Diary: Thinking About the Slow Progression
I rediscovered a fantasy buried back there about discovering bit by bit one's ultimate sexual fantasy and slowly succumbing to it until it becomes reality. How does one discover this? How can it come about? It's been with me for as long as I remember. Can it be discovered later? The amazing thing is how I always kept coming back to it, over and over. At this moment, I truly believe that this happened when I wore stockings for a kindergarten pantomime, and associated wearing women's clothing with sexual pleasure. So here I am now acting out fantasies about wearing bikinis and lingerie, and imagining what it would be like to take hormones. What fun it would be to be a girl!
Fantasy: What's In My Pants?
It's all a matter of freedom.
I want to be free to express my femininity, but I can't in public. I can only indulge in it privately.
What I really want is a beautiful, sexy girl who would actually not mind indulging my occasional transsexual fantasy. The other day I fantasized about hanging around in bed with a girl, both of us wearing bikinis. I would worship her body, and she would fondle me all over. She would make me feel like a girl, like her, and I would play along, and we'd rub together gleefully feminine. She would, of course, have to take a vow of silence. I don't even know how I would bring it up.
The moment of acceptance makes any fantasy. Consider being forced to wear women's underwear. Either you're overwhelmed by the eroticism of it right away, or you resist but succumb later. Regardless, you accept and cherish your newly discovered fetish. You might pretend to hate it, but secretly you adore it, savour every moment of it. You fantasize about sexier garments. You want to be a girl, totally and irrevocably.
Another example, in a fantasy:
All day I've been walking around feeling a bit strange. I don't know what's wrong with me. I just don't feel comfortable in my own skin. It almost feels as though a part of me is missing. At the same time, I feel like I'm about to burst. It's so weird. It feels as though my pants don't fit right.
I feel horny when I think about it too much. Like now. Something feels different down there. It's a horniness I never felt before. I don't feel my cock stiffening. Instead I feel warmth. Heat. I feel slinky.
I'm alone now in a washroom. I feel like I need to pee. I stand up at the urinal, and unzip my fly. But there's nothing there.
You would think I'd panic. But no, instead a gush of excitement rushes through me. My underwear feels funny. It's not cottony, but soft, very silky. With rough edges. I undo the button at the top of my jeans, and take a look at what I'm wearing.
It's a silky bikini brief with lacy trim, and a cute little bow at the top. White. Very pretty. It cradles my crotch like a hammock. Somehow, my nether regions have become female.
I want to panic again, but I'm far too amazed at my new figure. It looks gorgeous! I reach for where my dick used to be, and find instead a soft lump of sensitive skin, covered in coarse hair. Inside is a wet, hot, slimy clit, hard with anticipation. I can't help but fondle it a few strokes. I'm a girl!
My reflection in the mirror still looks male. It looks the same as ever. But not the crotch. Somehow, I've turned into a girl. Somehow, I like it. [Here's the moment of acceptance] I want to strip off my pants and parade around in my new undies, my new identity. I want to cast off my male clothes and put on a dress, a bra, maybe a miniskirt, stockings, heels, makeup. . . I want to explore this to the hilt, before it reverts back to normal. I want to feel everything that a woman feels. I wonder what it feels like to have a dick in there? My cunt waters at the thought. Erotic fantasies of sucking and fucking dicks run through my mind, and I don't even try to dismiss them.
So off I go to buy some lingerie, some swimsuits, dresses, shoes, the whole bit. This is fucking amazing!
I want to be free to express my femininity, but I can't in public. I can only indulge in it privately.
What I really want is a beautiful, sexy girl who would actually not mind indulging my occasional transsexual fantasy. The other day I fantasized about hanging around in bed with a girl, both of us wearing bikinis. I would worship her body, and she would fondle me all over. She would make me feel like a girl, like her, and I would play along, and we'd rub together gleefully feminine. She would, of course, have to take a vow of silence. I don't even know how I would bring it up.
The moment of acceptance makes any fantasy. Consider being forced to wear women's underwear. Either you're overwhelmed by the eroticism of it right away, or you resist but succumb later. Regardless, you accept and cherish your newly discovered fetish. You might pretend to hate it, but secretly you adore it, savour every moment of it. You fantasize about sexier garments. You want to be a girl, totally and irrevocably.
Another example, in a fantasy:
All day I've been walking around feeling a bit strange. I don't know what's wrong with me. I just don't feel comfortable in my own skin. It almost feels as though a part of me is missing. At the same time, I feel like I'm about to burst. It's so weird. It feels as though my pants don't fit right.
I feel horny when I think about it too much. Like now. Something feels different down there. It's a horniness I never felt before. I don't feel my cock stiffening. Instead I feel warmth. Heat. I feel slinky.
I'm alone now in a washroom. I feel like I need to pee. I stand up at the urinal, and unzip my fly. But there's nothing there.
You would think I'd panic. But no, instead a gush of excitement rushes through me. My underwear feels funny. It's not cottony, but soft, very silky. With rough edges. I undo the button at the top of my jeans, and take a look at what I'm wearing.
It's a silky bikini brief with lacy trim, and a cute little bow at the top. White. Very pretty. It cradles my crotch like a hammock. Somehow, my nether regions have become female.
I want to panic again, but I'm far too amazed at my new figure. It looks gorgeous! I reach for where my dick used to be, and find instead a soft lump of sensitive skin, covered in coarse hair. Inside is a wet, hot, slimy clit, hard with anticipation. I can't help but fondle it a few strokes. I'm a girl!
My reflection in the mirror still looks male. It looks the same as ever. But not the crotch. Somehow, I've turned into a girl. Somehow, I like it. [Here's the moment of acceptance] I want to strip off my pants and parade around in my new undies, my new identity. I want to cast off my male clothes and put on a dress, a bra, maybe a miniskirt, stockings, heels, makeup. . . I want to explore this to the hilt, before it reverts back to normal. I want to feel everything that a woman feels. I wonder what it feels like to have a dick in there? My cunt waters at the thought. Erotic fantasies of sucking and fucking dicks run through my mind, and I don't even try to dismiss them.
So off I go to buy some lingerie, some swimsuits, dresses, shoes, the whole bit. This is fucking amazing!
Fantasy: What If I Like It?
Quick little fantasy:
Please, don't make me wear that, I beg you! That was made for girls to wear! I can't wear it! Yes, it's very pretty and everything. . . Yes I like it. I'd love to see you wearing it. You'd be gorgeous and sexy in it. It's just that I can't. Don't make me wear it! Please! Why do you want me to wear that? Don't you know what will happen? What if I like it? I might never want to wear anything else!
There, are you happy now? (Oh, but I am!) Now I'm wearing your silky delicate soft lingerie. You like it? Oh, you do, do you? Don't you wish I'd prance around like a girl in it? Well, I'm glad you enjoy it. Because I'm never wearing anything else ever again.
Please, don't make me wear that, I beg you! That was made for girls to wear! I can't wear it! Yes, it's very pretty and everything. . . Yes I like it. I'd love to see you wearing it. You'd be gorgeous and sexy in it. It's just that I can't. Don't make me wear it! Please! Why do you want me to wear that? Don't you know what will happen? What if I like it? I might never want to wear anything else!
There, are you happy now? (Oh, but I am!) Now I'm wearing your silky delicate soft lingerie. You like it? Oh, you do, do you? Don't you wish I'd prance around like a girl in it? Well, I'm glad you enjoy it. Because I'm never wearing anything else ever again.
Diary: I Want To Be Effeminated
I don't know what it is about it, but I need to wear women's underwear. The desire is overpowering. I want to be effeminated. Girls look so good in those outfits, and I just want the privilege of looking that way, too. I want the tits, I want the soft, hairless skin, I want the delicate curves, I want the round little empty crotch. I want to be enveloped in lace and silk and flowers and little skinny straps and dainty elastics.
Fiction: Forced into a Swimsuit
An image that never escapes me for long (or is it the other way around?):
I can't move my arms or legs. My feet and hands tingle from the lack of blood circulating into them. I'm stretched out across the length of the bed, swimming in a pool of blue light from the huge video monitor hanging above me like a mirrored ceiling. I can feel the air against my naked balls.
The girl climbs onto the bed and straddles me. She's wearing only a one-piece swimsuit, red and black, high-cut, very sexy. She has the type of body that would look sexy even in a space suit. She's blonde and foxy, with a devilish glint in her eye. My cock stiffens under her smooth, spandex-covered crotch. I can't gyrate very well, because of the position I'm in. I wish I could break free of these infernal leather straps so I could grab her and fuck her brains out.
She lays her body against mine, and whispers milimetres from my face, "Do you like what I wore for you?"
"Oh, yeah!"
"I thought you might," she answers, and rolls off me. She picks up an identical swimsuit from the floor beside the bed, and dangles it in front of me. "I've got another one just for you!"
Suddenly, my body goes numb. I can't move a muscle below my neck. But I can see everything that she's doing to me. I watch her unstrap my arms and legs. I struggle to lift them, but can't even muster a twitch. She brings my feet together, and gets off the bed. At the foot of the bed, she slips my feet into the swimsuit, and through the leg holes. She hops back on the bed, and lifts it snugly into place on my crotch. Then she puts each arm into its bra strap, and adjusts the tight fit all around. Finally, she ties me up again.
As suddenly as I lost control of my limbs, I get it back. And she's lying on top of me again, rubbing our matching crotches together, and snapping the elastics at my hips and the thin straps on my shoulders. I can't help but stiffen my cock again under her soft, curvaceous, undulating body. Only this time, I feel the soft smooth material of a swimsuit from the inside. She touches me in all the right places to make me feel what I'm wearing. I'm trying not to enjoy this too much, but I desperately need to touch her, to hump her, to fuck her. She's irresistible. At the same time, I don't want to enjoy myself like this wearing women's swimwear. Somehow, my manhood won't allow it, no matter how much I try to convince myself that it doesn't matter.
She slides off me, but continues to rub my cock through the bathing suit. I continue to writhe with guarded pleasure. "Wow!" she says, "I didn't think you'd like it this much! You don't even need me around!" With that, she withdraws her hand, and rolls off the bed. My hips gyrate once or twice more without her hand, and I notice that the tightness of the bathing suit compensates almost enough. "See! You're doing just fine with your swimsuit."
The screen flashes above me. It shows a shapely woman, wearing the same swimsuit, tied up in the same way as me. She looks familiar, somehow, but I can't quite place it.
"Sexy, isn't she?" says my tormentor. "Look at her boobs! Aren't they fabulous? And her legs are so slim and smooth. . ." I have to admit, she's quite a knockout. I size her up and fantasize about myself tormenting her just like I'm being tormented now, by rubbing up against her helpless, supine body, and sampling every inch of her delectable femininity. She's writhing around erotically on her bed, as though responding to my thoughts.
A feminine hand, not her own, appears at her side. My tormentor's hand seems to be creeping beside me in exactly the same place. "Wouldn't you love to tickle her slim little waist?" she asks, just as she pokes me in the waist. Amazingly, the girl on the screen gets poked in exactly the same spot, at exactly the same time. She convulses sexily away from the tickling hand in total synchronicity with me. Every move I make, she mirrors.
