Fantasy: Girlfriends

[This was found in a separate file, entitled simply "Document."]


Some people love to lounge around the house in their underwear.  To them, it's the ultimate in comfort.  Personally, I like to lounge around in someone else's underwear.  

It began innocently enough.  I ran out of clean underwear of my own one day, and as a joke I tried on some of my girlfriend's panties.  We both laughed about it.  Me, of all people, with frilly silky panties on.  It was just so funny: the dainty little panty elastics, the extremely high cut, the little bow in the middle, the silk, the lace embroidery. . . it all looked so funny on my masculine body.  My big dig stuck out at the top like some offensive obelisk.  "You know, there's a matching bra for that," said A__, and she picked it out of her dresser daintily by one skinny strap, and dangled it in front of me.  She had to help me put it on, and that made us laugh even more.  It's one thing to wear ladies panties.  You can get away with it because they almost look like some pretty fruity men's bikini briefs.  But it's quite a different story when you're wearing a bra with them, much less a matching bra.  Then there's no mistaking the fact that you're wearing the most sexy, most intimate, most unmistakably effeminate part of a woman's wardrobe.  It was hillarious.  
Pretty soon, we were spent.  I moved to take A__'s underwear off me, but she stopped me.  "You can't do that!  You have to wear that all day!"

"Why?"

"Well, you don't have any of your own undies, do you?"

"So?  Who says I was going to put on some of my own undies?"

She stared at me, shocked, and we both burst into laughter again.

We both got such a laugh out of it.  She humoured me, as I had just humoured her, and she started digging through her dresser for the sexiest lingerie and swimsuits for me to wear, just for the laughs.  I couldn't back down now.  Besides, it was actually pretty fun.  We were doing something silly, just for laughs, and neither of us felt uncomfortable or ashamed.  I don't even think either of us thought twice about it.  It was a spur of the moment event.  Not too many people would do this kind of thing.  I think most men would be afraid of looking like pansies, and most women would be eternally turned off by the pansy men wearing their clothes.  But not us.  We enjoyed it for what it was.

A__ started piling all sorts of sexy stuff in my arms, all enthusiastic about how funny it would be to see me in a bikini, or a garter belt, or a nightgown.  Pretty soon, I started pointing out some of the lingerie I had bought her.  I don't know, in retrospect, how we kept this going.  Neither of us was entirely serious, yet neither of us would stop taking the joke further.  If either of us expected it to go so far at that moment, we didn't let it show.

After a while, I had all sorts of myterious girlie stuff in my arms.  I didn't even really know how to get into some of it.  Nevertheless, I remembered A__ wearing each and every one of the outfits, and how I drooled all over her when she did.  Each piece she handed me made me imagine her in it, how it would accentuate her most feminine features.  

I was beginning to get nervous, I think.  I had always been curious about her underwear.  Why do I find her so sexy in her underwear--even more so than naked?  There is something so inherently female about women's underwear.  I was even more curious now, considering that I would soon be wearing all of these dainty garments.  I wanted to know how it must feel to wear these things, just as all women do every day.  Imagine being sexy enough to have such beautiful clothes on all the time.  

"You know, I don't think I'm ready to do this," I said.

"What do you mean?  You don't want to wear this stuff anymore?"

Again, I couldn't back down.  "No, I mean, what's the point in dressing like a girl if I don't really look like one?"

"Yeah, let's get some of that hair off of you.  It would just look awful under stockings."

She pulled me into the shower, where she naired my body bald.  "If we're going to make you a girl today," she said, "we might as well go all the way."  Quite quickly, I could see my bald body.  It was as sleek and smooth as hers.  I could picture a garter on one of my thighs.  I could look pretty sexy, too, if I put my mind to it.  And I had so many options waiting for me. . .

As soon as I was dry, I slipped into A__'s bikini.  The sensation of the little skimpy tight and smooth material against my bald skin overwhelmed me.  Something came over me.  Neither A__ nor I found it funny anymore.  I stood there, tall and proud, snapping my bra straps in front of her.  I stared deep into her eyes, and she understood me completely.  This was no longer a game.  This was no longer for cheap laughs.  This had become serious.  It had become a matter of necessity for both of us to turn me into a girl.  I never felt such freedom as when I put that bikini on my hairless body--the same bikini that, when A__ wore it, made me salivate and lust for her as it clung to her delicious curves.  Here I was, putting on something too feminine for many women to feel comfortable wearing, putting it on right in front of the woman to whom it belongs.  I wore it because I was curious.  I wore it because I thought it was pretty, and I wanted it to make me pretty, too.  I felt no hesitation.  At that moment, I needed to know how it feels to be feminine.  I felt no shame.  Only pride.  I knew that I was far from pretty; there was still lots of work to do.  I was proud because I felt so comfortable.  I can imagine how I could have felt ridiculous, or ashamed; but I only felt the excitement of discovery.  

For so many years, I had admired women and their bodies and their sexy underwear.  I had often marvelled at the complexity of their outfits, and at how incredibly beautiful they look.  Panties lying on the floor, a bra dangling from a chair--these had all intrigued me.  I couldn't ever imagine wearing them myself.  They belonged to a world that I could never access without undermining my manhood.  Almost by accident, I dared to explore.  It was just a silly joke!  And now I stood here before A__, snapping my panty waist girlishly, dreaming of wearing all the most girlish things imaginable.

From then on, A__ worked feverishly to make me more girlish.  She did my hair and my nails and my makeup.  I tried on all of the outfits she set aside for me.  I settled on the lingerie outfit I bought her for Christmas: a matching black outfit consisting of a silky bra, panties, garter belt, and stockings.  I remember sweating with nervousness when I bought it.  It turned me on so much, because it was so feminine. And now I couldn't resist wearing it myself.  Then I picked out a tight little mini-dress.  We stuffed my bra a bit, to give me a bit more shape.  I felt so amazing.  I gushed with joy.  I felt so comfortable with A__.  I owed her so much for helping me discover my feminine side.  The word 'girlfriend' took on a whole different meaning.  We were ready to show the world.

We had to buy me some girly shoes.  A__ had nothing that could possibly fit me.  It was amazing that I even fit into her dress.  "You can't come with me, though," she declared.  "You need shoes, and you can't go out wearing anything but girlie shoes dressed like that.  What's your size?"

This was fine with me.  I was a bit apprehensive about going out.  I mean, someone might see me.  I only wanted A__ to see me like this.

She was only gone for half an hour.  She didn't come back with shoes, either.

"Bobbie, this is Ken.  I met him outside the coffee shop."

"Nice to meet you, Ken," I said in my most effeminate voice.  I felt so girlish.  I had worked myself up so much to this, that I blushed at the thoughts crossing my head.  I didn't want to abandon my girlishness.  I was glad that A__ had brought some stranger to see me first.  He seemed oblivious.  "Can I get you a drink?" I offered.

"Sure."

A__ followed me into the kitchen.  "So," she whispered in my ear, "moving in on my territory already, are you?"

"What do you mean?  I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"I'll bet.  You've been a girl for less than a day, and already you want a dick."

I must have blushed.  I felt a wave of horniness as I imagined the consequences of her statement.  The thought had, in fact, crossed my girlish frame of mind.  I was still quite afraid to admit it, even to myself.
"Look, I brought him here because I wanted you to experience every aspect of girlhood.  I thought I might show you a few tricks. . ."

Sure enough, when I brought him his drink, A__ snuggled up to him, and motioned for me to do the same.  She grabbed his crotch and purred, "so, you wanna have a threesome?"  I had never seen her so unabashed before.  She unzipped his fly and pulled out his cock.  She invited me to stroke it.
I had never even dreamed of touching another man's dick.  But this time, I wanted it.  I wanted to squeeze it like it were my own.  

