not in a million years.
"What the fuck are you waiting for?" she screamed, and I slipped it on, fearing her wrath.
I looked at my body, encased in lingerie. I was dumfounded.
"Now, don't you feel nice and sexy?"
"Um, I don't know," I stammered.
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"Well," I admitted, "I've never done this before."
"Haven't you ever been with a girl before?"
"Yes."
"Haven't you ever seen her in her underwear?"
"Yes."
"Haven't you ever wanted to see her parading around in her undies for you? Don't you think she feels sexy when she does that?"
"Well, I suppose so," I replied shyly. She herself was wearing underwear as she spoke, and she looked very sexy.
"So now you know what it's like to feel sexy, don't you?" She waited for an answer. "Don't you?"
I couldn't speak. I honestly didn't know how I felt. I was quite randy from just looking at her, and from the kinky situation I found myself in. And I think that she was massaging my genitals softly.
"Well then," she decided, "if you don't feel sexy, then we'll have to make you feel sexy, won't we?" With that, she began to telekinetically fondle me with even more vigour. She made me walk around against my will, made me walk like a woman, swinging my butt like a model. She was making me model her lingerie for her. The satin clung to me arousingly. I practically came right then and there. She dropped me suddenly, and I writhed on the floor, begging for more.
"That's more like it," she said.
I felt embarrassed. She was right: I had felt sexy, but in a way that I had never felt it before. I remembered that I was dressed in women's underwear.
She made me stay in it all day. I cleaned her house for her in her lingerie. She made me move like a girl the whole time, and it gave me a most embarrassing pleasure.
"Why are you doing this to me?" I moaned.
"Why not?"
The next day, I was begging for more. She didn't even have to force me, either. I eagerly looked through her closet for the sexiest things that I could find. I finally settled for a matching bra and panty with a garter belt and fishnet stockings. I pranced around willingly. I loved every second of it. The thought that she had worn it before me turned me on even more. I looked forward now every day to what I would try on the next. I tried it all on: bathing suits, bikinis, teddies, nighties, panties, everything. And she encouraged me every step of the way. I felt so intimate with her that I could share her underwear with her.
It was a bit different when she unexpectedly brought guests over without telling me. . .
I've learned a lot about her in my stalking. She seems awfully attached to some geek in the classier part of town. Come to think of it, I'm not entirely sure where he lives.
Anyway, I've found something out about him: he gallavants around the city in tights fighting crime. He's the famous Cockroach man: invincible with his cockroach like ability to withstand the most treacherous forces of nature, his proportional speed and strength, his keen sense of smell, and his astounding ability to adapt quickly. He has put more petty criminals--and arch-criminals, too--behind bars than the entire police force. But what a snotty little prick. If not for those super powers, I'd crush him under my foot and run off with that goddess, who probably has no clue about his little secret.
I found out in a fit of jealousy. I wanted to break his house apart when he was gone. I wanted to trash the place. He thinks he's so hot with all that money and all those women fawning over him. I waited for him to leave, and I managed to break into his house. The cocky bastard doesn't even bother locking his doors. Now that I think of it, why should he? He's a super crimefighter, after all.
Anyway, I was going to scout the place out, look for anything that I could use to ruin him, or to use against him in order to win that wonderfully beautiful woman of his. When I got into his closet, I was amazed to discover the tights that had made him famous. I had found the lair of the Cockroach man. I ran screaming out of that place as if it were infested. But I knew his secret, and I was ready to use it against him.
I thought of selling my tidbit of information to the government, or to one of those crazy scientists living in the hills outside of town. But then I realized that I'd probably be better off blackmailing him with that little secret. I wonder how much he'd pay to protect his secret identity.
It was pretty easy, actually. All I'd have to do is steal his outfit. He'd be ridiculous without it. Sure, he'd more than likely still have his super powers, but who the Hell cares? I didn't think he'd have the guts to come right out and admit to running around like some kinda freak in his garish reddish leotards.
Amazingly, and wouldn't you know it, just as I snuck into his closet, he came home. Not only that, he came home with that sex queen that I've been following around.
In short, she found me out, and she hid me. She didn't give me away. I don't know why. She managed to sneak me out of there quietly enough, without him noticing. "Meet me in the park at midnight," she hissed at me as I clambered down the front of the house.
She's a brave woman. She kept her appointment. She was alone, all alone at that hour in a crime-infested part of town, and wearing a tight little minidress. Unmolested. The cockroach must be watching over her, I thought. But I went ahead anyway.
I found myself in her apartment. It was a dream come true. She was so hot. She brought me to her bedroom, but, to my surprise, she left without a word, swinging her ass as she walked out seductively. She stuck her head back in. "Why don't you pick an outfit out for me," she purred, "And make it something skimpy and easy to remove."
I opened her closet, and my jaw dropped. I couldn't believe all the sexy lingerie she had hanging in there. Then I noticed the leotards: sleek, skimpy, black. My heart stopped momentarily when I realized that I had found the identity of the infamous Mindbender. I tried to sprint out of the room, but somehow, I knew that she was monitoring my thoughts. As if to confirm my suspicion, she grabbed me from across the room with her telekinesis and easily halted my movement. She took off what she was wearing right in front of me to reveal her outfit for me. She was even more stunning in person than on the news or in photos. Perfect athletic body, with all the yummy feminine parts that most women dream of having. She was absolutely gorgeous. But she was also a very, very bad person.