"What is going on here?" I ask. "Who is she? Why are you doing this?"
My lovely tormentor giggles evilly. "That's you, silly. Or at least, that's who you're going to be if you keep wearing women's clothing."
"What do you mean? You can't turn me into a girl!"
"In all honesty, you'll be turning yourself into a girl. We're just helping you along."
"Do you really expect me to become female just by wearing women's clothes?"
"Of course! And you do, too. You know that the longer you wear that swimsuit, the more feminine you'll become."
"You're crazy!"
"Am I? If it's so harmless, then why are you struggling?"
She's right. I'm pulling at all the straps, shuffling around desperately trying to break free. The girl on the screen is, too. And she looks damned hot doing it.
"Don't worry," she chuckles. "You'll like it."
"No! I'll never like it!"
"It looks to me that you like it already." She slides onto the bed and melts onto my side. Just as she does to the girl on the screen. "You can have a fine female body, you know," she purrs, as she softly rubs my belly. "Look at your hips!" she says, running her finger around the elastic at my hip, emphasizing the femininity of the girl on the screen. "Look at how this bathing suit brings out all your feminine features! You can't tell me that she's not beautiful. And who doesn't want to be beautiful?"
I shrink away in revulsion. The swimsuit clings to my body like a silky glove, from which I cannot escape, its femininity as much a part of me as my own skin. I can almost feel it assimilating my throbbing dick, squeezing me into an hourglass figure. My body convulses trying to escape from it, but it squeezes ever tighter. Maybe she's right. Maybe I will turn into a girl from wearing this. Come to think of it, the girl on the screen, whose movements mirror mine so flawlessly, has my face. And she's incredibly sexy. I can't take my eyes off of her. I'm wearing the same bathing suit, and on her it's the most feminine thing I've ever seen. It clings to her body just as it does to mine, and boy does it accentuate her femininity. I'm moving my body now just to see hers move. I'm dancing around like a girl, just to revel in her erotic movements.
My God, I'm wearing some revealing, sexy, women's clothing, and I'm acting all girlishly, all to please my voyeuristic fantasies. I'm incredibly horny from looking at her. And I must admit that the bathing suit feels pretty good around my crotch. I feel myself blush as I realize that I'm wearing a woman's swimsuit, and I have the biggest hard-on in my life. I'm acting like a girl, and I like it! I am becoming feminine, and I'm enjoying it! These thoughts torment me, and I struggle all the more to escape from my effeminate prison. But the more I move, the more I notice the swimsuit; the more I notice the swimsuit, the more I notice its femininity; the more I notice its femininity, the more I get horny. I can't stop moving, because it feels too good. I don't want to stop. And even if I stop, I'm still wearing it, still marveling at its femininity. I can't believe it! I'm becoming feminine, and I like it!
I don't even care anymore that I'm becoming feminine! It feels so wonderful! I can feel my body becoming curvaceous and smooth and delicate, and I love it! And I love it because I'm becoming female. The thought of becoming female makes me even hornier. I want to be a girl now! My tormentor was right! I gyrate and dance even more vigorously than before, to amplify the feminizing effects of the swimsuit. In my excitement, I somehow manage to free my left arm.
Jolted to reality by this sudden shift in mobility, I quickly grasp that this is my chance to escape. As I turn on my side to reach the strap on my right arm, the cool air chills the sweaty, clinging swimsuit, and draws my attention momentarily back to my fantasies. I shake off this fleeting thought, and continue to untie my legs.
At last I have a truly good look at what I'm wearing. I really am wearing a woman's one-piece swimsuit. It looks horrid on my hirsute masculinity, but the idea of wearing it still arouses me. I glance up at the screen, and see my feminine self in all her glory, revealing a cleavage worth killing for, sitting in a position that accentuates her gorgeous, sensuous legs and her soft, delicate shoulders. I take one last look at her before I slide the swimsuit off and roll out of bed. I can't help but fondle myself a few times before I finally succeed in sliding the shoulder straps off.
I hold a woman's swimsuit in my hand. I, a man, have worn it. I enjoyed wearing it. I blush again at the thought of it. I can't take my eyes off of it. It's very sexy, even when no one wears it. It somehow exudes femininity. I wore it! I still can't believe it. I can see how it could turn me into a girl now. It's so wonderfully female. It felt so good to wear it. My masculinity somehow survived it, too. I have tested my manhood with the ultimate in femininity, and it emerged unscathed. I feel a rush of pride and adrenaline just thinking about my brush with girlhood.
Then again, I was forced to wear it. And I struggled against it. I almost lost! What would have happened if I hadn't broken free? Or what if I had been wearing a bikini? Or panties, a bra a garter belt, and stockings? I would have succumbed for sure. And the thought excites me: I could still be a girl! Imagine the effects of wearing girls' undies! Devastating. Imagine the feel of silk and satin against my skin. . .
A flush of desire comes over me. Feverishly, I slip back into the bathing suit. Damn the consequences! I want to wear it! I jump back into bed, and fondle myself to climax, fantasizing about being female. I imagine myself wearing all sorts of sexy lingerie and bikinis and dresses and skirts and heels. I picture them shaping my horrible male body into something gorgeously female, worthy of the clothes.
I can't move my arms or legs. My feet and hands tingle from the lack of blood circulating into them. I'm stretched out across the length of the bed, swimming in a pool of blue light from the huge video monitor hanging above me like a mirrored ceiling. I can feel the air against my naked balls.
The girl climbs onto the bed and straddles me. She's wearing only a one-piece swimsuit, red and black, high-cut, very sexy. She has the type of body that would look sexy even in a space suit. She's blonde and foxy, with a devilish glint in her eye. My cock stiffens under her smooth, spandex-covered crotch. I can't gyrate very well, because of the position I'm in. I wish I could break free of these infernal leather straps so I could grab her and fuck her brains out.
She lays her body against mine, and whispers milimetres from my face, "Do you like what I wore for you?"
"Oh, yeah!"
"I thought you might," she answers, and rolls off me. She picks up an identical swimsuit from the floor beside the bed, and dangles it in front of me. "I've got another one just for you!"
Suddenly, my body goes numb. I can't move a muscle below my neck. But I can see everything that she's doing to me. I watch her unstrap my arms and legs. I struggle to lift them, but can't even muster a twitch. She brings my feet together, and gets off the bed. At the foot of the bed, she slips my feet into the swimsuit, and through the leg holes. She hops back on the bed, and lifts it snugly into place on my crotch. Then she puts each arm into its bra strap, and adjusts the tight fit all around. Finally, she ties me up again.
As suddenly as I lost control of my limbs, I get it back. And she's lying on top of me again, rubbing our matching crotches together, and snapping the elastics at my hips and the thin straps on my shoulders. I can't help but stiffen my cock again under her soft, curvaceous, undulating body. Only this time, I feel the soft smooth material of a swimsuit from the inside. She touches me in all the right places to make me feel what I'm wearing. I'm trying not to enjoy this too much, but I desperately need to touch her, to hump her, to fuck her. She's irresistible. At the same time, I don't want to enjoy myself like this wearing women's swimwear. Somehow, my manhood won't allow it, no matter how much I try to convince myself that it doesn't matter.
She slides off me, but continues to rub my cock through the bathing suit. I continue to writhe with guarded pleasure. "Wow!" she says, "I didn't think you'd like it this much! You don't even need me around!" With that, she withdraws her hand, and rolls off the bed. My hips gyrate once or twice more without her hand, and I notice that the tightness of the bathing suit compensates almost enough. "See! You're doing just fine with your swimsuit."
The screen flashes above me. It shows a shapely woman, wearing the same swimsuit, tied up in the same way as me. She looks familiar, somehow, but I can't quite place it.
"Sexy, isn't she?" says my tormentor. "Look at her boobs! Aren't they fabulous? And her legs are so slim and smooth. . ." I have to admit, she's quite a knockout. I size her up and fantasize about myself tormenting her just like I'm being tormented now, by rubbing up against her helpless, supine body, and sampling every inch of her delectable femininity. She's writhing around erotically on her bed, as though responding to my thoughts.
A feminine hand, not her own, appears at her side. My tormentor's hand seems to be creeping beside me in exactly the same place. "Wouldn't you love to tickle her slim little waist?" she asks, just as she pokes me in the waist. Amazingly, the girl on the screen gets poked in exactly the same spot, at exactly the same time. She convulses sexily away from the tickling hand in total synchronicity with me. Every move I make, she mirrors.
"What is going on here?" I ask. "Who is she? Why are you doing this?"
My lovely tormentor giggles evilly. "That's you, silly. Or at least, that's who you're going to be if you keep wearing women's clothing."
"What do you mean? You can't turn me into a girl!"
"In all honesty, you'll be turning yourself into a girl. We're just helping you along."
"Do you really expect me to become female just by wearing women's clothes?"
"Of course! And you do, too. You know that the longer you wear that swimsuit, the more feminine you'll become."
"You're crazy!"
"Am I? If it's so harmless, then why are you struggling?"
She's right. I'm pulling at all the straps, shuffling around desperately trying to break free. The girl on the screen is, too. And she looks damned hot doing it.
"Don't worry," she chuckles. "You'll like it."
"No! I'll never like it!"
"It looks to me that you like it already." She slides onto the bed and melts onto my side. Just as she does to the girl on the screen. "You can have a fine female body, you know," she purrs, as she softly rubs my belly. "Look at your hips!" she says, running her finger around the elastic at my hip, emphasizing the femininity of the girl on the screen. "Look at how this bathing suit brings out all your feminine features! You can't tell me that she's not beautiful. And who doesn't want to be beautiful?"
I shrink away in revulsion. The swimsuit clings to my body like a silky glove, from which I cannot escape, its femininity as much a part of me as my own skin. I can almost feel it assimilating my throbbing dick, squeezing me into an hourglass figure. My body convulses trying to escape from it, but it squeezes ever tighter. Maybe she's right. Maybe I will turn into a girl from wearing this. Come to think of it, the girl on the screen, whose movements mirror mine so flawlessly, has my face. And she's incredibly sexy. I can't take my eyes off of her. I'm wearing the same bathing suit, and on her it's the most feminine thing I've ever seen. It clings to her body just as it does to mine, and boy does it accentuate her femininity. I'm moving my body now just to see hers move. I'm dancing around like a girl, just to revel in her erotic movements.
My God, I'm wearing some revealing, sexy, women's clothing, and I'm acting all girlishly, all to please my voyeuristic fantasies. I'm incredibly horny from looking at her. And I must admit that the bathing suit feels pretty good around my crotch. I feel myself blush as I realize that I'm wearing a woman's swimsuit, and I have the biggest hard-on in my life. I'm acting like a girl, and I like it! I am becoming feminine, and I'm enjoying it! These thoughts torment me, and I struggle all the more to escape from my effeminate prison. But the more I move, the more I notice the swimsuit; the more I notice the swimsuit, the more I notice its femininity; the more I notice its femininity, the more I get horny. I can't stop moving, because it feels too good. I don't want to stop. And even if I stop, I'm still wearing it, still marveling at its femininity. I can't believe it! I'm becoming feminine, and I like it!