Diary: the Lost Fantasy of Domination

I have written many sordid fantasies in my notebook.  Contrary to practice (and security), I have refrained from tearing them up afterwards.  Another small step towards more freely admitting my fetish.

So here I sit again, at another person's computer, eagerly awaiting my own, so that I can put whatever I want on it.  I have read just about everything interesting on Dragscape.  One was about a dominant bitch who turned her submissive husband into a girl, up to the point where he sucked off her boyfriends to get them hard enough to get into her, looking completely female.  She forced him to start hormone replacement after months of making him wear only women's clothes.  God, that turns me on: gradually becoming female at the whim of a beautiful woman.  And it all starts with the clothes. . .

When I put on something girlish, I imagine myself being molded into a female shape by the shapely contours of my clothes.  Above all, I imagine my dick obliterated into a lovely, soft, curvaceous cunt under those tantalizing silks.  It's what I crave most desperately, coupled with the thought that it's disgusting, that it's unnatural, perverted, treasonous, effeminate.  Yes, I know that wearing this will make me girlish.  But I don't care!  It feels so good!  And why does it feel so good?  Because it makes me feel so feminine!

Take that fantasy about the war of the sexes, in which I, the masculine hero, get captured and embrace my conversion as vehemently as I opposed it.  I fight the women because I am a man, and I don't want to be anything else.  But when they introduce me to femininity, I embrace it even more fanatically than they do.  I know when they first expose me to their clothes that I will indubitably become female sooner or later.  And it feels so good that I anticipate each step, to the point where I actually crave femininity.  

I've somehow forgotten about the whole domination fetish that once possessed me so.  I used to fantasize that some cruel woman forced me to wear her underwear, and that I would become her servant.  Somehow, the innocence of that fantasy is lost.  There is something gone.  I remember my Baroness figurine bending G.I. Joes to her will.  I remember disassembling the figurines and reassembling the men with her body parts, and getting all turned on by it.  They would discover what it feels like to be female, and they would become her slaves, and join Cobra.  A total reversal.

Fiction: I Can't Wear That!

[transcribed from a notebook]

“I can't wear that!”

“Why not?!?”

“I'm not a girl!”

I stared at the panties and bra dangling from my fingers like dead things. What was I doing even holding them? I could hadly reconcile my body and those undies in my mind.

“That's not the point!” she retorted.

“Then what is?”

She stared hard at me, like she couldn't believe that I could seriously ask such a silly question. “Well, you want me to, and always have. That's the point.”

I was dumfounded. How could she believe that I've always wanted to wear women's underwear? Is it even possible? Here in my hand I have the epitome of femininity, and I am supposed to have dreamed of defiling myself with it since childhood? Maybe defile is the wrong word. It's not like there's anything the least bit bad about women's lingerie. In fact, it's one of my favourite things: girls look so beautiful in it. Sometimes I think that they derive their femininity from their clothes. It's amazing how much difference clothes can make to a woman's sex apeal.

“See?” she said. “If you could see the way you're drolling over my undies! You despereately want to wear them.”

Me? Wearing this?  How could I? It's made for girls. I'm not a girl. It's just impossible. To think – that gorgeous girlish silk and satin and lace, stretched tight on my crotch, and across my chest. I can't help but picture what's supposed to go into it: sexy female anatomy. I try to picture myself in it, but all I see is female and sexy and gorgeous. It makes me horny.

“You've fondled me in those undies. You know how soft they are. They fascinate you in their femininity, don't they? Just imagine... imagine them on you.”

I feel so naughty. I know that I shouldn't, but my thoughts turn to fantasies. I picture myself as a girl, wearing these panties, and looking irresistibly girlish. I'm thinking about it. And I'm probably blushing, because it's turning me on.

“You might as well go ahead,” she says. “I know you want to.”

“I just... can't! It's so, so bad...”

“How can you say that? You know you'll like it.”

“I feel like I'm betraying my manhood.”

“It's already too late. Just thinking about it the way you are pretty well condemns you, doesn't it?”

This bit of wisdom turns me on that much more. Sheepishly, I slink into the undies. Instantly, I notice the difference in fit, and texture. So this is what it's like to be a girl.

Fiction: Discovery and Explanation, Fictionalized

[transcribed from a notebook]

Can there be any turning back? I though, as I once more fondled women's underwear. I have this strange fetish. Sometimes, I can rationalize it, and I don't think it's so strange. Women's clothing, and especially underwear, turns me on to an alarming degree. In fact, it turns me on more than thoughts of sexual intercourse do, when I'm alone. I am obsessed with lingerie and skimpy swimwear. And I can't explain why, but I'll try.

There's something sexy about women's clothes, even when they're not being worn. There's nothing sexier than discarded panties, lying on the floor, or a bra tossed thoughtlessly on the back of a chair. Swimsuits too. They're all irresistible. They maintain the femininity that they are designed to accentuate. Somehow, women's clothes are completely alien, something which no normal heterosexual male is supposed to know anything about. They're taboo for men; perhaps that's part of it. Plus, they're so sexy when worn, that it's impossible to avoid associating them with women's bodies. Even so, I would rather look at a girl in her undies than naked.

Wait, maybe I should rephrase that...

But that's the question at hand, isn't it? I have all this womanly attire here, and I get excited looking at it, knowing that it is hers, touching it, caressing it, examining every beautiful crimp and stitch and elastic. What I meant to say above was that I prefer seeing underwear-clad girls than naked girls. But the ambiguity of the sentence presents a different alternative.

How does this stuff turn me on? It's difficult to grasp, even for me. I imagine all of the feminine thaings that go on in there, and looking at it or touching it makes me feel close to it, close to something feminine. It makes me feel like I'm grasping some ideal of femininity, represented by, encapsulated in, women's underwear.

But now, this new idea.

I have caressed women's underwear, held it against my naked body, imagining that I'm touching an ideal woman. I have jerked myself off against the soft fabrics and lace. Is this the next logical step? One curious thought. And I'm stuck in a dilemma of sorts.

“I would rather look at a girl in her undies...” I wrote. How did I get in her undies? Strangely enough, here they are, right in front of me, giving me a huge boner. The idea started so innocently. I accidentally imagine myself wearing women's clothing – wearing the clothes that turn me on so much. How would it feel to wear lingerie, or a bikini? I am looking at my favourite lingerie right now. How much closer to it can I get without wearing it?

But there's a stunning contradiction: how can I wear it without compromising my own masculinity? By wearing such female clothes – clothes that define girlhood in my mind – wouldn't that make me girlish? Put another way: would I ever want anyone to know that I've worn women's clothes-- never mind for a sexual kick-- and still feel socially comfortable as a man? The thought that any human being could discover this terrifies me.

The screw turns tighter. The idea arouses me more than anything ever has. I want desperately to feel that close to femininity. I am afraid for my manhood on one side, but on the other hand my curiosity and fetish get the better of me. Each side feeds the other. So here is my dilemma: do I risk my manhood for possibly the most intense sexual experience of my life? Or do I resist this temptation, and establish forever my manhood as incorruptible?

What would you do?

Every doubt about maintaining my manhood in spite of dressing up like a girl makes my desire stronger. It's like a dare. I can't back down, or else I'm a coward. Ultimately, I fear that there will be no turning back. Even a split-second wearing a bikini, and I will forever crave more. I will never be able to stop. In other words, I'm afraid of it feeling too good.

The thought obsesses me. Is it worth the risk? My lingerie beckons me, tempts me in its effeminacy. My manhood warns me sternly against even thinking about it further. But I can't stop. Perhaps it's already too late, having simply imagined it. The severity of the consequences itself turns me on: these undies are so effeminate, that merely wearing them will instantly metamorphose me into a girl. Now the fear of consequences has totally merged with my desire: Oh God! I Hope so! I will wear this lingerie; I, a man, a heterosexual man, will willingly put on garments of undeniable effeminacy-- the epitome of womanhood, even-- with the intent to become feminine. I no longer fear that wearing women's underwear will make me effeminate-- I hope for it. My thoughts become so subversive that this realization pushes me even further into desire.