She took hold of my actions. I could no longer control my body. I prostrated myself at her feet, and began sucking them. She was laughing at me, even as she controlled my actions. She stood me up, and had me remove all my clothes. Here I was, naked in front of her, totally unable to resist her. I felt her telekinetic energies jerking me off, and doing it so well that I was overcome with pleasure, and embarrassed at the same time. I didn't want her to do this to me. I felt like I was being raped. She stopped just as I was losing it. "You like me so much," she giggled, "that you're almost coming where you stand!"
My heart pounded like a hammer on an anvil. She released me and let me fall to my knees. "I'm letting you have your own free will again. What do you want to do?"
I desperately wanted to escape. I hoped that she was happy to have made me feel like a weakling, and that she would allow me to run away naked, never to come near her again. I started to bolt.
Unfortunately, she was just playing games with me. She made me stop right at her door.
"Is that how to treat a lady?" she asked. She was sitting on her throne, devilishly toying with me. "If you try that again, I'll destroy you." And I knew from the look in her eye that she meant it.
"Now come here and give me a hug. And don't forget that if you don't, I not only can make you do it, but I can make you do other things, too."
She started rubbing her incredible body all over mine. It was ecstasy. I didn't even want to tear off her slinky tights. It felt so good to just feel her gyrating cunt through the spandex, and her whole firm and soft and round body writhing in my arms in sheer pleasure. She pushed me away suddenly, and rubbed my face into her crotch until she came. Her telekinetic powers were let loose as her body shook from orgasm, and she squeezed me violently and threw me down to the ground. Before she fell asleep, she went to the trouble of chaining me up to her wall as she brushed her teeth. I was still naked. And I wouldn't have escaped even if I had the chance.
The next day, she released me from my chains and told me to get dressed. I couldn't find my clothes anywhere. "What, didn't you pick something out from my closet, like I told you to last night?" She was petulant. I had incurred her displeasure. She took me by the scruff of my neck and pushed me back to the closet. "Choose an outfit. I can't have you running around naked, now, can I?
I stared, daunted, into her closet. Frilly corsets, silky teddies, pink, black, red, white, plum, panties, brassieres, garter belts, all kinds of sexy garments hung in front of me. I could feel her anger mounting. "Well?!?" she prompted.
"You mean, you want me to wear this?" I dared to ask.
"Of course I want you to wear that! You're my little bitch now, and you'll do as you're told. Or else I'll make you do something far less pleasant. Understand?"
Blindly, I grabbed something off the rack. It was a white satin teddy. I stood staring at it with incredulity. I couldn't fathom myself wearing it. Not in a million years.
"What the fuck are you waiting for?" she screamed, and I slipped it on, fearing her wrath.
I looked at my body, encased in lingerie. I was dumfounded.
"Now, don't you feel nice and sexy?"
"Um, I don't know," I stammered.
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"Well," I admitted, "I've never done this before."
"Haven't you ever been with a girl before?"
"Yes."
"Haven't you ever seen her in her underwear?"
"Yes."
"Haven't you ever wanted to see her parading around in her undies for you? Don't you think she feels sexy when she does that?"
"Well, I suppose so," I replied shyly. She herself was wearing underwear as she spoke, and she looked very sexy.
"So now you know what it's like to feel sexy, don't you?" She waited for an answer. "Don't you?"
I couldn't speak. I honestly didn't know how I felt. I was quite randy from just looking at her, and from the kinky situation I found myself in. And I think that she was massaging my genitals softly.
"Well then," she decided, "if you don't feel sexy, then we'll have to make you feel sexy, won't we?" With that, she began to telekinetically fondle me with even more vigour. She made me walk around against my will, made me walk like a woman, swinging my butt like a model. She was making me model her lingerie for her. The satin clung to me arousingly. I practically came right then and there. She dropped me suddenly, and I writhed on the floor, begging for more.
"That's more like it," she said.
I felt embarrassed. She was right: I had felt sexy, but in a way that I had never felt it before. I remembered that I was dressed in women's underwear.
She made me stay in it all day. I cleaned her house for her in her lingerie. She made me move like a girl the whole time, and it gave me a most embarrassing pleasure.
"Why are you doing this to me?" I moaned.
"Why not?"
The next day, I was begging for more. She didn't even have to force me, either. I eagerly looked through her closet for the sexiest things that I could find. I finally settled for a matching bra and panty with a garter belt and fishnet stockings. I pranced around willingly. I loved every second of it. The thought that she had worn it before me turned me on even more. I looked forward now every day to what I would try on the next. I tried it all on: bathing suits, bikinis, teddies, nighties, panties, everything. And she encouraged me every step of the way. I felt so intimate with her that I could share her underwear with her.
It was a bit different when she unexpectedly brought guests over without telling me. . .
Fiction: the Sorority Trap
It turns out that Marv Albert, the NBC sportscaster who was charged with assault and nasty sexual stuff, had tried to force a woman into rough sex. This woman testified that Albert, wearing white panties and a garter belt, tried to force her to suck his dick, but she tore off his hairpiece and ran away.