I don't even care anymore that I'm becoming feminine! It feels so wonderful! I can feel my body becoming curvaceous and smooth and delicate, and I love it! And I love it because I'm becoming female. The thought of becoming female makes me even hornier. I want to be a girl now! My tormentor was right! I gyrate and dance even more vigorously than before, to amplify the feminizing effects of the swimsuit. In my excitement, I somehow manage to free my left arm.
Jolted to reality by this sudden shift in mobility, I quickly grasp that this is my chance to escape. As I turn on my side to reach the strap on my right arm, the cool air chills the sweaty, clinging swimsuit, and draws my attention momentarily back to my fantasies. I shake off this fleeting thought, and continue to untie my legs.
At last I have a truly good look at what I'm wearing. I really am wearing a woman's one-piece swimsuit. It looks horrid on my hirsute masculinity, but the idea of wearing it still arouses me. I glance up at the screen, and see my feminine self in all her glory, revealing a cleavage worth killing for, sitting in a position that accentuates her gorgeous, sensuous legs and her soft, delicate shoulders. I take one last look at her before I slide the swimsuit off and roll out of bed. I can't help but fondle myself a few times before I finally succeed in sliding the shoulder straps off.
I hold a woman's swimsuit in my hand. I, a man, have worn it. I enjoyed wearing it. I blush again at the thought of it. I can't take my eyes off of it. It's very sexy, even when no one wears it. It somehow exudes femininity. I wore it! I still can't believe it. I can see how it could turn me into a girl now. It's so wonderfully female. It felt so good to wear it. My masculinity somehow survived it, too. I have tested my manhood with the ultimate in femininity, and it emerged unscathed. I feel a rush of pride and adrenaline just thinking about my brush with girlhood.
Then again, I was forced to wear it. And I struggled against it. I almost lost! What would have happened if I hadn't broken free? Or what if I had been wearing a bikini? Or panties, a bra a garter belt, and stockings? I would have succumbed for sure. And the thought excites me: I could still be a girl! Imagine the effects of wearing girls' undies! Devastating. Imagine the feel of silk and satin against my skin. . .
A flush of desire comes over me. Feverishly, I slip back into the bathing suit. Damn the consequences! I want to wear it! I jump back into bed, and fondle myself to climax, fantasizing about being female. I imagine myself wearing all sorts of sexy lingerie and bikinis and dresses and skirts and heels. I picture them shaping my horrible male body into something gorgeously female, worthy of the clothes.
Fiction: Beaten Into Shape
A slight change of pace: I'm thinking of all those kung-fu fighting video games in which all the female characters are incalculably gorgeous and wear slinky, revealing clothes. Now, let's say that I ran into one...
I was never much of a fighter, so Sonya had no trouble with me at all. She is now my mentor, and she has already taught me much.
Sonya is femininity itself. Every man who has ever seen her has quivered at beholding such feminine perfection. She is delicate, and she is very sexy. She dresses revealingly in battle to distract her opponents. The fact that she can pound the tar out of anyone on the planet takes nothing away from her shocking girlishness. I might even say that it accentuates it, because she moves so gracefully, so alluringly when she fights.
I was foolish to attack her. I spied her from a distance, not knowing who she is, and followed her. I couldn't resist her beauty. I wanted to experience it in all its grandeur. It was dark, and we were nowhere near anyone. I thought that I could have my way with her, and be done with it, whether she would give in willingly or not.
She doesn't look strong. She's not very big. She is, in fact, quite petite. No sooner had I tackled her behind a hedge and she threw me off of her and began toying with me. She was wearing a long, tight skirt and three-inch heels, which I saw repeatedly at very close range. No one can fight in clothes like that. She even pretended to be vulnerable.
"Oh my God! What do you want from me?" she gasped.
"I want your body, chickie. And I'm gonna have it!"
She shrieked as I lunged at her, but jabbed me in the chin. Before I knew it, she was kicking me all over the place. I couldn't get up before she would crack my head with her delicate little fist, or rupture my balls with her soft, porcelain feet. She had a strange smirk on her face as she slapped me around at will. Pretty soon, I had nothing left, and I had to beg her, a small, frail-looking, beautiful, gorgeous sex kitten, for mercy.
She stood above me, hands on her hips. "Not much of a man, are you? Can't even stand up to a little girlie like me!"
Flat on the ground, all I could see was her foot. She picked me up by the scruff of the neck so that I was on my hands and knees. That's when I got a really good look at her shoes and skirt and her spectacular stocking-clad legs.
"Kiss my feet," she commanded. I looked up at her face. She's beautiful even when she's angry. But I knew that I had to comply, or else she would kill me. So I kissed her feet.
"There, that's more like it. That's the way to treat a woman."
She abruptly walked away, and I fell back on my face, mortally embarrassed. I couldn't believe that I had been throughly mauled by a girl, and hadn't even done the least bit of damage to her. At least no one would ever know.
Or so I thought at that brief moment before she returned, and tossed her shopping bag down in front of me.
"Open it!" she barked. There were women's clothes in it. Nothing but women's clothes. Sonya has fine taste. I couldn't identify exactly what was in the bag yet, but I had followed her through the mall, so I could guess.
"Take off all your clothes. Now."
I looked up at her sheepishly, and she slapped me hard across the face. "I said, NOW! Do it!" So, with my broken bones and blood all over me, I managed to pull out of my clothes. Sonya didn't help me at all, except for the threats.
"Now, empty the bags onto the ground. Take a good look at what's inside."
I did as she said, and found lingerie, a mini-dress, and a pair of heels. Everything seemed to go together nicely. I guess she had bought an outfit. Lucky for me that it matched.
"Pick up the panties." I found the lacy black panties for her. "Now," she began, giggling, "put them on."
I hesitated, and looked up at her again. She was serious. She smacked me in the face again. "PUT THEM ON!" she screamed. I did as I was told, and she snickered. "Aren't you the cute little pantywaist? Put on the bra, too. Then the garter belt and the stockings." With some difficulty, and quite a bit of laughter from Sonya, I did as I was told.
"Do a little pirouette for me!" I tried, and probably looked ridiculous because I was in such pain from the beating she gave me. That made her squeal with delight. I couldn't do anything about it. "That was awful. You've got a lot to learn, young lady. Now put on your dress, and let's go."
She zipped me into this tight little sausage casing, which was so short on me that one could almost see the crotch of her panties. The skin of my upper thighs was clearly visible. Then she forced my feet into the heels, grabbed me by the hand, and dragged me back to the sidewalk. Headed back towards town. "If you even try to run away, I will utterly destroy you," she whispered to me menacingly. I could barely keep up with her, but I knew that I couldn't hope to escape her wrath if I fell behind or tried to get away. I had no idea what she wanted to do to me, or where we were going. All I knew was that I had been beaten up by a girl, and that I now wore her clothes, in public.
We took a nice long walk downtown, on the busiest streets. We took public transportation. She put me on public display, dressed like a girl. Thousands of people stared at me. We stayed out for hours, in crowded, wide-open spaces where everyone could see me. She beamed with satisfaction. I couldn't escape, because I felt so weak, and because I feared for my life. She even introduced me to some total strangers as her "girlfriend."
At length, we returned to her home. Under different circumstances, I would have been overjoyed to enter, but this time I felt a bit uncomfortable about it. She tossed me into an empty room as I was, and locked the door until morning. I passed out, still wearing everything.
In the morning, she had me lick her feet again. She wore only a nightie, and I thought I would die from her unimaginable beauty. "Do you still want my body?" she asked coyly.
"Yes!" I gasped, unable to comprehend the sudden turn of events, but all to eager to accept it. Meanwhile, I still had all this feminine clothing on me, down to my panties and bra.
"Good! Let's get started! We have a lot of work to do. . ." She slapped me across the face, and brought me to my knees again. I was totally shocked.
"Now, swear to me that you hereby renounce your manhood."
"What?!?"
She slapped me again. "Swear it!"
"Never!"
Slap.
"No!"
Slap.
"Please. . ." I whimpered.
"Swear it!"
"OK!"
"Say it!"
I hesitated for a moment. She raised her hand to slap me again.
"I renounce my manhood."
"You will now embrace womanhood with all your heart, or die trying."
"I will embrace womanhood, or die trying."
She immediately had me nair my body, and take some pills. She got me dressed up in the same outfit as the night before, and began my training.
Femininity really sneaks up on you.
Within a few short days, I began to look forward to wearing some new feminine outfit that I had never experienced before. I got right into it. I wanted nothing more than to become female. I wanted to look as sexy as my mistress, wearing the same sexy clothes. I loved the feel of my hairless skin. I prayed for my tits to grow out. I longed for an hourglass figure. I was like a girl going through puberty, taking pride in all of the changes that I expected to come. I frolicked in silk and lace, reveling in my new-found femininity. Sonya found this very amusing. So did I.
I was never much of a fighter, so Sonya had no trouble with me at all. She is now my mentor, and she has already taught me much.
Sonya is femininity itself. Every man who has ever seen her has quivered at beholding such feminine perfection. She is delicate, and she is very sexy. She dresses revealingly in battle to distract her opponents. The fact that she can pound the tar out of anyone on the planet takes nothing away from her shocking girlishness. I might even say that it accentuates it, because she moves so gracefully, so alluringly when she fights.
I was foolish to attack her. I spied her from a distance, not knowing who she is, and followed her. I couldn't resist her beauty. I wanted to experience it in all its grandeur. It was dark, and we were nowhere near anyone. I thought that I could have my way with her, and be done with it, whether she would give in willingly or not.
She doesn't look strong. She's not very big. She is, in fact, quite petite. No sooner had I tackled her behind a hedge and she threw me off of her and began toying with me. She was wearing a long, tight skirt and three-inch heels, which I saw repeatedly at very close range. No one can fight in clothes like that. She even pretended to be vulnerable.
"Oh my God! What do you want from me?" she gasped.
"I want your body, chickie. And I'm gonna have it!"
She shrieked as I lunged at her, but jabbed me in the chin. Before I knew it, she was kicking me all over the place. I couldn't get up before she would crack my head with her delicate little fist, or rupture my balls with her soft, porcelain feet. She had a strange smirk on her face as she slapped me around at will. Pretty soon, I had nothing left, and I had to beg her, a small, frail-looking, beautiful, gorgeous sex kitten, for mercy.
She stood above me, hands on her hips. "Not much of a man, are you? Can't even stand up to a little girlie like me!"
Flat on the ground, all I could see was her foot. She picked me up by the scruff of the neck so that I was on my hands and knees. That's when I got a really good look at her shoes and skirt and her spectacular stocking-clad legs.
"Kiss my feet," she commanded. I looked up at her face. She's beautiful even when she's angry. But I knew that I had to comply, or else she would kill me. So I kissed her feet.
"There, that's more like it. That's the way to treat a woman."