I was right. It was too late from the moment the thought crossed my mind.

Fiction: Transformation and Choice

[transcribed from a notebook, many pages earlier, near my class notes from 1998; I remember coming across this while studying, and a girl noticing my writings...]

I guess it doesn't even matter how I got into this mess. An unpredictable and unstoppable chain of events brought me to this place, to this fate. Was it fate? Was it destiny? Did my own free will have nothing to do with my ending up here? Oh, they keep telling me that only those who want to, come here. Nobody gets forced into this. Some may protest vehemently, but it's their own choices, ultimately, that bring them here. Like I said, it doesn't matter.

It came as quite a shock, this radical transformation. I would never have thought it possible if I hadn't experienced it myself. I remember when that wonderful bevy of young women awakened me to allow me to witness it.

Imagine emerging from a druggy haze to see the most beautiful woman on earth shaking you awake. She wore nothing but a lacy red teddy with matching stockings. She looked like a lingerie model. Five more girls, each more beautiful than the next, milled about the room in equally revealing outfits. A__, the sexy one in red who woke me up, cuddled up to me lasciviously, and told me to wake up, or I'd miss all the fun. I couldn't even speak. I couldn't move, either. She was so sexy, so pretty, and I wanted to jump on her right there. But I couldn't.

Somehow, I realized that I was vertical, not lying down. I was chained by the ankles and wrists like a star. And I was buck naked. Drugged as I was, I couldn't understand what was going on. I felt like I was in paradise.

They began their work as soon as A__ gave the signal. All six girls descended on me like buzzards on a corpse. At no time did any one of them ignore me. At lieast one at any time cajoled me and caressed me suggestively. I still couldn't move. They kept me informed at every step.

They started by shaving my chest. They used pink disposable razors and women's shaving gel. They were very delicate. Not the slightest cut. The whole time they fondled me. They saved my legs for last.

When it came time for the legs, they gave me a most sensual treatment. They worked with such care and delicacy that I already began to see my legs the way I saw theirs: hairless, smooth, sleek, and above all, sexy and feminine. The way they handled my legs, the way they caressed them, I thought of supermodels in pantyhose or lady leg shaver commercials.

Finally when they finished rinsing me, and I was as hairless and smooth as, if not more so than, them, they began to dress me. First they wrapped a think lacy garter belt, white, around my waist. Simultaneously, white fishnet stockings went up my legs, slowly, sensually, up to my thigh. Their hands slid against my shaven skin all the way up, reminding me of how effeminate my legs had become. Then they slipped on a satiny white teddy with lacy trim. One at a time, and attached it gingerly over my cock. They rolled in a full length mirror and showed me what I looked like. Except for the bulge in the crotch, the body in the feflection looked entirely female.

Then they slipped me more drugs; and they teased me with their bodies. They each showed me, up close, the sexiest parts of their bodies.

“See these legs?” said one, gorgeously. “Yours will look just like them.” And on it went. I passed out with visions of them, their bodies melding into mine, transforming me into one of them. I protested, I resisted with all my might, but it was no use. A__ herself shook her hips right in front of my face. “See this?” she said, pointing at her panty-clad crotch, “See this wonderful little curvy mound, this smooth, soft, exquisite space – you'll soon have one just like it.” I could feel the stockings slithering up my legs all over again, I could feel the garter belt tightening around my waist, I could feel the teddy slide over my chest, and the panties surround my crotch. I tried desperately to squirm free, but there was nowhere to go, no position to assume that would stop it; I tried to pull it off, but instead found my hands impulsively caressing the delicate fabric. It was on me, all over me, but I continued to squirm and fondle. How could I not fondle? My legs were girls' legs; my chest felt effeminate; my crotch, oh how my crotch burned with ecstasy as I moved my hips, gyrated my hips. It was like making out with a girl, and feeling her body's sensations on top of my own. Part of me still resists, in vain. Another begs for more. I know that I am not a girl, and yet I also know that I have essential items of girlhood on my body. This incongruously divides my will: deep inside, I fear this effeminacy. It means the destruction of my manhod. But on the surface I cannot resist the pleasure. I imagine wearing all sorts of girlish things like bikinis and lingerie and miniskirts. I dream of transforming my crotch into one as heavenly as A__'s.

At length, I emerge from my drug-hazed sleep still chained spread eagled and wearing lingerie. My lust for femininity has faded almost to nothing – but my outfit reminds me of my thoughts, my corrupted perversions of before. I blush with shame and feel a hot rush of horniness simultaneously.

I can forgive my wearing the lingerie. I was forced. But I cannot account for, nor forgive my transsexual fantasy. I can't even understand it. But somehow, just the memory of my drug trip fantasy makes me want to relive it. The stockings still decorate my shaven legs. I still look like a sexy woman. I can feel myself slowly succumbing again to the grips of feminininity, only this time without the drugs. I need only think about my visions of before, and quiver, guiltily, with desire. I am thankful to be alone. Not that it matters. Surely A__ and the girls know how much I enjoyed myself. They put it into my head.

I know I shouldn't but I can't stop. I want to feel myself, but I also hate myself for succumbing again. I Imagine wearing all sorts of other girlish things. The conflict raging in my head. I feverishly consider the possibility of wearing panties and a bra – maybe even, god forbid, a bikini. Perhaps even a one-piece swimsuit. I consider it fearfully, because I'm afraid of how exquisite such effeminate clothes would feel on my body. My fear becomes fantasy, guilty fantasy, and fuels my desire. Soon it becomes desire, as I picture myself slipping into a skimpy little bikini, my masculine conscience fades away.

Suddenly, as I'm lost in fantasy, writhing in my lingerie, the girls enter my cell. They saw me dancing hotly in the lingerie. I'm embarrassed. “What's the matter?” asks A__. “don't you like it?” I can't answer. “We're letting you go. If you don't want to be one of us, we'll understand. We're leaving it up to you.”

I feel the chains slacken, and I'm free. All the girls are looking at me. “So, what'll it be,” coos A__. “Are you with us or not?” She's got her hand on my suddenly girlish hip.

My first instinct is to remove the clothes I'm wearing. I look down at my lingerie-clad body. I unclasp the stockings from my garter belt, and start rolling them down. In shame and disgust. But my legs are so sexy. And they're so pretty in these stockings. I get to my ankle, and I hesitate. I feel up my sensuously girlish thigh. I look at each of the girls in turn. They all seem indifferent. And they're so damned gorgeous in their underwear. They don't seem to ccare either way. I stare at my clothes, how pretty they are. I want to keep these clothes. I look at A__'s crotch, her tits, her legs. I want them all. I picture my body as hers. I fondle the lingerie all over. Soon, I'm masturbating openly. I pull my stockings back up and announce my decision.

“I want to be a girl!”

A__ beamed. She was proud of me. They led me to a storeroom stocked with all kinds of female attire. Here I would pick out some fresh clothes, which would be the first new additions to my wardrobe. I had to choose from panties on outwards. I dressed like a whore, sleecting some dainty bra and panty set, in black, with a garter belt and stockings to match. Then I found a short red minidress that clung to me like a glove. Finally, I picked out some sexy black sandals, with two-inch heels. I had to hitch up my butt like a girl when I walked. I had to parade around like this all day to test my dedication. I put it all on in front of them. I hesitated again. Could I turn back on my decision now? The thought of having a strictly feminine wardrobe, filled with dainty panties and bras, enticed me into continuing. And I did prance around like that all day. I could hardly believe it. There could be no turning back now.