Man, this transvestism thing is getting popular!
I wrote a fantasy in my notebook the other night. It's a good one. I had to destroy it though. I'm not that brave.
It's a variation on the sorority house idea: I'm invited for some reason to live in a sorority house for a month or two, in the room of a girl who's away. Her dresser and closet are filled with all sorts of sexy lingerie. The usual ambiguity comes to play here: maybe I'm resisting, maybe the thought of wearing it never occurred to me. The girls tease me about it, and hide my clothes, and all that stuff. But I don't bite. When they steal my clothes, I'm happy to run around naked, chasing after them. After all, they're all young and beautiful, and maybe they'll want to fuck around.
But they keep drawing my attention to the contents of her closet and dresser. They have me go through it, looking for an item that supposedly does not belong there. I get to rummage through tonnes of silk and satin and lace, dainty and soft and pretty. The seed is planted.
Eventually, because none of the girls heed any of my sexual advances (as a matter of fact, they all reject them totally) I need some sort of sexual release. I think of the feminine things so near at hand. I long to touch something silky like that. I rummage through it all just to get horny. And I masturbate.
The incidents, of course, escalate: I start sniffing the panties, and touching them, and inevitably, I slip into them, partly out of an intense desire to feel their exquisite texture against my hard dick, partly out of curiosity. I discover femininity. And I don't want to stop.
At first, I do it in the utmost privacy, very careful that in no circumstances will I get caught. I am careful to not put too much on, in case I have to strip it off in a hurry. But my curiosity and my desire get the best of me: I dare to go as far as possible. I wear all sorts of lingerie. I primp in the mirror. I try it all on. I look forward to wearing lingerie every night.
What I don't know is that behind the mirror is a closed circuit video camera. They're watching me for the express purpose of watching me succumb to wearing their clothes.
One night, they all get together and watch, waiting for the perfect moment to burst into my room more quickly than I can react, turn on the light, and tear off the bedsheet, exposing me to all the world as a flaky transvestite.
There I sit in my bed, wearing a garter belt and panties and a bra, trying pathetically to cover myself up with my hands. But it's hopeless. I have nowhere to hide. The girls are all around me, pointing and laughing. Finally, the spokeswoman steps forward.
"I don't remember ___ giving you permission to wear her clothes."
I remain speechless, too embarrassed to talk. The other girls are snapping my bra and garters, and I try to swat away their hands.
"So how do you explain. . . this?" she asks, chuckling.
Again, I have no answer.
"Obviously, you get some kind of kick out of it, don't you? Don't you? Don't want to talk, eh? Well, it doesn't matter." She seductively moves her face close to mine. "You know that we can't let you get away with this, don't you? I mean, you've ruined ___'s underwear with your disgusting little fetish. What do you propose we do with you?"
I still can't answer. I'm mortified.
"One thing's for sure: you're never going to be manly again!"
The girls giggle and cheer as she says this, and they pick me up, and walk me, lingerie and all, down the hall to the bathroom, where they force me to strip naked. Then they tie down my limbs, and lather me with some smelly substance. They then proceed to remove every hair from my body, except my pubic hair, where they leave a bikini line. That being done, they force me back into my lingerie. I can't help but notice how much smoother the stockings feel on my bare legs.
They parade me downstairs to a room I had never seen before. They strap me spread-eagled to a bed, still in my lingerie. Next thing I know, a big burly behemoth of a man appears, naked as a jaybird, and he mounts me between my spread legs. He snaps my panty elastic and my bra strap. He caresses me with his hands. He makes me feel so effeminate. "How do you like that, sexy girl?" he coos. He starts squeezing my nipple, and undulating lasciviously on top of me. I can't help but feel incredibly stimulated. It's so easy to think of myself as a girl, with him on top of me, squeezing my tit. I find myself responding by gyrating my hips, to rub my own dick against his body--or rather to rub panty-clad pseudo-cunt against his hard prick. After I come, I remember that all the girls are watching me. I notice one with a video camera.
The man remains on top of me, cuddling me. I am totally disgusted with myself. I am still strapped in and wearing women's clothes, too. I don't feel the least bit feminine anymore.
"So, I see you rather enjoyed your little romp, hm?"
Again, I remain silent. I try to block her out.
"We're giving you a choice. Either you agree to become a girl, since you so desperately want to be, or you leave this place now. And let me tell you, if you leave now, we'll let the whole world know about your little secret."
I begged her to let me go. I ran off crying. They didn't even let me change. I still wore nothing but lingerie. They gave me men's clothes to put on top, but once outside, I had no opportunity to change. I was female underneath.
For a few days, I tried to return to normal life. But they left little signs everywhere: a pair of panties in my underwear drawer. One of the girls calls to me from across the street, calling me a sissy, a faggot, a drag queen. But worse, somehow I still can't stop. I long to wear the panties they leave me.
Months later, I try dating girls again. But they all suddenly stop returning my calls. I start finding posters of myself in lingerie everywhere. I don't know whether to tear them down or ignore them and try to be nonchalant. I'm confronted everywhere with giggles or strange looks. Everybody knows.