She abruptly walked away, and I fell back on my face, mortally embarrassed. I couldn't believe that I had been throughly mauled by a girl, and hadn't even done the least bit of damage to her. At least no one would ever know.
Or so I thought at that brief moment before she returned, and tossed her shopping bag down in front of me.
"Open it!" she barked. There were women's clothes in it. Nothing but women's clothes. Sonya has fine taste. I couldn't identify exactly what was in the bag yet, but I had followed her through the mall, so I could guess.
"Take off all your clothes. Now."
I looked up at her sheepishly, and she slapped me hard across the face. "I said, NOW! Do it!" So, with my broken bones and blood all over me, I managed to pull out of my clothes. Sonya didn't help me at all, except for the threats.
"Now, empty the bags onto the ground. Take a good look at what's inside."
I did as she said, and found lingerie, a mini-dress, and a pair of heels. Everything seemed to go together nicely. I guess she had bought an outfit. Lucky for me that it matched.
"Pick up the panties." I found the lacy black panties for her. "Now," she began, giggling, "put them on."
I hesitated, and looked up at her again. She was serious. She smacked me in the face again. "PUT THEM ON!" she screamed. I did as I was told, and she snickered. "Aren't you the cute little pantywaist? Put on the bra, too. Then the garter belt and the stockings." With some difficulty, and quite a bit of laughter from Sonya, I did as I was told.
"Do a little pirouette for me!" I tried, and probably looked ridiculous because I was in such pain from the beating she gave me. That made her squeal with delight. I couldn't do anything about it. "That was awful. You've got a lot to learn, young lady. Now put on your dress, and let's go."
She zipped me into this tight little sausage casing, which was so short on me that one could almost see the crotch of her panties. The skin of my upper thighs was clearly visible. Then she forced my feet into the heels, grabbed me by the hand, and dragged me back to the sidewalk. Headed back towards town. "If you even try to run away, I will utterly destroy you," she whispered to me menacingly. I could barely keep up with her, but I knew that I couldn't hope to escape her wrath if I fell behind or tried to get away. I had no idea what she wanted to do to me, or where we were going. All I knew was that I had been beaten up by a girl, and that I now wore her clothes, in public.
We took a nice long walk downtown, on the busiest streets. We took public transportation. She put me on public display, dressed like a girl. Thousands of people stared at me. We stayed out for hours, in crowded, wide-open spaces where everyone could see me. She beamed with satisfaction. I couldn't escape, because I felt so weak, and because I feared for my life. She even introduced me to some total strangers as her "girlfriend."
At length, we returned to her home. Under different circumstances, I would have been overjoyed to enter, but this time I felt a bit uncomfortable about it. She tossed me into an empty room as I was, and locked the door until morning. I passed out, still wearing everything.
In the morning, she had me lick her feet again. She wore only a nightie, and I thought I would die from her unimaginable beauty. "Do you still want my body?" she asked coyly.
"Yes!" I gasped, unable to comprehend the sudden turn of events, but all to eager to accept it. Meanwhile, I still had all this feminine clothing on me, down to my panties and bra.
"Good! Let's get started! We have a lot of work to do. . ." She slapped me across the face, and brought me to my knees again. I was totally shocked.
"Now, swear to me that you hereby renounce your manhood."
"What?!?"
She slapped me again. "Swear it!"
"Never!"
Slap.
"No!"
Slap.
"Please. . ." I whimpered.
"Swear it!"
"OK!"
"Say it!"
I hesitated for a moment. She raised her hand to slap me again.
"I renounce my manhood."
"You will now embrace womanhood with all your heart, or die trying."
"I will embrace womanhood, or die trying."
She immediately had me nair my body, and take some pills. She got me dressed up in the same outfit as the night before, and began my training.
Femininity really sneaks up on you.
Within a few short days, I began to look forward to wearing some new feminine outfit that I had never experienced before. I got right into it. I wanted nothing more than to become female. I wanted to look as sexy as my mistress, wearing the same sexy clothes. I loved the feel of my hairless skin. I prayed for my tits to grow out. I longed for an hourglass figure. I was like a girl going through puberty, taking pride in all of the changes that I expected to come. I frolicked in silk and lace, reveling in my new-found femininity. Sonya found this very amusing. So did I.
Fiction: Becoming a Body Double
Christina opened the door to my padded cell and walked in, wearing nothing but the bikini she wore when I ogled her at Alex's cottage last Summer. She's a very sexy girl, with long, slim legs, firm but smallish breasts, and a fine, curvaceous figure. I couldn't believe my eyes. It had been weeks since I had seen any woman, much less had any sexual gratification.
"Are we ready to begin?" she asked the two burly guards who watched over me. They nodded and held me down as she strapped me into a bikini very similar to hers.
"What are you doing to me?" I whimpered.
She laughed as she tied up my bra and began to explain. "You've surely heard about how my life is in danger? Well, we need a lookalike to take some of the heat away from me. We've run out of suitable women to imitate me, and you're the best of the rest."
Christina is about 8 inches shorter than me, and 50 pounds lighter.
"But I don't look anything like you!"
"You'd be amazed what we can do these days with plastic surgery and makeup. . ."
"But I'm not even a girl!"
"That's the only snag. And it's the first thing we'll work on. C'mon, you'd better change your attitude, or you'll never get to be like me!"
With that, the men rubbed me down with some depilatory cream, and made me swallow some pills. This continued for weeks. Every day.
At first I resisted. It took me a long time to get used to it. Christina was very nice to me though. She really wanted me to be just like her. I loved to stare at her body, and I guess that pretty soon, her plan started to make a strange sort of sense to me.
The first few weeks were absolutely demeaning. I wore all sorts of different female garments. I got to experience it all: bikinis, one-piece bathing suits, leotards, panties and bras, garter belts, stockings, and all sorts of lingerie. Every time, Christina would make me examine her body, admire its every curve, and smell it and touch it and feel it. She didn't have to tell me how gorgeous it is, but she did. She also told me that I would soon have one just like it, if I was good and co-operated with her. This would make me horny as a toad, so she would bring in the goons to jerk me off, and fondle me like a girl. Then when I came she would make me admit that I liked it because I felt like a girl.
Eventually, it became routine: a new set of undies to wear, more exploration of Christina's body, and the infamous rubdown. By then by body was hairless and getting soft. My nipples were starting to get sensitive from the hormones they fed me. I started to look at her with envy rather than lust: I could relate to her underwear, because I wore it too, and I stared longingly at her crotch, admiring its shape not as something to fondle but to emulate.
Finally, she let me get dressed by myself. And I didn't hesitate. I actually looked forward to it. It dawned on me at last that I was going to be a girl. I rather liked the idea. I figured that I might as well enjoy it. She noticed my enthusiasm, and began stage 2. . . .
"Are we ready to begin?" she asked the two burly guards who watched over me. They nodded and held me down as she strapped me into a bikini very similar to hers.
"What are you doing to me?" I whimpered.
She laughed as she tied up my bra and began to explain. "You've surely heard about how my life is in danger? Well, we need a lookalike to take some of the heat away from me. We've run out of suitable women to imitate me, and you're the best of the rest."
Christina is about 8 inches shorter than me, and 50 pounds lighter.
"But I don't look anything like you!"
"You'd be amazed what we can do these days with plastic surgery and makeup. . ."
"But I'm not even a girl!"
"That's the only snag. And it's the first thing we'll work on. C'mon, you'd better change your attitude, or you'll never get to be like me!"
With that, the men rubbed me down with some depilatory cream, and made me swallow some pills. This continued for weeks. Every day.
At first I resisted. It took me a long time to get used to it. Christina was very nice to me though. She really wanted me to be just like her. I loved to stare at her body, and I guess that pretty soon, her plan started to make a strange sort of sense to me.
The first few weeks were absolutely demeaning. I wore all sorts of different female garments. I got to experience it all: bikinis, one-piece bathing suits, leotards, panties and bras, garter belts, stockings, and all sorts of lingerie. Every time, Christina would make me examine her body, admire its every curve, and smell it and touch it and feel it. She didn't have to tell me how gorgeous it is, but she did. She also told me that I would soon have one just like it, if I was good and co-operated with her. This would make me horny as a toad, so she would bring in the goons to jerk me off, and fondle me like a girl. Then when I came she would make me admit that I liked it because I felt like a girl.
Eventually, it became routine: a new set of undies to wear, more exploration of Christina's body, and the infamous rubdown. By then by body was hairless and getting soft. My nipples were starting to get sensitive from the hormones they fed me. I started to look at her with envy rather than lust: I could relate to her underwear, because I wore it too, and I stared longingly at her crotch, admiring its shape not as something to fondle but to emulate.
Finally, she let me get dressed by myself. And I didn't hesitate. I actually looked forward to it. It dawned on me at last that I was going to be a girl. I rather liked the idea. I figured that I might as well enjoy it. She noticed my enthusiasm, and began stage 2. . . .
Diary: Planning To Buy a Matching Panty and Bra Set
Valentine's day 1999 is about a week away, and I have a plan. I'll need to spend a fair amount of money, but it's definitely worth it. I have never been disappointed in any of my feminine purchases.
It's time to forge ahead a bit.
I saw a full page newspaper ad for Eaton's. It was a gorgeous sheer panty and bra set. The panties shown were string bikini panties. I've never worn anything like that before. By getting that set, I kill two birds with one stone: I get my first real bra, and I get a string bikini panty. The thought of it drives me crazy with lust. But that's far from being all I want.
I would like to get a flimsy little chemise to match the panties. It would be one of those that end just under the belly button. When I think of myself wearing that, I see myself as being totally female. Imagine me, gallivanting around in a slip and panties! And there's even more. . .
I've been thinking for some time that I need a pretty little nightgown, a silky one with spaghetti straps that's form fitting and that flares out and ends just below the crotch. I plan to wear it to sleep now and then, whenever I feel like being girlish. I can even wear the panties with it if I want.
Women's underwear is so cool!
It's time to forge ahead a bit.
I saw a full page newspaper ad for Eaton's. It was a gorgeous sheer panty and bra set. The panties shown were string bikini panties. I've never worn anything like that before. By getting that set, I kill two birds with one stone: I get my first real bra, and I get a string bikini panty. The thought of it drives me crazy with lust. But that's far from being all I want.
I would like to get a flimsy little chemise to match the panties. It would be one of those that end just under the belly button. When I think of myself wearing that, I see myself as being totally female. Imagine me, gallivanting around in a slip and panties! And there's even more. . .
I've been thinking for some time that I need a pretty little nightgown, a silky one with spaghetti straps that's form fitting and that flares out and ends just below the crotch. I plan to wear it to sleep now and then, whenever I feel like being girlish. I can even wear the panties with it if I want.
Women's underwear is so cool!
Fiction: How I Tricked My Wife Into Transforming Me Into a Woman
Counterpoint to the story about the woman who gradually surreptitiously transformed her husband into a woman:
Susan had no idea that I had fantasized about wearing her underwear. I was getting sick and tired of wearing her things behind her back. I had begun to lose interest in her: wearing her clothes gave me a much more powerful rush than fucking her. She's very beautiful, don't get me wrong. I just got caught up in her lingerie, and discovering an exciting new facet of myself.