At night, I was to choose a nightgown. I picked one like a dress, a short one. It looked so feminine. There's no mistaking it.

The next day, after picking a new outfit, I was introduced to Joe. He was tall, strong, muscular. I was told that for the next week, I would be Joe's panty slave. I would be his little slut, and I would have to grant him his every wish. If not, they would throw me out on the street, to return only when I'm serious. It wasn't necessary. I felt so girlish. I wanted to rub myself all over his muscular body. I dreamed of him sticking his dick on my girly clothes. I was putty in his hands. His touch made me feel so ... feminine.

Fiction: Wherein Nothing Happens

[transcribed from a notebook]

Sandra was the sweetest, most outrageously gorgeous woman I ever had the fortune to meet. Having a relationship with her felt like winning the lottery. I couldn't believe my luck, and I felt like I would and should do anything to keep her. It was she who planted that dirty little seed in my head. I still don't know if she had any idea what the result would be.

She looked like a fashion model. She was gorgeous even without makeup. She always wore revealing clothes, but always managed to look very classy nonetheless. There was nothing sleazy about her at all. But she was extremely femininie. She is one of those women who are so beautiful that you have to keep reminding yourself that she is human.

Even her underwear was gorgeous. It pains me now to think of her. I am consumed with envy at the merest thought of her. You'll understand if I avoid talking about how wonderful the sex was. Just imagine: getting hot and sweaty with the very epitome of womanhood. She could have just lain there motionless and I would have had an awesome time.

One time after a particularly intimate lovemaking session, she proposed a brief closet swap. I don't know if she had any idea what it would do to me. I held im my hand her gorgeous silk panties. I could only picture how astonishinly sexy she looked in them. It was like holding the very essence of her femininine sexuality in my hand. I was afraid of them. I oculdn't imagine applying that femininity to myself. She giggled at my hesitation. It was a big deal for me.

I could only imagine the consequences of wearing her panties, even for a moment. What if I liked it? Would it compromise my manhood? I contemplated it for days. Logically, it's ludicrous. Nothing can change the physical fact of my masculinity, but there's so much more to it than that. I could imagine it on me now, and it aroused me to no end. Already I knew I was in trouble.

Fiction: Queen of the Brothels

I have a story in mind:

The detective tracks down what happened to a young man who seems to have disappeared.  His rich parents want to know where he is.  The dick finds out that the kid somehow fell in with a female-worshiping cult.  He gave them his life's savings.  This is how it happened:

At the end of high school, he was depressed about still having his virginity.  So he went to the back pages of Now to find himself a whore.  Unfortunately for him, she was one of the minions of the Queen of the brothels.  She conned him into taking her more seriously as a girlfriend, and got him to more or less date her.  

Somehow, she gets him into debt.  He owes lots of money, so he has to resort to desperate measures to give it back.  He meets the Queen, who proposed to him some film work in some pornos she makes.  Sure! He agrees!  He gets to have sex all the time, and his debts get paid.  However, the terms of the deal require him to do some pretty oddball stuff.  

They start him slowly enough.  Then they start asking him to do some homo scenes.  He's a little scared at first, but the Queen threatens him to do as she says, or else he'll be at the mercy of his creditors.  He does as told.

Pretty soon it gets out of hand.  Somehow they get him into crossdressing.  He's all done up like a girl, and they force him to hand over his cash.  They make it sound sweet.  All he has to do is obey, and they'll take care of him forever.  He need not worry about making a living.  He reluctantly agrees, and they gradually turn him into a girl.  Still attracted to his girlfriend, he learns to get dressed from her.  He learns to shave his body.  He wears only women's clothes now.  This works because of the profitability of the sex trade, particularly in the fringes of perversity.  His excitement grows as the hormones they feed him start giving his body the shape of his girlfriend's.  He becomes a she-male porn star.

The detective, of course, goes undercover to find this out.  And he gets girled, too.

Fiction: The Seed

[transcribed from a notebook]

I was 5 years old when my first encounter with non-maternal femininity occurred. I had met Julie at school. Our mothers knew each other, so we were forced into each other's company. You know how it is at that age: it's when we become aware of gender, and associate ourselves to whatever camp we're born with. Julie couldn't stand me because I was a boy. I couldn't stand her because she was a girl. Had nothing to do with anything. Just an us vs. them mentality, making sure you belong with your kind.

There was also curiosity. We had some unsupervised play time and we played doctor. Really it was because I didn't believe that she didn't have a penis. I was sure that everyone did. She had to prove it. Then I had to show her what I meant by 'penis.' There we were, naked, inspecting each other. All of it very innocent.

My mistake was in picking up the wrong underwear. It was too late by the time I noticed. I knew instantly that something was wrong, what with all the frilliness of her panties. “You can't wear that! Those are for girls!” she shouted, and I knew she was right. But it put a seed in my head.

I knew that I had contaminated myself. I had made contact with icky girl stuff. Back then, I wanted absolutely no association with girls. I had to establish my membership in the male gender. There could be no confusion. And here I had worn pinkish frilly girls' panties. I worried that my boyhood was in jeopardy.

Soon enough, I began to think of girls in the normal way. I loved the prettiness of women. I loved the way they looked in their underwear. I began to imagine that I, having worn girls' undies, would be turned into one myself, and that was why I liked looking at women.

I would resist it as much as I could. Everyone kept explaining to me that boys and girls together make babies, and that boys are supposed to like girls. But still I doubted. What if I was slowly turning into a girl? I found myself liking the idea. It was so naughty. I hated myself for it. I tried to resist. But every now and then, I needed to rub my cock while imagining that I was being transformed. I felt such shame when I was done, and vowed never to do it again. I suspected that I only got worse each time.

Julie kept reminding me, too. I made her promise not to tell. I never told her about my fears then.

It was only a matter of time before I started to borrow my mother's pantyhose for my passions. I was tentative at first. I would only touch them. Then I'd put them on over my own underwear. I didn't want to jump right in. Imagine my parents' shock when their son would suddenly appear as a daughter. I tried to resist. As I predicted it got worse. It felt so incredibly good. I knew that I was doomed, a part of me was very happy about it, too. I would renounce my gender for the pleasure this gives me.

Diary: Bad Things

A__ has referred to having sex, or for that matter, doing anything sexual, as "doing bad things."  Bad, in the sense that she feels like she isn't allowed to do them, that they feel great, but that good girls don't do them.  

I, on the other hand, don't consider these things "bad" in any way, except maybe in that I may be corrupting her by fucking her.  But that's no big deal, really.  It gives me a little bit of a rush, especially when I'm fucking her from behind.  She's so innocent and virginal, except for those times when she's got my dick in her. 
I, on the other hand, have a totally different definition of "doing bad things."  

The similarities, now that I think of it, are remarkable: in a sense, we're both afraid of being feminine.  A__ doesn't wear sexy clothes, because she's afraid of looking slutty, or of attracting too much masculine attention.  When I do bad things, I feel defensive about my femininity, too.  I think we both feel like we're losing virginal innocence when we wear sexy lingerie and miniskirts.  Femininity is somehow dangerous for us.  Understandably more for me.

There is a lot more to it than that.  There's something about femininity that is unquestionably bad for men.  I'm being bad right now.  I'm a very bad boy.  I'm wearing the black satin panties I gave A__ for Christmas.  And one of her white bras (the one that matches these panties isn't here.  Damn!).  My very own garter belt and black stockings.  And a very sexy, short black dress of A__'s.  

It's related somehow to the discovery of sexuality.  I always did hide to masturbate.  Lord knows why.  I suppose it's because every time I masturbated, it was with women's clothes, or at least with women's clothes in mind.  It was a bad thing to do.  Those clothes aren't mine.  I need to fictionalize this.