Of course I start over on my own again. I start wearing things that I steal from clotheslines, or buy. I am ashamed of myself. But I can't stop. Some days, I dare to shave myself and others I wear girls' stuff all day. At last, they catch me on one of those days, and strip me in public. I am exposed to the whole world in women's underwear. I crawl back to the sorority house.
They set me up with my own wardrobe, and I get to practice being a girl full-time.
Man, this transvestism thing is getting popular!
I wrote a fantasy in my notebook the other night. It's a good one. I had to destroy it though. I'm not that brave.
It's a variation on the sorority house idea: I'm invited for some reason to live in a sorority house for a month or two, in the room of a girl who's away. Her dresser and closet are filled with all sorts of sexy lingerie. The usual ambiguity comes to play here: maybe I'm resisting, maybe the thought of wearing it never occurred to me. The girls tease me about it, and hide my clothes, and all that stuff. But I don't bite. When they steal my clothes, I'm happy to run around naked, chasing after them. After all, they're all young and beautiful, and maybe they'll want to fuck around.
But they keep drawing my attention to the contents of her closet and dresser. They have me go through it, looking for an item that supposedly does not belong there. I get to rummage through tonnes of silk and satin and lace, dainty and soft and pretty. The seed is planted.
Eventually, because none of the girls heed any of my sexual advances (as a matter of fact, they all reject them totally) I need some sort of sexual release. I think of the feminine things so near at hand. I long to touch something silky like that. I rummage through it all just to get horny. And I masturbate.
The incidents, of course, escalate: I start sniffing the panties, and touching them, and inevitably, I slip into them, partly out of an intense desire to feel their exquisite texture against my hard dick, partly out of curiosity. I discover femininity. And I don't want to stop.
At first, I do it in the utmost privacy, very careful that in no circumstances will I get caught. I am careful to not put too much on, in case I have to strip it off in a hurry. But my curiosity and my desire get the best of me: I dare to go as far as possible. I wear all sorts of lingerie. I primp in the mirror. I try it all on. I look forward to wearing lingerie every night.
What I don't know is that behind the mirror is a closed circuit video camera. They're watching me for the express purpose of watching me succumb to wearing their clothes.
One night, they all get together and watch, waiting for the perfect moment to burst into my room more quickly than I can react, turn on the light, and tear off the bedsheet, exposing me to all the world as a flaky transvestite.
There I sit in my bed, wearing a garter belt and panties and a bra, trying pathetically to cover myself up with my hands. But it's hopeless. I have nowhere to hide. The girls are all around me, pointing and laughing. Finally, the spokeswoman steps forward.
"I don't remember ___ giving you permission to wear her clothes."
I remain speechless, too embarrassed to talk. The other girls are snapping my bra and garters, and I try to swat away their hands.
"So how do you explain. . . this?" she asks, chuckling.
Again, I have no answer.
"Obviously, you get some kind of kick out of it, don't you? Don't you? Don't want to talk, eh? Well, it doesn't matter." She seductively moves her face close to mine. "You know that we can't let you get away with this, don't you? I mean, you've ruined ___'s underwear with your disgusting little fetish. What do you propose we do with you?"
I still can't answer. I'm mortified.
"One thing's for sure: you're never going to be manly again!"
The girls giggle and cheer as she says this, and they pick me up, and walk me, lingerie and all, down the hall to the bathroom, where they force me to strip naked. Then they tie down my limbs, and lather me with some smelly substance. They then proceed to remove every hair from my body, except my pubic hair, where they leave a bikini line. That being done, they force me back into my lingerie. I can't help but notice how much smoother the stockings feel on my bare legs.
They parade me downstairs to a room I had never seen before. They strap me spread-eagled to a bed, still in my lingerie. Next thing I know, a big burly behemoth of a man appears, naked as a jaybird, and he mounts me between my spread legs. He snaps my panty elastic and my bra strap. He caresses me with his hands. He makes me feel so effeminate. "How do you like that, sexy girl?" he coos. He starts squeezing my nipple, and undulating lasciviously on top of me. I can't help but feel incredibly stimulated. It's so easy to think of myself as a girl, with him on top of me, squeezing my tit. I find myself responding by gyrating my hips, to rub my own dick against his body--or rather to rub panty-clad pseudo-cunt against his hard prick. After I come, I remember that all the girls are watching me. I notice one with a video camera.
The man remains on top of me, cuddling me. I am totally disgusted with myself. I am still strapped in and wearing women's clothes, too. I don't feel the least bit feminine anymore.
"So, I see you rather enjoyed your little romp, hm?"
Again, I remain silent. I try to block her out.
"We're giving you a choice. Either you agree to become a girl, since you so desperately want to be, or you leave this place now. And let me tell you, if you leave now, we'll let the whole world know about your little secret."
I begged her to let me go. I ran off crying. They didn't even let me change. I still wore nothing but lingerie. They gave me men's clothes to put on top, but once outside, I had no opportunity to change. I was female underneath.
For a few days, I tried to return to normal life. But they left little signs everywhere: a pair of panties in my underwear drawer. One of the girls calls to me from across the street, calling me a sissy, a faggot, a drag queen. But worse, somehow I still can't stop. I long to wear the panties they leave me.