The trick was to break it to her slowly. I had to try to convince her that I would make a better girlfriend than husband. I'm amazed that she stuck with me all this time. I'm amazed, too, that she fell for it. I guess we really were meant for each other. . .
It started with the shaving. I didn't want to move too fast, because I didn't want to scare her away. I knew that I had her when she suggested to me that a smooth, hairless man is sexy. I had wanted for a long time to know what it feels like to have smooth legs, and to wear stockings on them. I pretended to hesitate, but I couldn't wait to do it.
Then she pulled the old laundry trick on me to get me into her panties. Again, I had to take it slow, and pretend that I didn't want to. It's not like I hadn't worn them before. Only now I got to wear them all the time. I even bought my own eventually. I felt so free, finally cavorting in women's underwear all day, every day! Now when we fucked, I secretly pretended we were lesbians.
I began to notice a strange taste in my breakfast orange juice. She thinks I didn't know about the hormones. At first I was shocked and angry. I thought about confronting her. I thought that this was going too far already. The trouble is that the idea of slowly and biologically becoming female aroused me like nothing else. I had to make a choice: continue along this crazy transsexual route, or end it right here.
Pretty soon, I was taking sewing lessons, and doing Jazzercize. I was becoming female. I noticed my tits growing, and my nipples becoming sensitive. Susan had no idea that I was right in on her program. She caught me one day tanning myself in a bikini bottom. I gave her some cockamammy excuse that I felt more comfortable in it anyway, because of the panties. Which was true, come to think of it, but to a much greater extent than I let on. I couldn't wait to cover my budding tits with the matching bras!
Every step I took made me feel so wonderfully feminine! I was so happy to wear a frilly, lacy, silky, satiny bra to match with my panties! And Susan had no idea that I loved it so much. She hoped that I would, but I was already way ahead of her.
Pretty soon, she let me be a girl, and I've loved every minute of it since.
Susan had no idea that I had fantasized about wearing her underwear. I was getting sick and tired of wearing her things behind her back. I had begun to lose interest in her: wearing her clothes gave me a much more powerful rush than fucking her. She's very beautiful, don't get me wrong. I just got caught up in her lingerie, and discovering an exciting new facet of myself.
The trick was to break it to her slowly. I had to try to convince her that I would make a better girlfriend than husband. I'm amazed that she stuck with me all this time. I'm amazed, too, that she fell for it. I guess we really were meant for each other. . .
It started with the shaving. I didn't want to move too fast, because I didn't want to scare her away. I knew that I had her when she suggested to me that a smooth, hairless man is sexy. I had wanted for a long time to know what it feels like to have smooth legs, and to wear stockings on them. I pretended to hesitate, but I couldn't wait to do it.
Then she pulled the old laundry trick on me to get me into her panties. Again, I had to take it slow, and pretend that I didn't want to. It's not like I hadn't worn them before. Only now I got to wear them all the time. I even bought my own eventually. I felt so free, finally cavorting in women's underwear all day, every day! Now when we fucked, I secretly pretended we were lesbians.
I began to notice a strange taste in my breakfast orange juice. She thinks I didn't know about the hormones. At first I was shocked and angry. I thought about confronting her. I thought that this was going too far already. The trouble is that the idea of slowly and biologically becoming female aroused me like nothing else. I had to make a choice: continue along this crazy transsexual route, or end it right here.
Pretty soon, I was taking sewing lessons, and doing Jazzercize. I was becoming female. I noticed my tits growing, and my nipples becoming sensitive. Susan had no idea that I was right in on her program. She caught me one day tanning myself in a bikini bottom. I gave her some cockamammy excuse that I felt more comfortable in it anyway, because of the panties. Which was true, come to think of it, but to a much greater extent than I let on. I couldn't wait to cover my budding tits with the matching bras!
Every step I took made me feel so wonderfully feminine! I was so happy to wear a frilly, lacy, silky, satiny bra to match with my panties! And Susan had no idea that I loved it so much. She hoped that I would, but I was already way ahead of her.
Pretty soon, she let me be a girl, and I've loved every minute of it since.
Fiction: Discovery and Slow Surrender
The thought had, of course, crossed my mind before. It's not a huge stretch of the imagination. It's a bit of a joke, really. Masculinity is too fragile: the femininity of women's underwear must inevitably corrupt it. Women laugh and chide their men about how cute they would look in a bra. Then the men joke right back, playing along, intending to show how confident they are of their manhood. Both of them, however, fear what would happen if he actually did wear women's underwear. Subconsciously, both know how fragile masculinity is.
It came as a challenge at first. She dared me to put on her panties, and I did. No problem there. It was stupid. I felt ridiculous, but not even embarrassed. They didn't seem to fit quite right. They looked grotesque against my muscular ass and the bulge in front. Not a pretty picture at all. "See?" I said. "Nothing to it."
The trick is in not letting it get into your head.
As I said, this was a pointless exercise in courage. I showed off my machismo, my male fearlessness, by- ironically- wearing women's underwear. Clearly, she looks better in her panties than I do. In fact, she looks better in my underwear than I do. But that's because she's a girl, and I like the way she looks. As far as I could tell then, I passed with flying colours. The seed, however, had been planted.
I had practically forgotten about the incident, until it crept back into my thoughts a few weeks later. My mind drifted into an erotic fantasy as I worked. This happens to everyone. Only it abruptly stopped when I remembered that I wore __'s panties. For some reason, this suddenly brought me intense worry. I had, I imagined, compromised my virility. Thank God I hadn't liked it! I thought to myself.
As the day wore on, I agonized over my blunder. I worried that __ would think me less of a man. I tried to convince myself that I was being foolish. But it didn't work. The thought that there would be consequences to wearing women's underwear consumed me.
Eventually, __ assuaged my fears by fucking me passionately. She even initiated it all. She made me feel desirable as a man again. I forgot about it again for a little while. But it came back to me. Soon I became fascinated with __'s panty drawer. I considered myself fortunate that I hadn't worn a bra, too. Or a garter belt. Or that sexy little nightgown. Any of those would have made me doubt even more my manhood.
I had to prove to myself that I wasn't afraid, that I was still as manly as before. The only way to do that, I rationalized, would be to wear women's underwear again. I might even wear a bra and panties this time, just to prove it all the more forcefully.
I knew all along that I was lying to myself. In truth, I was curious. I wanted to experience __'s undies again.
I waited until I knew I could be alone for a long while, and stole into her dresser for a panty and bra set I had given her one Valentine's day. My heart pounded. My cock stiffened. I touched myself all over, overcome with horniness. I became frightened and took off __'s lingerie and put it back exactly as I had found it in her dresser. Oh my God! I liked it! My heart raced with both excitement and fear. I had compromised my manhood -- but worse, I loved it! I was still excited, but I couldn't bear the thought of wearing those panties again. I couldn't allow myself to capitulate. I had looked over the edge of the cliff, and survived. I couldn't go any closer. But it was so exhilarating! Naked, I came all over myself, fantasizing about the horrible, wonderful consequences of my gender-bending: that I would succumb to wearing all sorts of sexy girlie garments and eventually become a real girl! I never came so hard in all my life. I never felt such shame as when I cleaned it up. This would be the last time. I had momentarily lost my manhood, but now everything was alright as long as I didn't let it happen again.
How could I not agonize over this little discovery? The more I worried about my manhood's erosion, the more I fantasized about its inevitable result. My hands shook with anticipation as I rifled guiltily through __'s dresser for something horrifyingly effeminate to wear. I stumbled upon her one-piece swimsuit, and rapidly became fixated on it. There was no mistaking it for something a man would wear. My knees buckled as I thought of how it would squeeze my waist inwards and give me a gorgeous, feminine, hourglass figure. Still, I couldn't allow myself to feel this, no matter how badly I wanted to. I put it on over my own underwear, clinging desperately to my last shred of manhood. I had to resist. But there I stood, fondling myself, with a woman's bathing suit on me, on top of my underwear. If I don't let it touch my dick, it won't corrupt my manhood, I hoped. It was strange: feeling the spandex all over me except for my mundane, protected penis. It brought me momentarily to my senses. I took off the swimsuit in a pang of guilty sobriety, and put it back where I found it. I sighed with relief. That was close! Imagine how overcome with effeminacy I would have become had I dared to let it touch the essence of my manhood!
The very thought of giving up my manhood gripped me with intense, perverse delight. No sooner had I closed the dresser drawer than I doffed my underwear and wiggled into the same swimsuit, giddily confident about my new-found femininity. I gamboled around like a horny schoolgirl, rubbing myself all over, basking in the ecstasy of my new identity. I was so glad that I had done away with my feeble masculine protection. The realization that I was unprotected from such inescapable femininity filled me with great satisfaction. I came all over __'s bathing suit, relishing my girlhood.
Then, I was ashamed again. I had succumbed, and I wasn't excited about it anymore. I had failed to contain my urges. I secretly berated myself for months after that. __ never found out, because I washed the swimsuit before she came back.
It wasn't long until I caved in again. This was all part of my initiation. I had to renounce my manhood more and more often. Over a long period of time, I tried everything on. I knew that it was wrong, that it was abnormal, that it was dangerous, that it was eroding my manhood. I just didn't care. It was so much fun! Each time, I became possessed with the desire to feel feminine. I longed to feel something beautifully girlish on my body. I unleashed my pent-up womanhood by wrapping my body in lingerie. It was so. . . naughty. No heterosexual man, I reasoned, should ever be so familiar with women's underwear. I discovered things about women's underwear that most men would never be aware of. I no longer feared becoming effeminate: I hoped for it. I wanted to look as good in __'s underwear as she did. I wanted to be a girl.
It came as a challenge at first. She dared me to put on her panties, and I did. No problem there. It was stupid. I felt ridiculous, but not even embarrassed. They didn't seem to fit quite right. They looked grotesque against my muscular ass and the bulge in front. Not a pretty picture at all. "See?" I said. "Nothing to it."
The trick is in not letting it get into your head.
As I said, this was a pointless exercise in courage. I showed off my machismo, my male fearlessness, by- ironically- wearing women's underwear. Clearly, she looks better in her panties than I do. In fact, she looks better in my underwear than I do. But that's because she's a girl, and I like the way she looks. As far as I could tell then, I passed with flying colours. The seed, however, had been planted.
I had practically forgotten about the incident, until it crept back into my thoughts a few weeks later. My mind drifted into an erotic fantasy as I worked. This happens to everyone. Only it abruptly stopped when I remembered that I wore __'s panties. For some reason, this suddenly brought me intense worry. I had, I imagined, compromised my virility. Thank God I hadn't liked it! I thought to myself.
As the day wore on, I agonized over my blunder. I worried that __ would think me less of a man. I tried to convince myself that I was being foolish. But it didn't work. The thought that there would be consequences to wearing women's underwear consumed me.