I'm a young boy.  There's something about girls that's very, very exciting.  They make me feel all funny in my groin.  Even more exciting are their skimpy little outfits.  There's something about the female body that I simply can't understand, something about the shapes and curves that fascinates me, as well as every other heterosexual man.  I often feel an uncontrollable urge to do bad things.  Things that involve girls and my thingie.

I suppose I know, even at this tender age, that I'm a boy, and boys must do boy things, not girl things.  I must assert my identity as a boy at all costs.  Nothing must indicate weakness of any kind.  Girls are icky, and neither I nor my young male friends like them.  They're just so different.

However, there's a little problem.  I can barely even see the contradiction in this most of the time.  My secret urges compel me to wear girls' clothes.  I cannot resist.  At the very least, I imagine it, and yearn for it, while I masturbate.  I know that it's a very bad thing to do.  But I do it all the time anyway.  Because it feels so incredibly good.

It's all so innocent.  Girls are just so pretty.  Something about them.  I can't get them out of my mind.  They're so deliciously delicate, so soft, so curvy.  I start rubbing myself against my besheets, naked, imagining that I'm wearing something outrageously and unequivocally feminine, like a bikini or lingerie.  I feel incredible when I think about wearing women's clothes.  I imagine myself becoming female, or that I will somehow become female if I continue to imagine it, or if I ever actually do wear something feminine.  That only makes me even hotter, and I look forward to becoming a girl, and be pretty and sexy and wear bikinis and silk and lace and dresses and pantyhose. . .

And I get an orgasm.  I'm so young that I don't even necessarily come.  But I realize instantly that I have done something very bad.  I am supposed to establish my masculinity, even at this young age.  But here I am, fantasizing about being a girl, to the point where I want to go beyond just dresses and tresses, and actually wear women's underwear.  I deeply regret my secret crime, and vow to never let such thoughts take hold of me again.  Next time I masturbate, I cannot allow myself to think about becoming a woman.

Of course, it's no use.  There's no way to censor my own thoughts.  I get horny, and I try to think of other things, but I can't help but go back to my bad thoughts of wearing girlish underthings, of becoming a girl.  And always, I finish with shame.  I have been bad.  Again.

Rather than getting better, it gets worse.  I start rolling up my own underwear to make it more effeminate, to try to shape it more like a bikini bottom.  I tie the bottom of an extra-large shirt into a crotch, and pretend that it's a bathing suit.  I'm always so ashamed.  But fantasies and make-believe are one thing.

What once passed off as mere fantasies suddenly becomes much more real.  Once, I only thought of putting on women's clothes, only imagined becoming a girl.  But now, my bad thoughts take me the next logical step further.  I sneak into the laundry basket to borrow my mother's pantyhose.  I curse myself for allowing myself that dangerous escapade, because now I do it more and more often.  

I was so curious.  After so many years of just imagining wearing something girlish, I finally dare to actually try on pantyhose.  I slip it on, over my own underwear, careful not to let that effeminate material actually touch my crotch, at the risk of instantly losing all control, all manhood.  I just want to feel it against my legs.  There is nothing that men wear that can compare to pantyhose.  It's so tight on the leg, so sheer, so soft.  They remind me of women's thighs.  I want to have thighs like that, too.  And I know the risk I'm taking.  I know that if I go ahead with this, I am taking a frightening step closer to becoming a girl.  I do it, because I want to feel like a girl at that point.

Needless to say, I go on to wear pantyhose all the time.  It's incredibly bad.  But what can I do?  I'm powerless.  I think of all the dainty little straps coiling around girlish bodies, and having silky little straps coiling around my body effeminately and turning me into a girl.  I yearn for a bathing suit, for a garter belt, for a bra.  But I don't dare.  Yet.

I'm so very bad.  I start stealing things from a friend's sister.  I finally wear a bikini.  It's fantastic: that tiny stretchy soft tight skimpy little bikini bottom makes me feel more like a girl than I've ever felt before.  I know that it's bad.  But I revel in it.  I crave it.  I want it to last forever.  I want to be a girl so desperately.  I want to experience all female clothing.  I'm completely corrupted, and I know it.  Worse, I love being corrupted.  I know how bad I am, and I want to be the worst I can be.  I am not just curious about wearing lingerie.  I have a pretty good idea of what it will feel like.  I know how wonderful it will feel.  But I can still only dream of it.  I manage a modest collection of female clothing, which I hide under my bed.  I'm ashamed of my bad thoughts, but I cannot help but indulge in them whenever possible.

Last night I dreamed that I was walking around in public when I realized that I was wearing a black mini-dress and blue stockings or pantyhose.  I was totally masculine underneath, and I was quite pleased to be wearing a dress, but I was embarrassed because I was in public, and people could see me.  I passed by my college, afraid that some friends might notice me.  I wanted to hide from them, I wanted to go home and hide.  But I was out in public, for all the world to see, wearing women's clothes.  My legs weren't even shaved, and I could see the hair under the pantihose.  I realized that people were laughing at me, and I was ashamed, but I was also proud and quite pragmatic about the whole thing.  There was no point in my trying to hide, or taking off the clothes I was wearing.  So I might as well try to ignore everybody, and just enjoy my little adventure.  I even remember rubbing my stocking-clad legs together, and reveling in the sensation.  I was sitting down inside a bus on the way home.  

So here I am wearing some of mom's clothes again, because I feel so horny from that dream.  I gotta go now.  And do bad things. . .

Diary: Yearning for a Bikini

After all these years, I still can't figure it out.  Why the Hell do I keep yearning for women's underwear?
There is simply no way to explain it.  It's just the most arousing thing I can imagine.  Feeling a woman's body in sexy underwear or swimwear, and discovering that that body is mine.  Being forced to become a woman.  Right now, I desperately want a bikini.  

Fiction: War of the Sexes: Mindfucked

Here's an old fantasy, umpteenth attempt:

I've been captured by the women's army.  They've been capturing men for a long time now, and transforming them into girls.  It's a horrible thing.  I have been fighting them with all my being.  I refuse to give in to their mind games, refuse to submit to their humiliation tactics.  I am a man, and I swear to keep my manhood under any circumstances.  I have done very well for myself in the men's army.  My vigor in fighting off feminine forces has earned me a very high position.

Despite my high rank, I'm thrown into a camp with thousands of other men.  Perhaps they don't recognize me.  The men in the camp all seem to be in various stages of transvestism.  Not one of them wears anything even remotely masculine.  Some wear just pantihose and nothing else, and others wear slutty little lingerie outfits.  They all defer to the real women in the camp, who drive them like slaves.  

They lead me into a bunker.  I am stripped naked in front of the camp commander, who tells me that there will be no more masculinity for me.  I will learn to become a girl, whether I like it or not.  I protest, I resist, but the girls all laugh at me.  "Do you think that you can resist?  No man has been able to yet, and you'll succumb sooner or later."

"Never!"

The mistress laughs in my face.  She gets up, and stares me up and down.  I am restrained by two remarkably powerful ladies.  I can't move.  The mistress grabs my dick and says, "I know your type.  All fight, until you get a taste of silk and lace on your cock.  Then you're the most fanatic of all our wanna-bes.  You'll be begging for a garter belt in no time."

"Fuck you, bitch.  I'll never be a woman, and I'll never wear women's clothes!"

She laughs again.  "I'm afraid you really have no choice in the matter.  We know who you are.  You've caused us many problems.  And we have to do something about you."

"You're going to have to kill me, because I'll never do your bidding, no matter how much you torture me!"

"Oh, we're not going to torture you.  If anything, you'll torture yourself."

"Give it a rest."

"We're going to experiment a little with you.  We have no idea if this is going to work.  We figure it should be fun, one way or the other.  Maybe you'll go along at the same pace as the others.  Maybe, as we expect, you'll be a flaming sissy in record time."

"Fuck you.  I'll never be your sissy, bitch!"