Months later, I try dating girls again. But they all suddenly stop returning my calls. I start finding posters of myself in lingerie everywhere. I don't know whether to tear them down or ignore them and try to be nonchalant. I'm confronted everywhere with giggles or strange looks. Everybody knows.
Of course I start over on my own again. I start wearing things that I steal from clotheslines, or buy. I am ashamed of myself. But I can't stop. Some days, I dare to shave myself and others I wear girls' stuff all day. At last, they catch me on one of those days, and strip me in public. I am exposed to the whole world in women's underwear. I crawl back to the sorority house.
They set me up with my own wardrobe, and I get to practice being a girl full-time.
Diary: How I Became Such a Sissy, and How I Hope To Become Even More of One
It started innocently enough. But I fear that the fears of men are well justified. Somehow, masculinity knows what threatens it; it knows its enemy, but is powerless against it.
It's a very distant memory: the annual school pantomime, with every class performing its own number. My entire kindergarten class, for reasons that I cannot recall, dressed up as flowers. We all had to wear white stockings. Or maybe we didn't dress up as flowers. We did definitely have to wear the white stockings. I have no recollection of what it was that we performed. I was, after all, only five years old. But that was the first time. Or at least it was the first time that I remember.
Some fathers object to any suggestion that their young boys wear anything even remotely feminine, be it stockings or dresses or kilts or whatever. They fear that somehow, their boy's mind might be warped, and he might grow up to be effeminate. Perhaps the young boy might become used to wearing feminine clothes and might grow to prefer it. Perhaps the boy might become homosexual. It was like a subversive idea that would cause the downfall of civilization if anyone ever learned of it.
I learned that idea in kindergarten. Those macho, over-protective fathers are quite close to the mark. Perhaps they know something more than they should, too. . .
How long before I actually dared to venture into the dirty laundry for more, I cannot say. But the idea must have lingered long in my head before I did it again. And I knew that it was wrong. I knew that I was seriously jeopardizing my masculinity by "borrowing" a pair of pantihose. That first innocent experience, when I was forced to wear girls' stockings in front of hundreds of people when I was five years old corrupted me forever. It was the first time, the first of countless thousands of times over the years, that I have worn women's clothing.
I must have hardly noticed it at first. But I remember asking my parents if I could sleep with those stockings on that night. I wanted to masturbate in them. But they denied me. I fell asleep that night longing for what they put away in my dresser, where I was afraid to reach for it, for fear of being discovered. I knew that they didn't want me to wear it. And I fear now that they were somewhat alarmed about my request.
I must have longed for pantihose for years before I summoned up the courage to wear some again. I have no idea how long I fantasized about it. I do remember rolling up my underwear to make it more skimpy and feminine. I probably worried about that, too. But it couldn't have been that troublesome: after all, I wasn't actually wearing women's underwear, I was just fantasizing about it.
Worse, I eventually did try on some pantihose. I think I dug for some in the dirty laundry a few tense times, without daring to take any. But eventually I did. I certainly didn't want to become too effeminate: I protected myself against it by keeping on my own underwear. But eventually, I succumbed to the temptation to go into it naked. And I worried afterwards that I had taken my experiments too far. I was afraid that one day, I might actually wear all sorts of effeminate things, like bathing suits and lingerie, because as I pleasured myself, I imagined myself wearing those effeminate underthings, and I hoped that I would one day wear only women's clothing.
I imagined myself being forced to wear things by beautiful women, and I would discover the pleasures they afforded, and aspire to be female. I would go through a hierarchy of femininity, wearing pantihose first, then leotards, then bathing suits, then bikinis, then lingerie. I made this up because I had to come up with some excuse for not having lingerie at hand. I would have jumped right into it if I had had the opportunity. I imagined myself in the middle of a less interesting stage of my feminine development, and cheating by trying on something super-sexy that I was officially not ready for yet. There would have been others like me around me, but they wouldn't be as enthusiastic about their clothing as me. I was crazy for doing it that way, risking my sanity somehow, perhaps risking my sexuality.
So, as the years went on, I tried on all sorts of things, always ashamed after I was done; but I couldn't make myself stop. I always returned to it. And that made it worse and worse: I thought that I could destroy my stolen pantihose and bathing suits and swear to never wear women's clothes again, and I would be cured. I thought that I could restore that part of my masculinity that I had lost by fantasizing about becoming female by renouncing my secret practice. But that only made me want it more. I would go for weeks or months without women's clothing, and curse myself for having gotten rid of it. I still fantasized about it, and it became unbearable. I absolutely needed to wear something feminine. Every time I quit and started again, it reinforced my femininity, and weakened my masculinity. Every time I started again, it proved that I did become effeminate by wearing women's underwear; and being effeminate, I needed to wear some girls' clothing to feel comfortable. I repressed myself so much in that time that it is not hard to imagine why I had such a difficult adolescence. So every time I went back to it, I felt that much more like a girl happy in her comfy, sexy underwear.
Men are correct in thinking that doing something effeminate, in my case wearing women's clothes, makes one irrevocably effeminate. That one little incident with the white stockings in kindergarten, even though I was far too young to have much of a sexual awareness, infected me with the tiniest little bit of girlishness. That tiny little bit has blossomed into a massive, barely controllable desire to be a girl, and to dress like a girl.