Eventually, __ assuaged my fears by fucking me passionately. She even initiated it all. She made me feel desirable as a man again. I forgot about it again for a little while. But it came back to me. Soon I became fascinated with __'s panty drawer. I considered myself fortunate that I hadn't worn a bra, too. Or a garter belt. Or that sexy little nightgown. Any of those would have made me doubt even more my manhood.
I had to prove to myself that I wasn't afraid, that I was still as manly as before. The only way to do that, I rationalized, would be to wear women's underwear again. I might even wear a bra and panties this time, just to prove it all the more forcefully.
I knew all along that I was lying to myself. In truth, I was curious. I wanted to experience __'s undies again.
I waited until I knew I could be alone for a long while, and stole into her dresser for a panty and bra set I had given her one Valentine's day. My heart pounded. My cock stiffened. I touched myself all over, overcome with horniness. I became frightened and took off __'s lingerie and put it back exactly as I had found it in her dresser. Oh my God! I liked it! My heart raced with both excitement and fear. I had compromised my manhood -- but worse, I loved it! I was still excited, but I couldn't bear the thought of wearing those panties again. I couldn't allow myself to capitulate. I had looked over the edge of the cliff, and survived. I couldn't go any closer. But it was so exhilarating! Naked, I came all over myself, fantasizing about the horrible, wonderful consequences of my gender-bending: that I would succumb to wearing all sorts of sexy girlie garments and eventually become a real girl! I never came so hard in all my life. I never felt such shame as when I cleaned it up. This would be the last time. I had momentarily lost my manhood, but now everything was alright as long as I didn't let it happen again.
How could I not agonize over this little discovery? The more I worried about my manhood's erosion, the more I fantasized about its inevitable result. My hands shook with anticipation as I rifled guiltily through __'s dresser for something horrifyingly effeminate to wear. I stumbled upon her one-piece swimsuit, and rapidly became fixated on it. There was no mistaking it for something a man would wear. My knees buckled as I thought of how it would squeeze my waist inwards and give me a gorgeous, feminine, hourglass figure. Still, I couldn't allow myself to feel this, no matter how badly I wanted to. I put it on over my own underwear, clinging desperately to my last shred of manhood. I had to resist. But there I stood, fondling myself, with a woman's bathing suit on me, on top of my underwear. If I don't let it touch my dick, it won't corrupt my manhood, I hoped. It was strange: feeling the spandex all over me except for my mundane, protected penis. It brought me momentarily to my senses. I took off the swimsuit in a pang of guilty sobriety, and put it back where I found it. I sighed with relief. That was close! Imagine how overcome with effeminacy I would have become had I dared to let it touch the essence of my manhood!
The very thought of giving up my manhood gripped me with intense, perverse delight. No sooner had I closed the dresser drawer than I doffed my underwear and wiggled into the same swimsuit, giddily confident about my new-found femininity. I gamboled around like a horny schoolgirl, rubbing myself all over, basking in the ecstasy of my new identity. I was so glad that I had done away with my feeble masculine protection. The realization that I was unprotected from such inescapable femininity filled me with great satisfaction. I came all over __'s bathing suit, relishing my girlhood.
Then, I was ashamed again. I had succumbed, and I wasn't excited about it anymore. I had failed to contain my urges. I secretly berated myself for months after that. __ never found out, because I washed the swimsuit before she came back.
It wasn't long until I caved in again. This was all part of my initiation. I had to renounce my manhood more and more often. Over a long period of time, I tried everything on. I knew that it was wrong, that it was abnormal, that it was dangerous, that it was eroding my manhood. I just didn't care. It was so much fun! Each time, I became possessed with the desire to feel feminine. I longed to feel something beautifully girlish on my body. I unleashed my pent-up womanhood by wrapping my body in lingerie. It was so. . . naughty. No heterosexual man, I reasoned, should ever be so familiar with women's underwear. I discovered things about women's underwear that most men would never be aware of. I no longer feared becoming effeminate: I hoped for it. I wanted to look as good in __'s underwear as she did. I wanted to be a girl.
It's partly a curiosity, partly a twisted, willful perversion. They get twisted together into something entirely bizarre. I keep coming back to my childhood, wondering where it all began. I fantasized about being turned into a girl since the moment I learned to masturbate. I remember some vague sense that a woman would take me away and I would become a girl under her influence. She would have me rub my hard little dick for her, and I would become one of them. The association isn't quite there, but wearing those tight little stockings for the class play in Kindergarten made it abundantly clear. So now I wear bikinis and panties and garter belts, and I wish for all sorts of other goodies to make me feel more feminine.
It's so obvious: I love to feel feminine! I want to be a girl! It's totally unacceptable, but I don't care! I want to cast off all my manhood and openly embrace womanhood! Wearing women's clothes only enhances the fantasy. It's not a fantasy in itself. It is a means to asserting my femininity. I need to make myself girlish whenever I can, and thinking about it just isn't good enough.
I don't think I've ever touched on this before. It's all about becoming feminine! It's always been there, always front and centre, but I never really took note of it as the goal. I've come close to making the connection, but now I have it!
Sometimes, I think that wearing women's clothes is the goal. Becoming girlish in the process is part of the thrill, no doubt; but I assumed that the lingerie was the objective. If I become feminine as a consequence of wearing girlish things, so be it! I thought that the thrill ended there. I would tolerate, and even welcome, becoming a girl only because it would allow me to dress like one.
It's so much more delicious than that.
I do it because it makes me a girl. The true objective is to become a girl. I mentioned above fantasizing about taking hormones and such. I don't think I ever thought of it as an end in itself. Not consciously, anyway. It was always for the underwear, the skirts, the sexy outfits.
I'm not sure that the distinction is coming across. Maybe I've known about it all along, and only took hold of it now. Maybe I've somehow forgotten about it, and rediscovered it. Difficult to say. Right now I feel convinced that I've discovered something critical.
Let's put it into a fantasy, shall we?
The standard story: One day, I'm minding my own business, when all of a sudden I'm captured by women. The battle of the sexes has turned violent. Women want to assimilate all men. Men can't live without women, so we're losing badly. I'm one of the best fighters on the male side. I desperately fear becoming a girl. I'm comfortable and happy being a man.
So now, they've captured me, and they introduce me to their underwear. I'm a goner. I don't want to succumb, but they're so sexy. They torture me by putting me naked in a room filled with nothing but lingerie. I dress up like a girl, under duress, but I get used to it. They reward me for it. I start coming all over myself when I wear their clothes. I tell them that I love their clothes, that they feel so good on my body. I know that it's bad, I know that I really shouldn't be wearing bikinis and lingerie and skirts and nightgowns. But I love it! At every turn, they make me feel like I shouldn't, but I do! I want to try on everything. I want to experience everything as a girl. That's when I realize that I want desperately to be a girl. The clothing is just a fun part of it. It's the womanhood that I really want.
That is the key! It's a sudden discovery that wearing women's clothes is the closest path to being female. I want to be able to reach down my pants, feel silk against my smooth, hairless body, follow a curve down towards my crotch, past a soft mound of coarse hair, and into an even softer fleshy thing with a hard clit up the middle.
It's all about being a girl. Wearing stuff is cool because it allows me to express my girlishness.
It's so obvious: I love to feel feminine! I want to be a girl! It's totally unacceptable, but I don't care! I want to cast off all my manhood and openly embrace womanhood! Wearing women's clothes only enhances the fantasy. It's not a fantasy in itself. It is a means to asserting my femininity. I need to make myself girlish whenever I can, and thinking about it just isn't good enough.
I don't think I've ever touched on this before. It's all about becoming feminine! It's always been there, always front and centre, but I never really took note of it as the goal. I've come close to making the connection, but now I have it!
Sometimes, I think that wearing women's clothes is the goal. Becoming girlish in the process is part of the thrill, no doubt; but I assumed that the lingerie was the objective. If I become feminine as a consequence of wearing girlish things, so be it! I thought that the thrill ended there. I would tolerate, and even welcome, becoming a girl only because it would allow me to dress like one.
It's so much more delicious than that.
I do it because it makes me a girl. The true objective is to become a girl. I mentioned above fantasizing about taking hormones and such. I don't think I ever thought of it as an end in itself. Not consciously, anyway. It was always for the underwear, the skirts, the sexy outfits.
I'm not sure that the distinction is coming across. Maybe I've known about it all along, and only took hold of it now. Maybe I've somehow forgotten about it, and rediscovered it. Difficult to say. Right now I feel convinced that I've discovered something critical.
Let's put it into a fantasy, shall we?
The standard story: One day, I'm minding my own business, when all of a sudden I'm captured by women. The battle of the sexes has turned violent. Women want to assimilate all men. Men can't live without women, so we're losing badly. I'm one of the best fighters on the male side. I desperately fear becoming a girl. I'm comfortable and happy being a man.
So now, they've captured me, and they introduce me to their underwear. I'm a goner. I don't want to succumb, but they're so sexy. They torture me by putting me naked in a room filled with nothing but lingerie. I dress up like a girl, under duress, but I get used to it. They reward me for it. I start coming all over myself when I wear their clothes. I tell them that I love their clothes, that they feel so good on my body. I know that it's bad, I know that I really shouldn't be wearing bikinis and lingerie and skirts and nightgowns. But I love it! At every turn, they make me feel like I shouldn't, but I do! I want to try on everything. I want to experience everything as a girl. That's when I realize that I want desperately to be a girl. The clothing is just a fun part of it. It's the womanhood that I really want.
That is the key! It's a sudden discovery that wearing women's clothes is the closest path to being female. I want to be able to reach down my pants, feel silk against my smooth, hairless body, follow a curve down towards my crotch, past a soft mound of coarse hair, and into an even softer fleshy thing with a hard clit up the middle.
It's all about being a girl. Wearing stuff is cool because it allows me to express my girlishness.
OK, enough of that.
A couple of stories that I read on dragscape show a certain pattern. Both purport to be true. One I sort of believe, the other not for a second. The stories, in fact, are virtually identical:
I know that I'll never do it, but I've fantasized about taking hormones and becoming a girl. I'd grow tits, and my waist would shrink a bit, and I'd lose my body hair, and I'd get filled in and soft in all the right places. I didn't mean it that way, but that, too, I suppose, is part of the charm.
In the scenario above, it's clear that the guy really wants to be a girl. He could stop the whole thing at any time by just putting his foot down. He acts like he has no choice, but he really does. It's part of the thrill, even. He knows that he can pull out of it, but he doesn't because he knows deep down that he really, really wants to be a girl.
A couple of stories that I read on dragscape show a certain pattern. Both purport to be true. One I sort of believe, the other not for a second. The stories, in fact, are virtually identical:
- man marries woman
- woman discovers man's secret desire to dress up in her undies
- woman brings him shopping, humiliates him by having him try on skirts and lingerie
- man throws out all of his male clothing at woman's prompting
- man starts taking hormones to become a woman (at woman's prompting)
- woman loses all interest in man, and forces him to become her maid
- man becomes pretty much a woman from all the hormones, and starts sucking dick
I know that I'll never do it, but I've fantasized about taking hormones and becoming a girl. I'd grow tits, and my waist would shrink a bit, and I'd lose my body hair, and I'd get filled in and soft in all the right places. I didn't mean it that way, but that, too, I suppose, is part of the charm.