"I think you need to get the little tour.  Bring him along."  She motions to the guards, and we go for a little walk.

"This camp, as I'm sure your Intelligence people have told you, specializes in metamorphosis.  The prisoners come in as men, and come out as women.  Here's how we do it."

She stops at a window, through which we watch several naked men chained to a wall.  "These men are new 'recruits,' captured with your bunch.  You might even recognize some comrades there.  They are experiencing the first stages of effeminization."  Women come out and dress them up in pantihose, and nothing more.  "Here they learn the first basic steps of girlishness.  For most, it's their first encounter.  They will learn to enjoy pantyhose first, and then they can graduate to more interesting things."  The women strap the now pantyhose-clad men to machines that rub their effeminated crotches.  Some respond readily, while others resist.  Eventually, they all ejaculate.  

"You see, they learn to associate pleasure with femininity.  It's a simple first step.  They have to wear pantyhose and come in it at least ten times before they can advance to the next level.  And they only need to be forced a few times, believe me.  You saw them: a few look forward to their future in lingerie already.  But they have to learn to be patient."

I hardly believe my eyes.  Some of the men want to get out of their pantyhose, but they're still tied up.  The guards seem to allow some of them free, and they walk around in the pantyhose, seemingly interested in feeling the fabric against their legs.  

She leads me to another window, where I see a horde of men in women's one piece bathing suits.  Only two of them are tied down; the others are all fondling themselves erotically, unrestrained.  "That's what they have to look forward to.  One hundred times in one-piece swimsuits.  As you can see, this is a fairly advanced group, and they're all quite eager to please by now.  

The next group is wearing bikinis.  They all look almost feminine.  They are all hairless, and in the throes of extreme ecstasy.  These men want to be here, they want to wear women's clothes.  "These men are almost ready.  They have to wear bikinis and come one thousand times, before they can go on."

The last window appears to show me several women in lingerie.  But they are all still men.  "This is the crowning achievement.  These men get to wear lingerie.  They are permitted to wear whatever they want, whenever they want.  They must come ten thousand times before they can go on to the final step."

"The final step?  What more can you possibly do to them?"

"Oh, so your intelligence people aren't so intelligent, are they?  You really don't know, do you?"

"No."

"Well, then, that leads me quite nicely to our experiment."  The guards drag me over to a medicine cabinet.  The mistress takes a bottle out and shows me the label.

"Estrogen!" I gasp.

"That's right.  Female hormones, which will give all of these men the features of women, the natural way.  In only a few years, they look just like girls, and we complete the transformation surgically where it really counts."

"What are you going to do to me?" I ask, horrified.

"Well, you've seen our gradual effeminization programme.  We're going to take out the 'gradual' part of it, and effeminate you instantly.  Funny enough, we've never tried it before."

"You can't do that to me!"

"We don't have to do anything to you.  You'll want to do it."

"Never!"

"Believe me, I know."

"How can you make me want to betray my gender?!?"

"You saw all of those men down there, pining to be women, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"They all betrayed their gender pretty readily, don't you think?"

"You're monstrous!  I'll never do it!"

With a snap of her fingers, the guards restrain me again.  "Aren't you interested in our little experiment?  You are, after all, going to be the first guinea pig.  And I'm convinced that you're perfect for it."

"Die, die, die!"

"Oh! You resist even more than we expected!  This will work so well!  Don't you know that the more you resist now, the more you'll crave to be a girl?  You'll be just as fanatical about becoming a woman as you are about remaining a man!"

"Go ahead!  Try me!  I'll resist!  Do your worst, you butchers!  I'm ready for anything!  You've shown me your worst, and I know everything that you can do to me!  There's nothing that will phase me, because I know all your tricks!"

"Well.  So you say.  Ladies, effeminate him!"

I woke up in a bunker with a hundred other men.  We were all naked.  I don't remember anything.  I don't know what they did to me.  I blacked out right when she said that.  They must have knocked me out.  I checked myself out.  Nothing. . . missing.  I wasn't dressed like a girl.  They seemed to have left me intact.  No pain anywhere, even.  Although I did feel a little funny inside.

Some guards came in and strapped the lot of us to the machines that I saw before.  I knew what was coming.  Some of the men had recognized me.  I saw their spirits fall when they recognized that I had been captured.  I was an inspiration to them all.  None of the poor bastards knew what was coming to them.

The ladies put me into the pantyhose.  "Is this the one?"  "Yeah, that's him."  "Oh, boy, this one's in for quite the treat.  I'll keep my eyes on him.  He's sure to be a blast to watch."

The pantyhose felt strange on my legs.  I rubbed my feet together to feel the material.  Somehow, it was soft and sheer, an interesting feeling on my legs.  It finally sank in that I was wearing women's clothing, and I couldn't do anything about it.  I had been restrained so effectively that I couldn't move at all.  I suppose all of the others were, too.  Whatever happened next, I would brace myself for, suspecting that they had done something to me already.

With all of my mental preparation, I was hardly ready for what hit me next.  The machine started moving between my legs.  The pleasure was instantaneous and unbearable.  There were mirrors everywhere, and each of us men could see ourselves very clearly wearing women's pantyhose, and masturbating.  The guards kept telling us what sissies we were, and what pretty legs we had.  We'd be girls like them in no time, they cajoled.  I could imagine myself sexier things, too.  And every time I did imagine that, I felt even more pleasure.  I could picture myself, strapped in the near future to this same machine, only wearing a bikini, and feeling even more pleasure than now, if that were possible.  The very thought of wearing a bikini horrified me, and made me moan.  I mean, here I was, wearing pantyhose, against my will, humiliated in front of hundreds of people, and being forced to enjoy it.  Imagine if I were wearing something even more incriminating, even more horrifyingly feminine, like a bikini?  My crotch burned with the thought of it.  Me, not only dressed like a girl, but masturbating while wearing a bikini!  It was bad enough that this pantihose was unmistakably girlish to begin with.  Here was me, staunch crusader for masculinity, effeminated, soon to be in a bikini.  That thought stayed etched in my head, even as the crotch of the pantihose, where a cunt should be, fondled my prick in ways that it had never felt before.  I could not help but imagine how a bikini would feel, a string bikini, with just barely enough waistband to keep the panties fastened to me, and a bra restraining my chest!  How embarrassingly girlish would I, one of the manliest men around, look and feel in a bikini?!?  I was dancing with the machine now, gyrating my pelvis energetically against it.  Only the machine had stopped long ago.  I now powered it with my vigorous humping.  

But I couldn't stop.  I kept right on rubbing myself on it, feeling incredibly good.  I didn't care anymore that I was making a fool of myself.  I remembered the disgust I felt at the men who jerked themselves vigorously on the machines as I watched during the mistress's tour.  I was worse than any of them.  But still I didn't care.  Not until I came.

Suddenly, I came back to earth.  I was a man wearing women's clothing, covered in my own semen.  I couldn't believe what I had done.  I couldn't account for what came over me.  That bitch of a mistress must have done something to me!  She made me embarrass myself.  I just wanted to tear the pantyhose off of myself in disgust.  I didn't ever want to see anything like them again.  Unfortunately, I knew that I would have to, and soon.  Nine more times.