Just imagine the scandal! My precious masculinity, defiled by a scanty elasticated swatch of lace and silk! Unprotected against the high-cut crotch-cuddling spandex of a bathing suit! In direct contact with something which should only come into contact with femininity. Just picture it: a macho man wearing little silky panties, a bra, a garter belt, and stockings, acting as much as he can like a girl in heat. A horrible thought! But think of it as yourself, and think of yourself as that sexy slinky supermodel who skips around in her lingerie. It's not just the thought of wearing women's clothing, it's the thought of renouncing masculinity that arouses me. The idea that I could wear women's clothing often enough to actually become a woman drives me into a fit of passion.
I have this picture in my mind of a sexy woman in lingerie dangling some panties in front of me teasingly, enticing me into wearing them. I look at myself, and I'm wearing my own clothes. But the legs sticking out of my shorts are shaven smooth and effeminately sexy. I feel a pang of shame as I look at her, understand her suggestion, and understand that it means that I, a man, have willingly submitted to this process of feminization too many times to count, and that she expects me to do it again; it shames me that she knows that I, a man, wear women's underwear for sexual pleasure; but I get up, coyly, and follow her into the bedroom as she cajoles me by swinging her little panties under my nose; and it shames me that I remove all vestiges of masculinity from my body, and slip into the sexy lingerie she has selected for me to wear. But ultimately, I succumb to the lingerie, forgetting my shame, and abandon myself to wild sexual pleasure, just by being, at least cosmetically, female. Here's more of the fantasy told dramatically:
I sat at my comfy lay-z-boy, watching hockey on TV and drinking beer, when Amy appeared around the corner of the doorway, only her head visible. Her blond hair was up, with a few stray locks dangling around her neck. She purred as she called my name.
I looked right at her, and half expected what was coming. She grinned and slowly raised her arm, revealing it from its concealment behind the wall. She dangled some scanty little silky panties in her hand. "It's time to play," she meowed. She stepped out into the doorway wearing her favourite lingerie outfit: a white bra and panties with a matching garter belt and white stockings.
I could feel my head turn livid with shame as I understood her suggestion. I glanced away from her because I couldn't bear to look at her; but that was no better, as my glance fell to my own legs, silky smooth shaven, sticking out of my shorts. I turned towards her again, and she had come into the room just enough to hold out the panties centimetres from my face. I followed her as she backed away towards the bedroom, cajoling me all the way with the panties in my face. I could smell the delicate perfume in them, they were so close.
I felt self-conscious as I trailed shyly after her. I felt like hiding under the couch. I felt like I was walking up on stage at a massive theatre for the first time, wearing nothing at all, with everyone in the building gawking at me.
We finally reached the bedroom. "Here," she said playfully, handing me the panties. "I thought you'd like to try these on for me." I took them sheepishly in one hand as I pulled off my baggy shorts and underwear in one swipe with the other. I looked at her rummaging in her dresser, her lovely playful tits snug inside her frilly bra, and her legs dainty and lithe in her stockings. She was the sexiest, most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
I inspected the panties more closely. They were silky, with a lace trim, and white. The crotch elastic looked so pretty and delicate, as did the skimpy waistband. I slipped into them quickly, snapping the tight waistband as I reached the top. I rubbed my silky legs together and whipped off my shirt. I stared at my hairless body, wondering at how awkward and male it looked in my sexy little panties. Amy handed me another white bra and a garter belt, which I snapped on happily but nervously. I eagerly anticipated wearing stockings on my bare, shaven legs. I rolled them on luxuriously as Amy watched, approving of my feminine mannerisms.
I preened in the mirror for a few moments, my hair down, my super-hard dick tucked painfully out of view, and admired how gorgeous these clothes made me. Still, my butt looked too hard, and I had no tits, and my frame was too square and heavyset; but I looked pretty, well, pretty nonetheless. Amy opened the closet, and handed me the high-heeled sandals we had bought just for me because I could never fit my gargantuan feet into hers. I was now walking and talking like a girl, loving the feel of the stockings on my legs, and rubbing them effeminately together as I pranced around.
Amy grabbed me suddenly by the waist and threw me onto the bed. We snuggled up together, touching each other's feminine bodies, and talking about girlish things, like how pretty we looked in this or that, and how wonderful it would be to wear such and such a thing. We were girlfriends. We were so close in these moments. She would tease me about how I am enjoying wearing her lingerie, and I would blush demurely. Then we made out, and petted. I wanted to never remove my clothes.
She knew what she was getting herself into when she dangled those panties in front of me. I became wild with passion, feeling every bit the girl I wanted to be. I wrapped my legs around her and rubbed myself all over her belly. I screamed for a penis. I desperately yearned for a dick inside me, and I pretended that she was a man mounting me and fucking me. I totally lost control. And she loved it, because I became so passionate.