In the scenario above, it's clear that the guy really wants to be a girl. He could stop the whole thing at any time by just putting his foot down. He acts like he has no choice, but he really does. It's part of the thrill, even. He knows that he can pull out of it, but he doesn't because he knows deep down that he really, really wants to be a girl.
Fiction: Chained and Forced to Choose
"So," said the captor to her prisoner. "Have you ever worn women's clothing?"
"Of course not!"
"You've never worn a dress as a practical joke?"
"No."
"Your big sister never forced you to play dressup?"
"I don't have a sister."
"You never snuck into your mom's dresser to try on her panties?"
"What the Hell are you talking about?"
"Aren't we defensive? And you're blushing, too!"
He didn't answer.
"We know all about your little secret, Mister. We know that you wear lingerie for fun. We know that you secretly want to be a girl, just so you can wear pretty little frilly lace undies that boys aren't allowed to wear."
"What?"
"Oh, I understand. Your fragile little masculine ego won't let you admit it to anyone. But I know that you want to be just like me."
"Am I supposed to be scared?"
"Not really. You're supposed to be excited, though. And I know that you are. Just thinking about wearing a sexy little garter belt turns you on."
"This is a joke."
She moved her face to his, and the scent of her perfume invaded his nostrils. She looked him in the eye, and he couldn't hold her penetrating gaze. Her breast brushed against him as she leaned over his shoulder to smell the back of his head. She stayed there a few moments, breathing heavily. Suddenly, she backed away, breaking the spell.
"Do you think I'm sexy?" she asked.
She was, indeed, gloriously beautiful. She looked like a supermodel. Plus, she was in her skivvies, revealing her perfectly shaped body in its curvaceous majesty.
"Yes," replied the prisoner.
"Do you want to fuck me?"
"Yes."
"Oh, that's so sweet!" she exclaimed coyly, as she threw her arms around her prisoner's neck, and moulded her body against his. His naked body almost convulsed in ecstasy as she touched him. Unfortunately, he could do nothing, suspended by the chains on his arms and restrained by those on his legs. She backed away seductively as he gasped at this unexpected pleasure.
"You know," she said, "I'm not supposed to fuck my prisoners. So we'll have to make a little deal."
He was speechless.
"I can't do anything for you unless you do me a little favour first."
"What? Tell me, what must I do!"
"You have to admit that you want to wear women's underwear."
He paused, shocked. "Is that all I have to do to fuck you?"
"Yes. That's all."
"But that's ridiculous! How can I fuck you if I don't feel masculine? How can you want me to be feminine?"
"Fine!" she snapped, and turned sharply away towards the door.
"Wait! Wait!"
She turned, fury distorting her gorgeous face.
He hesitated. He knew that this was a trick. She had him backed into a corner. He desperately wanted to have sex with her, and he knew that she probably wouldn't anyway. Moreover, he knew that she would likely torture him and force him to her will anyway. It was a tough call. "OK, I'll do it."
"You'll do what?" she asked, unable to conceal the glee in her voice. "Say it!"
"I'll wear women's clothes."
"You'll what?"
"I'll wear women's clothes!"
She clapped her hands joyfully and skipped over to him to kiss his nipple. "I knew you'd cave in, you little sissy! I can't wait to see you in a bra! You'll be so cute! You'll be so effiminate that you won't even want to fuck me anymore! Hee hee!"
He couldn't believe what he had gotten himself into. He began to think about his near future, and dreaded its approach. What would she do to him? He couldn't stop thinking about her in her wonderful underwear, and fantasized about all the different things in her dresser that she would force him to wear. He could hardly contain his shame when he realized that the thought of it aroused him in a strange, unwholesome way that aroused him all the more for its perversity.
When the time came, she did not force him to wear something of her choice. Instead, she presented him with many options. He had before him all kinds of underwear, lingerie, swimwear, leotards, garter belts, stockings, chemises, and nightgowns. All were unmistakably feminine. His very proximity to these dainty items brought hormones rushing through his body. He was very nervous. She left the clothes in his cell, and released him to pick out something girlish to wear.
He picked through the clothes with apprehension, still unable to believe that he would have to wear it. He couldn't picture himself in any of it, but had no trouble imagining his captress.
"Pick something! You're worse than a woman!" she boomed from the microphone. She watched him from the room above, which overlooked his cell. Trembling, he snatched a one-piece swimsuit- the least sexy item he could find. He didn't want to give in too much.
"Put it on!" she screeched from above.
He slipped into the swimsuit, which clung to him like a second skin. The soft fabric and high cut gave him an instant erection, of which he was desperately ashamed. He was quickly chained up again, unable to remove his new garment. All he could do was writhe.
"Do you like it?" she asked when she came down from her perch to see him. She wore a bikini for the occasion, picking it from the selection he chose from and changing into it in front of him.
"What if I don't?" he retorted.
"Oh, I can tell you love it! Look at this bulge!" He reddened in guilty shameful pleasure as she stroked his covered penis. "Do you feel feminine?"
"You promised you'd have sex with me if I wore women's clothes! I wearing it now, so let's do it!"
"Tsk, tsk. Not so fast! You're all chained up there, and you can't exactly do anything about it, can you? Don't worry, I'll fuck you. But not now. For now, I just want to do girlie things with you.
She began to rub up against him. "I want you to feel like a woman. Just imagine what I'd look like wearing that."
She showed him pictures of her wearing exactly what he was wearing. "And just think: you're wearing it now! You're dressed like a girl. And you seem to like it! Isn't it great to have something caress your body like that? Don't you just love the delicate material?"
He convulsed with erotic shame. He writhed and struggled, disgusted with himself for becoming feminine. Listening to every word she said, and feeling jolts of exquisitely forbidden pleasure rising from his cock. He struggled to escape from her swimsuit. He felt trapped in it, but relished guiltily every moment of it. "Do you feel feminine?" she asked again.
"YES! YES!"
"Do you like it?"
"YES!"
"I think you've had enough. Let's get that off of you."
"NO!" he screamed. "Don't stop!"
The bathing suit seemed to shape his body into a girlish hourglass. He imagined that his crotch looked just like a girl's, that his chest looked busty. These thoughts sent jolts of intense ecstasy through his body. He had always found it sexy to see empty suimsuits and panties and bras, because it meant that there was probably a naked woman nearby. He felt that knowing the inside of a woman's underwear was incredibly intimate - and arousing. Only this time, he felt the inside of his mistress's bathing suit clinging lewdly to his body. Only women know what that feels like. And now, he does, too. And he felt proud and lucky for it. And feminine.
Diary: The Seed Grows
The thought, I am sure, has at least occurred to everybody.
I mean, everybody's heard of transvestites, so they can certainly admit to having imagined a man wearing women's underwear. The first thing I think of is how disgusting and un-feminine they look, no matter how hard they try. It's a short step from there, though, isn't it? Girlfriends will cajole and kid when seeing a transvestite that, "yes, darling, why can't you be more like him?" Or ask straight out if they've ever worn panties. For most men, it's shockingly perverted. They wouldn't dream of forsaking their manhood, or even joke about it, around their girlfriends or wives or mistresses.
But then, that little seed has already been planted.
Add to that living with a woman: even if she's the mother or sister or some other relative, there's always women's dainties around. What man doesn't get turned on thinking about women's underwear? I've read that men need to see their women in underwear, that it's more appealing to them; they need a signal of femininity. What's more feminine than women's underwear? Not only does it cover the sexiest parts, it accentuates them.
It's difficult for any man to shop for lingerie. That's because there's an uncomfortable stigma about being seen in such a den of girlishness. Who but a girl - or a sissy - would be seen in a place like that? And men know what's pretty, too.
So there's definitely an association.
Secretly, they think about it. They're embarrassed to admit that they're interested in women's underwear - so much so that they can't shop for lingerie without breaking into a cold sweat.
Imagine picking up an article of gorgeous, absolutely female underwear, and being aroused by it. It's so feminine. I have no right to touch it. Merely touching it jeopardizes my manhood. How can I handle being exposed to something so powerfully girlish? I can't: I get so horny that I have to do something about it. Even when I see it on a girl, it drives me crazy. It used to be when I was five or so that girls were icky. A boy could never survive the stigma of hanging around with a girl, or else suffer the humiliation of being called a sissy. The other boys would think that I'm one of them. They would think that I'm secretly a girl. All boys had to resist girls, because we all knew that they were out to assimilate us and make us do all sorts of stupid girl things, and make us wear frilly pansy pink girlie clothes. I'm not surprised if I carry a remnant of that with me even today.
As a matter of fact, there's the idea of the old ball and chain: she'll domesticate you if you commit; she'll turn you into a sissy! You won't be a man anymore, because you can't go bowling or boozing with the guys anymore. Girls are dangerous that way. They want you to be a girl, too.
But men commit all the time. There comes a time when they have to betray the boys, and give in to the girls. The danger exists from day one, when little boys clump together in frightened cliques, berating anyone who dares to show that they feel that same, strange attraction to girls that they each secretly feel individually. They make each other sense that it's powerfully wrong, yet they each feel that they desperately want to. And so the seed is sown.
I know it's wrong, thinks the little boy, but it feels so good when I think of girls. Maybe I am one of them, after all. Imagine: what if my parents are wrong, or what if they've decided to pull some cruel joke on everyone, and I really am a girl, but everybody thinks I'm a boy? That must be it! The girls want me to join their ranks, I can feel it. I am drawn to them. Oh, I would be so free if I could only join them! They would take care of me. They would rub me right here where we're different, and make me like them. Right here they would rub me. Rub me right off. And I would be a girl. Rub me here. Rub me! Oh, rub me! Girl! I'm a girl now! Oh, God, I'm going to turn myself into a girl if I just rub myself! Oh, it feels so good! I want to be a girl! I love feeling like a girl.
Then it's over and I'm ashamed, and I know that I'm a boy, and that I let everybody down.
Then it starts again. The longings come back. Then I begin to think that girls wear some pretty specific clothes. Boys don't have flowers and frilly lace on their underwear. Girls look so good in their underwear. If I want to be a girl, then I have to wear some of that, don't I? But do I dare? That's the trick, isn't it? I don't want anybody to know, but I want to try it. I start to imagine all sorts of bikinis and bathing suits and stockings and garter belts and panties and bras and teddies. . . I want to wear them all! Just thinking about it makes me feel so good! Imagine how good it must feel to be that sexy! I figure that I've only thought about being a girl so far. I've never actually tried to be one by wearing girls' clothes. Surely doing that will instantly transform me into one, and I'll never be able to regain my manhood. I know it's dangerous. I'm afraid to try.