I got off my machine and took off the pantyhose, as did many of the others.  Some remained strapped in, forbidden from getting out.  Some men kept them on.  They almost cried in shame, having watched me effeminate myself more vigorously than any of them, after having led them into battle against just such torture.  My heart rose suddenly as I thought: I might just as well have kept them on, I'm so much worse off than them.
I tried to resist again the next time, knowing what was coming.  But it was no use.  Again, the pantihose, sticky on my legs, made me think of pretty girls and their underthings, and how I could soon expect to wear them.  I considered myself lucky that they didn't have us wear garter belts, so unmistakably feminine, rather than pantyhose.  And that only made things much worse, as I pictured myself in one, lacy and silky, and tight around my waist, so pretty.  It was probably worse than the first time.  Thoughts of girlishness simply wouldn't go away.  All I could see and think of was myself wearing women's clothes.  I was doomed to wear it eventually, and it kept creeping into my mind.  Me, dressing like a girl.  The way things were going, I had little hope of becoming one of the stubborn resistors.  It looked like I would be the first in my class each time, eagerly anticipating the next step.  If this was how poorly I handled mere pantyhose, how would I react to one hundred one-piece bathing suits?  I would wear it all, and proudly!  The mistress was right: I would succumb just as vehemently as I resisted.

At this moment in my thinking, I realized that my arms were no longer restrained.  I was rubbing my hands all over myself, feeling the silkiness of the pantihose on my legs, trying vainly to imagine what silk panties would feel like.  What had they done to me?  I didn't want to stop!  It felt so incredibly good!  And thoughts of my failure only made it more pleasurable.  Considering how wonderful it felt to wear pantyhose, I came thinking about how much more pleasurable wearing even a one-piece swimsuit would feel.  

My comrades wept when they saw that I needed no help in putting on my pantihose the third time.  They all still resisted, but I had lost miserably, disadvantaged by the mistress's experiment.  Whatever she did to me certainly worked.  It only made me more eager to think that I was so manly, and fought so hard against her, yet now happily effeminated myself before her.  I looked desperately forward to wearing a swimsuit.
By the fifth time in pantihose, I could no longer resist.  I was flaming.  I openly admitted to myself that I wanted to be a girl now, if only to have the privilege of wearing such pretty clothes.  I even went too far, I might say.

This was only my fifth day in the camp, and I desperately wanted to advance in the ranks.  I needed to wear a bikini.  It was well before my time, but I had to do something soon.  I snuck into another, more experienced candidate's room, and 'borrowed' his one-piece swimsuit for the night.  I was cheating.  I didn't even care if I got no credit for it.  I did it for the sheer joy of it.  I became more and more daring.  By the time I graduated to swimsuits, I was well accustomed to them.  I had even worn a bikini once before being officially eligible to wear swimwear of any kind.  It was so exquisite that I wanted more.  I wanted lingerie.  I wanted hormones.  I felt ready.  And that was when I was caught. 

I had somehow managed to steal into the store, and took myself a pretty little lingerie outfit for my personal secret pleasure.  When I returned to my bunk, in a room with hundreds of other men, and got dressed up for a night of incredible wonders that I only began to taste, the mistress turned on all the lights and forced me to show myself, all girlishly bedecked, for all the world to see.  "See how your esteemed leader has turned so readily to womanhood!" she announced.  I felt almost naked.  But I was only in my underwear.  She asked me to come with her, in front of all the men.  I sashayed across the room proudly, and let them all see me.  Yes, I had betrayed them.  But I didn't care.  What would come next was even more extreme.

She propositioned me to infiltrate the men's army and destroy it from within.  I agreed on two conditions: first, that I be allowed to wear whatever I want under my men's clothes, to stay feminine.  "I would have insisted on it!" she replied.  And second, I asked her what she did to me to make me appreciate girlishness so readily.  

"Nothing!" she relplied jubilantly.

"Nothing?!?"

"Nothing!  There was no experiment!  You succumbed all by yourself.  We didn't do anything to you at all.  We knocked you out and tossed you in with the rest of them.  We were just playing mind games with you!"

Diary: On Discovering Other Writers

I've read a few more stories on dragscape.  It seems to me that there are a few drastic differences between the stories there and those that I tend to write.  Those stories are very often homosexual, and that's the number one difference, although not always.  But second, and most important, those stories never quite get into the head of the metamorphoser.  That's what fascinates me.

For example, there's that story about the army guy who gets ordered to become a girl, and who just suddenly discovers that he loves it and instantly goes all the way with it.  I much prefer the mental development, the discovery of a hidden, dark, very taboo sexual propensity.  And I love it gradual.  It's the understanding that it's completely wrong, but being completely unable to resist experimenting, and getting even deeper into it.  Just like I did it.

Fantasy: Hair of the Dog

How about this scenario: I am me.  I wear women's underwear every now and then just for fun, but it stays in the closet.  I'm found out by my girlfriend, who dumps me.  I am alone, and ashamed.  I truly loved her, and I feel awful about her leaving me.  And I miss her lingerie, too.  So I vow to never wear women's clothes again.

Of course, as always, I fail.  I know that it's impossible to change this proclivity.  I keep succumbing to the urge.  Until one day, I finally decide to do something drastic about it.  So, I say to myself, you want to wear women's clothes for fun, eh?  Well, we'll see how fun it is if you wear them all the time.  So I start wearing women's underwear exclusively, hoping that I'll get sick of it and stop.  Only it has the opposite effect.  I wear it all the time, and I get so used to it, that I can't do without it.  I come out of the closet forever as a girl, just because it's just too fun to give up.

Fiction: After the Harem

Or worse (to continue the above idea): the girls get a two-headed dildo, and they all get to fuck me up the ass with it.  The ultimate revenge!  They get to rape me and demean me even worse than I did to them.  Some are violent, some are tender, some are clumsy, some are expert, but all of them do it at least once.  I get no chance to rest: as soon as one is done, and she extracts her dildo from my ass, another comes right back in.  It's the most incredibly outrageously demeaning experience that any human being has ever lived through.  And it affects me deeply: once it's done, and I become a prissy little faggot willingly wearing women's clothes, I slowly work my way back to the top of the heap.  I am one of the girls now.  I convince them that I should be an example to all rapists.  They should all suffer as I have, and that's the only way they'll learn to respect women.  I work as hard as I can to effeminate myself, taking even the most extreme measures.  I take hormones and grow my own tits.  I conceal my dick as much as I can.  I am a total she-male.  I start to look like an Amazon sex-goddess.
Eventually, we start capturing convicted rapists.  We dress them up and fuck them up the ass.  I am usually the first to get in there.  I don't need a dildo, and I resent that; I make sure that these men feel it worse than I ever did.  I make them so effeminate and so docile that I have them competing for who gets the privilege of sucking my dick.

And it grows from there.  Our ranks swell so high from all of our rapist converts, who are forced to undergo sex-change operations and become girls too, that we decide to expand.  Our vigilantism grows to include all criminals, as far as jaywalkers and litterers, and even parking ticket offenders.  Then it's all men.  All men must learn to respect women.  All men must become girls, feel silk and satin on their nipples and cocks, and get dildoes and penises up the ass.  There is no longer any excuse: everyone must wear women's lingerie, and strive to be a beautiful woman.  To do otherwise is a crime.  I become even more powerful than ever, and I do it as a girl.

Fiction: Revenge of the Harem

I'm rich.  But I don't like to go out much.  That's why I keep my harem.  They're here for life.  They never leave.  I have my way with them whenever I want, and they can bitch all they want about it, it won't change.  They're my little sex slaves.

Typically, I tie them up naked, spread eagled and gagged on this contraption that I've got. It's like a roof on my bed.  I tie them to it so that they face the mattress, and come down to get fucked whether they like it or not.  I've even climbed up and hung off of them as I fuck them, so that they're fucking in mid-air.  It's quite a bit of fun.  They all hate it at first, but they eventually start loving it.

Then one day, the tables turn.  They somehow organize a revolt, and they capture me.  But they don't want to kill me.  They'd rather embarrass me.  They disable me, remove all my body hair, and strap me into some of their lingerie and then into the machine, where I can't move.  I'm wearing silky undies, a matching bra and garter belt and black stockings.  They take pictures of me, stare at me and laugh, and hurl insults at me.  They call me a sissy.  Then they bring in the real torture.