When I came at last, all over our pretty undies, I nearly fainted. I rolled Amy off of me, and remembered where I was, and who I was: a man, still a man, strapped in slinky feminine clothing, feeling utterly unable to extract myself. Again, I turned livid with shame, so completely aware that I was wearing a bra, panties, and a garter belt, and how the fabric of each of these items clung to my sweaty body. My body suddenly felt out of place in lingerie; I wanted desperately to get out of my feminine clothing, to run and hide from Amy. But she prevented me from leaving. She hugged me from behind, and would not let me leave. She fell asleep like this, fingering my bra strap and my garters, drawing my attention even more to what I wore; and I myself fell asleep as I was, unwilling to disturb Amy by getting up and taking it all off. That night I slept like a woman.
It's a very distant memory: the annual school pantomime, with every class performing its own number. My entire kindergarten class, for reasons that I cannot recall, dressed up as flowers. We all had to wear white stockings. Or maybe we didn't dress up as flowers. We did definitely have to wear the white stockings. I have no recollection of what it was that we performed. I was, after all, only five years old. But that was the first time. Or at least it was the first time that I remember.
Some fathers object to any suggestion that their young boys wear anything even remotely feminine, be it stockings or dresses or kilts or whatever. They fear that somehow, their boy's mind might be warped, and he might grow up to be effeminate. Perhaps the young boy might become used to wearing feminine clothes and might grow to prefer it. Perhaps the boy might become homosexual. It was like a subversive idea that would cause the downfall of civilization if anyone ever learned of it.
I learned that idea in kindergarten. Those macho, over-protective fathers are quite close to the mark. Perhaps they know something more than they should, too. . .
How long before I actually dared to venture into the dirty laundry for more, I cannot say. But the idea must have lingered long in my head before I did it again. And I knew that it was wrong. I knew that I was seriously jeopardizing my masculinity by "borrowing" a pair of pantihose. That first innocent experience, when I was forced to wear girls' stockings in front of hundreds of people when I was five years old corrupted me forever. It was the first time, the first of countless thousands of times over the years, that I have worn women's clothing.
I must have hardly noticed it at first. But I remember asking my parents if I could sleep with those stockings on that night. I wanted to masturbate in them. But they denied me. I fell asleep that night longing for what they put away in my dresser, where I was afraid to reach for it, for fear of being discovered. I knew that they didn't want me to wear it. And I fear now that they were somewhat alarmed about my request.
I must have longed for pantihose for years before I summoned up the courage to wear some again. I have no idea how long I fantasized about it. I do remember rolling up my underwear to make it more skimpy and feminine. I probably worried about that, too. But it couldn't have been that troublesome: after all, I wasn't actually wearing women's underwear, I was just fantasizing about it.
Worse, I eventually did try on some pantihose. I think I dug for some in the dirty laundry a few tense times, without daring to take any. But eventually I did. I certainly didn't want to become too effeminate: I protected myself against it by keeping on my own underwear. But eventually, I succumbed to the temptation to go into it naked. And I worried afterwards that I had taken my experiments too far. I was afraid that one day, I might actually wear all sorts of effeminate things, like bathing suits and lingerie, because as I pleasured myself, I imagined myself wearing those effeminate underthings, and I hoped that I would one day wear only women's clothing.
I imagined myself being forced to wear things by beautiful women, and I would discover the pleasures they afforded, and aspire to be female. I would go through a hierarchy of femininity, wearing pantihose first, then leotards, then bathing suits, then bikinis, then lingerie. I made this up because I had to come up with some excuse for not having lingerie at hand. I would have jumped right into it if I had had the opportunity. I imagined myself in the middle of a less interesting stage of my feminine development, and cheating by trying on something super-sexy that I was officially not ready for yet. There would have been others like me around me, but they wouldn't be as enthusiastic about their clothing as me. I was crazy for doing it that way, risking my sanity somehow, perhaps risking my sexuality.
So, as the years went on, I tried on all sorts of things, always ashamed after I was done; but I couldn't make myself stop. I always returned to it. And that made it worse and worse: I thought that I could destroy my stolen pantihose and bathing suits and swear to never wear women's clothes again, and I would be cured. I thought that I could restore that part of my masculinity that I had lost by fantasizing about becoming female by renouncing my secret practice. But that only made me want it more. I would go for weeks or months without women's clothing, and curse myself for having gotten rid of it. I still fantasized about it, and it became unbearable. I absolutely needed to wear something feminine. Every time I quit and started again, it reinforced my femininity, and weakened my masculinity. Every time I started again, it proved that I did become effeminate by wearing women's underwear; and being effeminate, I needed to wear some girls' clothing to feel comfortable. I repressed myself so much in that time that it is not hard to imagine why I had such a difficult adolescence. So every time I went back to it, I felt that much more like a girl happy in her comfy, sexy underwear.
Men are correct in thinking that doing something effeminate, in my case wearing women's clothes, makes one irrevocably effeminate. That one little incident with the white stockings in kindergarten, even though I was far too young to have much of a sexual awareness, infected me with the tiniest little bit of girlishness. That tiny little bit has blossomed into a massive, barely controllable desire to be a girl, and to dress like a girl.
Just imagine the scandal! My precious masculinity, defiled by a scanty elasticated swatch of lace and silk! Unprotected against the high-cut crotch-cuddling spandex of a bathing suit! In direct contact with something which should only come into contact with femininity. Just picture it: a macho man wearing little silky panties, a bra, a garter belt, and stockings, acting as much as he can like a girl in heat. A horrible thought! But think of it as yourself, and think of yourself as that sexy slinky supermodel who skips around in her lingerie. It's not just the thought of wearing women's clothing, it's the thought of renouncing masculinity that arouses me. The idea that I could wear women's clothing often enough to actually become a woman drives me into a fit of passion.