They bring in some strapping young faggot.  Essentially he does to me what I did to the girls.  And they all watch and hoot and holler and love the show.  He fucks me up the ass, in the mouth, the whole bit.  He even fondles my nipples.  He keeps my panties on, so that I don't forget who the girl is in this relationship.  He even whispers in my ear that I'm his little pretty girlfriend.  As he fucks me, he fondles my pantied crotch.  The girls cheer the loudest when I finally come.  I just feel so effeminate.

This goes on infinitely.  I'm imprisoned, and I'm forced to wear women's clothes only.  And every day, I get strapped in and fucked, just like my girls used to.  I start really enjoying it, too.  I start looking forward to it.  I start making myself as sexily effeminate as I can.  I start dressing myself up, rather than being forced to.  I willingly suck his dick.  I become his little private sex whore.  And I feel very feminine and proud.  The girls have their revenge.  

Diary: Deep Questions about Limits

I think that's about finished.  It was pretty exhilarating to write.  For the first time, I managed to make myself come using my hands.  And I did it more than once, too.

This story brought to mind one of those interesting deep questions: if you could experience the most prolonged and intense sexual experience conceivable, knowing in advance that it would be 100 times better and longer than any sexual experience you've ever had, and knowing that it would destroy your sexuality irrevocably so that you could never have sex again, would you do it?

I can't even answer that myself.  It's a very difficult question.  I'm leaning towards quantity right now, rather than quality.

One thing I had thought of as a kid when I used to fantasize about becoming a girl by wearing women's clothes: literal emasculation.  I had this fantasy that girls would capture me and force me to wear their clothes to effeminate me a bit.  To add injury to insult, they would then chop off my genitals in preparation for a sex change operation, and force me to eat my own penis.  I don't remember anything about my balls, but I do remember having to eat my own dick.  Cooked like a sausage.  I ate it, too, and became a girl.

It's a bit raunchy, isn't it?  Not too stimulating, either.  How could I be mortally embarrassed if I didn't still have my dick swishing around in effeminate silk?

More raunchiness: homosexuality.  There was a time when I fantasized about fucking men as a girl.  It doesn't really turn me on all that much, but there's that guilty aversion to the effeminacy associated with homosexuality.  In other words, I started thinking about having a cock up my ass, or in my mouth, as I acted like a girl, and it made me feel that much more effeminate.  Because that's what girls do.  But I felt guilty that it turned me on, and so it turned me on even more-much as wearing lingerie does.  Right now I can picture myself all dolled up in lingerie, feeling all proud, and even horny, as a man snaps the elastics on my panties.  I get all excited as I suck him and fuck him.  Even though I'm still male, and I'm only wearing women's clothes.


Finally, there's another story in me, one that combines all sorts of very nasty, sordid, and most unsavoury sexual acts...

Fiction: Mad Scientist, More Detail

Slight modification, another grandiose plan for a huge story.  This one might just work, though.

The plan is this: The mad scientist works for the government.  The government wants to take over a foreign country, and wants to find an insidious way of disabling its enemy's resistance.  They plan some sort of propaganda campaign which will totally obliterate the enemy's will to fight.  So the mad scientist, being a sexist mad scientist, proposes a plan: make all the men in the country effeminate, and they won't want to fight.  It's a simple idea, but how does one accomplish this?

              The scientist has done research into gender identity and behaviour.  He hypothesizes that if men wear women's clothing, and are publicly exposed as transvestites; and if these men are well rewarded for their gender-bending, they will inevitably want to become girls.  Thus, if he can effectuate his plan, the men will become girlish in no time.  Implementation would be easy: Send in some female agents to seduce some of the men, and coerce them into femininity, and quickly the idea will spread.  The details are unimportant.  Suffice it to say that the government thinks the idea could use a generous grant for development.  The scientist is commissioned to carry out whatever experiments he thinks will prove or disprove his hypothesis.

              So the experiments begin.  The story is a logbook of his experiments.  He must try different methods of effeminating men: with force, with coercion, gradual, sudden, etc.  And he must try with many different men, each of whom has a different sexual history.  Thus, for each of the conditions, he must have a transvestite; a closet transvestite panty freak; someone who has maybe thought about it once or twice, maybe even tried it; someone who has never even imagined wearing women's clothes.  And so I have a dozen case studies right off the bat.

              Anyway, with all of these experiments, he gets to see the shocking results: he was correct.  Men want to become women when exposed to their underwear, particularly suddenly.  This alarms the scientist, and he takes drastic measures.

              As a shock ending, his prisoners, who have been transformed from mostly virile men to chicks with dicks, revolt, and capture him.  They plan to strip him down and force him to wear the sexiest lingerie imaginable, because they know that it would instantly transform him into a quivering mass of sheer girlishness.  But when they take off his clothes, they discover, to their horror, that he is already wearing lingerie, under his men's clothes.  He reveals that, as his experiments proved his hypothesis more and more, he became more and more frightened of what they might do to a man's psyche.  He had watched hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men willfully forsake their masculinity, to a most disturbing degree.  He saw men who never had any transsexual fantasies beg for bikinis and brassieres and garter belts to wear.  He did not want to ever become subjected to such a horrible devolution.  So he tried to immunize himself from the effects of women's clothing.  Here we enter the hierarchy: here is a man who must at all costs keep a very tight watch on how far he goes and how fast.  He started out with pantihose, and over his own underwear.  He did not dare risk his manhood further.  Then, when he felt comfortable enough in it, he dared to wear it naked at least ten times, until he could become used to it.  And so on until he got to the point where he could wear lingerie.  He wore women's underwear all the time, just to get used to it, in case he might ever be forced into becoming effeminate.  And so he forsook his own underwear for women's wear, only realizing too late that he had somehow succumbed himself to what he feared would be forced upon him. 

              In the end, after this little brouhaha, the enemy forces attack.  They are all effeminated men, and they force the entire population to become female like them.  And they all lived happily ever after.

So what are all the possibilities for test victims?

1)   raving trannie, out of the closet

2)   closet girlie, highly experienced with women's undies, like me

3)   only slightly experienced trannie, too scared to wear undies more often

4)   someone who has only thought about it a couple of times

5)   Someone to whom the idea of wearing women's clothing has never occurred.

And what are the possible test?  We first have to figure out the variables:

1)   amount of force (ranging from free choice to violence)

2)   severity (start with lingerie or with nothing?)

Each man is forced to tell how far he has gone, with the help of truth serum.  Imagine the embarrassment of number 2 and 3.  I think you can pretty much rule out 1.  The rest will be quite a blast.

Fiction: Outline: Mad Scientist

Next fantasy: the mad scientist who tries to experiment with some men to make them want to become women.  His experiment will try to find the source of gender identity.  So he has to force some men to wear underwear, coerce others, and give others all the choice they want.  Or else, it's one guinea pig, and he forces him to become a her through all sorts of torments of women's clothes.  And he will keep meticulous records the whole time.  Only he will find the whole thing most disgusting, how a man can totally abandon his gender like that.  Then the man will escape, and force the scientist to live through his own experiments, and get a unique insight into his experiment.  I picture this: the scientist doing his experiment, and his victim not knowing what is going on, slowly and innocently going female; and then he realizes what's going on, and tries to escape.  One day, he succeeds, and knocks out the scientist.  Then: the scientist wakes up from his unconsciousness, and screams when he notices that he's wearing women's lingerie, or a bathing suit, or something like that, and he struggles to get out, and the more he struggles, the more he pleases his feminine side, and he goes insane, becomes a flaming woman wannabe.  His experiments, of course, will have to be very gradual, to make sure that his guinea pig doesn't lose his mind or feel an incredible shock at his new identity; his own experience, however, will have to be quite the opposite: instantly he will wear the most intense lingerie, and become a fiend for it.