I have this picture in my mind of a sexy woman in lingerie dangling some panties in front of me teasingly, enticing me into wearing them. I look at myself, and I'm wearing my own clothes. But the legs sticking out of my shorts are shaven smooth and effeminately sexy. I feel a pang of shame as I look at her, understand her suggestion, and understand that it means that I, a man, have willingly submitted to this process of feminization too many times to count, and that she expects me to do it again; it shames me that she knows that I, a man, wear women's underwear for sexual pleasure; but I get up, coyly, and follow her into the bedroom as she cajoles me by swinging her little panties under my nose; and it shames me that I remove all vestiges of masculinity from my body, and slip into the sexy lingerie she has selected for me to wear. But ultimately, I succumb to the lingerie, forgetting my shame, and abandon myself to wild sexual pleasure, just by being, at least cosmetically, female. Here's more of the fantasy told dramatically:
I sat at my comfy lay-z-boy, watching hockey on TV and drinking beer, when Amy appeared around the corner of the doorway, only her head visible. Her blond hair was up, with a few stray locks dangling around her neck. She purred as she called my name.
I looked right at her, and half expected what was coming. She grinned and slowly raised her arm, revealing it from its concealment behind the wall. She dangled some scanty little silky panties in her hand. "It's time to play," she meowed. She stepped out into the doorway wearing her favourite lingerie outfit: a white bra and panties with a matching garter belt and white stockings.
I could feel my head turn livid with shame as I understood her suggestion. I glanced away from her because I couldn't bear to look at her; but that was no better, as my glance fell to my own legs, silky smooth shaven, sticking out of my shorts. I turned towards her again, and she had come into the room just enough to hold out the panties centimetres from my face. I followed her as she backed away towards the bedroom, cajoling me all the way with the panties in my face. I could smell the delicate perfume in them, they were so close.
I felt self-conscious as I trailed shyly after her. I felt like hiding under the couch. I felt like I was walking up on stage at a massive theatre for the first time, wearing nothing at all, with everyone in the building gawking at me.
We finally reached the bedroom. "Here," she said playfully, handing me the panties. "I thought you'd like to try these on for me." I took them sheepishly in one hand as I pulled off my baggy shorts and underwear in one swipe with the other. I looked at her rummaging in her dresser, her lovely playful tits snug inside her frilly bra, and her legs dainty and lithe in her stockings. She was the sexiest, most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
I inspected the panties more closely. They were silky, with a lace trim, and white. The crotch elastic looked so pretty and delicate, as did the skimpy waistband. I slipped into them quickly, snapping the tight waistband as I reached the top. I rubbed my silky legs together and whipped off my shirt. I stared at my hairless body, wondering at how awkward and male it looked in my sexy little panties. Amy handed me another white bra and a garter belt, which I snapped on happily but nervously. I eagerly anticipated wearing stockings on my bare, shaven legs. I rolled them on luxuriously as Amy watched, approving of my feminine mannerisms.
I preened in the mirror for a few moments, my hair down, my super-hard dick tucked painfully out of view, and admired how gorgeous these clothes made me. Still, my butt looked too hard, and I had no tits, and my frame was too square and heavyset; but I looked pretty, well, pretty nonetheless. Amy opened the closet, and handed me the high-heeled sandals we had bought just for me because I could never fit my gargantuan feet into hers. I was now walking and talking like a girl, loving the feel of the stockings on my legs, and rubbing them effeminately together as I pranced around.
Amy grabbed me suddenly by the waist and threw me onto the bed. We snuggled up together, touching each other's feminine bodies, and talking about girlish things, like how pretty we looked in this or that, and how wonderful it would be to wear such and such a thing. We were girlfriends. We were so close in these moments. She would tease me about how I am enjoying wearing her lingerie, and I would blush demurely. Then we made out, and petted. I wanted to never remove my clothes.
She knew what she was getting herself into when she dangled those panties in front of me. I became wild with passion, feeling every bit the girl I wanted to be. I wrapped my legs around her and rubbed myself all over her belly. I screamed for a penis. I desperately yearned for a dick inside me, and I pretended that she was a man mounting me and fucking me. I totally lost control. And she loved it, because I became so passionate.
When I came at last, all over our pretty undies, I nearly fainted. I rolled Amy off of me, and remembered where I was, and who I was: a man, still a man, strapped in slinky feminine clothing, feeling utterly unable to extract myself. Again, I turned livid with shame, so completely aware that I was wearing a bra, panties, and a garter belt, and how the fabric of each of these items clung to my sweaty body. My body suddenly felt out of place in lingerie; I wanted desperately to get out of my feminine clothing, to run and hide from Amy. But she prevented me from leaving. She hugged me from behind, and would not let me leave. She fell asleep like this, fingering my bra strap and my garters, drawing my attention even more to what I wore; and I myself fell asleep as I was, unwilling to disturb Amy by getting up and taking it all off. That night I slept like a woman.
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