I try. I don't care that I'll never be a man again. I just want to be a girl now. To Hell with being a boy! It feels so good when I touch women's clothes! I imagine myself wearing only silky women's panties and garter belts and bras from now on. I'm Hell-bent on becoming feminine. I'm only wearing pantyhose on top of my own underwear, but I'm picturing myself in lingerie, bikinis, etc. etc. etc.. Physically, I've barely done anything; mentally, I'm willingly going way too fast. I can't go too fast physically, because I'll never be able to turn back. If I take it slow, I'll be able to work my way up to it, and hang onto my manhood. If I go too fast, I'll be totally transformed overnight, and I'll have a lot of explaining to do. But it's so much more fun to go fast! I want to be girlish NOW!
Before I know it, I'm wearing all the stuff I fantasized about, loving the way it makes me feel so delicate and girlish. And I can't stop.
I mean, everybody's heard of transvestites, so they can certainly admit to having imagined a man wearing women's underwear. The first thing I think of is how disgusting and un-feminine they look, no matter how hard they try. It's a short step from there, though, isn't it? Girlfriends will cajole and kid when seeing a transvestite that, "yes, darling, why can't you be more like him?" Or ask straight out if they've ever worn panties. For most men, it's shockingly perverted. They wouldn't dream of forsaking their manhood, or even joke about it, around their girlfriends or wives or mistresses.
But then, that little seed has already been planted.
Add to that living with a woman: even if she's the mother or sister or some other relative, there's always women's dainties around. What man doesn't get turned on thinking about women's underwear? I've read that men need to see their women in underwear, that it's more appealing to them; they need a signal of femininity. What's more feminine than women's underwear? Not only does it cover the sexiest parts, it accentuates them.
It's difficult for any man to shop for lingerie. That's because there's an uncomfortable stigma about being seen in such a den of girlishness. Who but a girl - or a sissy - would be seen in a place like that? And men know what's pretty, too.
So there's definitely an association.
Secretly, they think about it. They're embarrassed to admit that they're interested in women's underwear - so much so that they can't shop for lingerie without breaking into a cold sweat.
Imagine picking up an article of gorgeous, absolutely female underwear, and being aroused by it. It's so feminine. I have no right to touch it. Merely touching it jeopardizes my manhood. How can I handle being exposed to something so powerfully girlish? I can't: I get so horny that I have to do something about it. Even when I see it on a girl, it drives me crazy. It used to be when I was five or so that girls were icky. A boy could never survive the stigma of hanging around with a girl, or else suffer the humiliation of being called a sissy. The other boys would think that I'm one of them. They would think that I'm secretly a girl. All boys had to resist girls, because we all knew that they were out to assimilate us and make us do all sorts of stupid girl things, and make us wear frilly pansy pink girlie clothes. I'm not surprised if I carry a remnant of that with me even today.
As a matter of fact, there's the idea of the old ball and chain: she'll domesticate you if you commit; she'll turn you into a sissy! You won't be a man anymore, because you can't go bowling or boozing with the guys anymore. Girls are dangerous that way. They want you to be a girl, too.
But men commit all the time. There comes a time when they have to betray the boys, and give in to the girls. The danger exists from day one, when little boys clump together in frightened cliques, berating anyone who dares to show that they feel that same, strange attraction to girls that they each secretly feel individually. They make each other sense that it's powerfully wrong, yet they each feel that they desperately want to. And so the seed is sown.
I know it's wrong, thinks the little boy, but it feels so good when I think of girls. Maybe I am one of them, after all. Imagine: what if my parents are wrong, or what if they've decided to pull some cruel joke on everyone, and I really am a girl, but everybody thinks I'm a boy? That must be it! The girls want me to join their ranks, I can feel it. I am drawn to them. Oh, I would be so free if I could only join them! They would take care of me. They would rub me right here where we're different, and make me like them. Right here they would rub me. Rub me right off. And I would be a girl. Rub me here. Rub me! Oh, rub me! Girl! I'm a girl now! Oh, God, I'm going to turn myself into a girl if I just rub myself! Oh, it feels so good! I want to be a girl! I love feeling like a girl.
Then it's over and I'm ashamed, and I know that I'm a boy, and that I let everybody down.
Then it starts again. The longings come back. Then I begin to think that girls wear some pretty specific clothes. Boys don't have flowers and frilly lace on their underwear. Girls look so good in their underwear. If I want to be a girl, then I have to wear some of that, don't I? But do I dare? That's the trick, isn't it? I don't want anybody to know, but I want to try it. I start to imagine all sorts of bikinis and bathing suits and stockings and garter belts and panties and bras and teddies. . . I want to wear them all! Just thinking about it makes me feel so good! Imagine how good it must feel to be that sexy! I figure that I've only thought about being a girl so far. I've never actually tried to be one by wearing girls' clothes. Surely doing that will instantly transform me into one, and I'll never be able to regain my manhood. I know it's dangerous. I'm afraid to try.
I try. I don't care that I'll never be a man again. I just want to be a girl now. To Hell with being a boy! It feels so good when I touch women's clothes! I imagine myself wearing only silky women's panties and garter belts and bras from now on. I'm Hell-bent on becoming feminine. I'm only wearing pantyhose on top of my own underwear, but I'm picturing myself in lingerie, bikinis, etc. etc. etc.. Physically, I've barely done anything; mentally, I'm willingly going way too fast. I can't go too fast physically, because I'll never be able to turn back. If I take it slow, I'll be able to work my way up to it, and hang onto my manhood. If I go too fast, I'll be totally transformed overnight, and I'll have a lot of explaining to do. But it's so much more fun to go fast! I want to be girlish NOW!
Before I know it, I'm wearing all the stuff I fantasized about, loving the way it makes me feel so delicate and girlish. And I can't stop.
Fiction: Affirmation
OK, that didn't work. Took all the fun right out of it.
For the millionth time, let's get wrapped up in a fantasy:
What's more exciting? A fantasy about a first-timer, or the uncovering of a regular? Or the obliteration of shame by affirming femininity? Really, it all comes down to the affirmation, doesn't it? No matter what the story, the fun only really starts when the man discovers that he likes being a woman better. It doesn't even matter how it happens.
It started innocently enough (as it always does in these stories). It was just a lark, a joke, when I dressed up like a girl the first time. It was sorta funny, you know. It was, I suppose a mistake. I had been wearing bikini underwear for years before I actually noticed the label. I thought it was sexy and masculine, in the way that it was tight and skimpy. But the label clearly says, "Women's" on it. I don't know how I missed it. I don't know how I could have bought it without knowing what it was. But there it was, clear as day. All this time I had been wearing women's underwear.
You can understand how crestfallen I was.
I had never even imagined wearing women's clothes before. The thought never crossed my mind. If it did, I immediately dismissed it as frivolous. Imagine: a ladies' man like me wearing ladies' underwear. Absurd! Yet there I was, for years, doing just that.
What difference does it make, I thought to myself. It's the intentions that count, isn't it? I thought they were men's. I had no intention of wearing women's underwear. They don't look feminine at all, but I'll admit that they were certainly tight enough to look awfully good on a girl. So what's the big deal? Nobody knows but me, anyway.
That's what I thought on the surface. Underneath, subconsciously, it was a different story. A little seed had planted itself in my mind, and I didn't even know it. I suppose it's a mental association thing: the first little thought brought on a whole chain- no, a tree- of others, all derived from that little seed. Me, wearing women's underwear. Imagine me wearing sexy lace panties, a bra, and even a garter belt. I banished those thoughts as soon as they entered my mind. I was worried. I vowed to never wear those briefs again.
Of course, it didn't work out that way. I had to admit that I couldn't stay away from them. They were comfortable, damnit. And they made me horny. They made me think of women wearing lingerie. How could I resist that thought? A pure, wholesome, heterosexual male thought. Except it was different, somehow. I was fixated on the lingerie. Now THAT's women's underwear, I thought, as I salivated thinking about it, not this unisex crap I'm wearing.
I used to drive myself to climax in that underwear. I'd fantasize about girls and their sexy underthings. Somehow, the thought that I was wearing girlie underthings too made me hornier. I felt so subversive. I knew what I was doing, I thought at the time. When I was done, I'd feel just awful, like I would have to change out of them. I felt ashamed, and I didn't understand why.
It became pretty clear soon enough. I would think about those panties, and think of them in those terms, and get horny. I got a strange kick out of reading the label before putting them on. Nobody knows the difference, I thought, except me. And it struck me: I'm wearing women's underwear, on purpose, and it makes me horny.
The realization floored me. This could only damage my masculinity, I thought, and became even more aroused. This is so wrong, I thought, but it feels so good. Before I knew it, I was masturbating, imagining myself becoming more and more feminine every time I wore these panties. While I stroked myself, I didn't care what it did to my manhood. Girlhood felt so incredibly good that I wanted more and more of it. I felt so sexy. Then I came, and came right back to earth. I was so ashamed, and I threw the panties back into my dresser in self-disgust.
I worried about what was happening to me. I tried to resist, but I couldn't. When I got horny, it was because I was thinking of wearing something feminine again. I didn't limit my imagination to my own panties, though. I fantasized about wearing silky and lacy lingerie, two-piece bikini bathing suits and tight sexy women's swimsuits. I was possessed. Soon I couldn't stop myself from trying. I had to have more than my panties. They weren't even real women's underwear. I decided to get my hands on a one-piece swimsuit, because it wasn't so extreme as a lingerie outfit or a bikini. I couldn't just dive into something like that. I wanted to, but I was afraid. I didn't want to lose control.
I already had, of course. Still, I took it slowly. Painfully slowly. I stole the swimsuit from my sister one day when I visited. She never suspected. I snuck into her room and rifled her dresser, stuffing it down my pants when I found it. When I got home, I couldn't wait to put it on. But I didn't trust it. I kept my own manly underwear on to protect me. I feared that the naked suit on me would be too much of a shock.
Even with my underwear to protect me, it was a phenomenal experience. It was so snug on my body, and so smooth. I loved fondling girls in their bathing suits. I loved how tightly they caressed female bodies. And now, here I was, wearing one myself. I didn't dare finish myself at first. It was just too much. So I took it off, and hid it in my dresser. The thought of it tortured me for minutes, until I decided to pull it out again, and finish what I had started. Only I desperately wanted to feel it against my naked crotch. I moaned in amazement when I finally had it on. I couldn't believe what I was doing. I felt so feminine, and I felt so incredibly good. Until after I came, that is.
Amazing, isn't it, the way desires can so cloud the mind? I was so disgusted with myself. I slinked out of my sister's bathing suit, and wondered how I could ever get it back into her dresser. There were stains all over it now. I couldn't dare wash it: it would look awfully conspicuous in then laundromat. I felt stupid and lecherous and perverted. This fantasy was wearing away my masculinity.
These misgivings only lasted a short while until I got horny again. I never did give that swimsuit back. I wore it as often as I wanted to. Which was pretty well daily. I frolicked girlishly in it, imagining that I was trapped in its tight, elastic femininity, and that I couldn't get out of it. The intense pleasure that I experienced from it was simply the magical process of my body becoming effeminate. Yes, I wanted desperately to escape from it, because I didn't want to become a girl; yet it felt so wonderful that I wanted even more desperately to wear it forever, or better yet, take it off and wear something even sexier, like a matching lace bra panty and garter belt set, or a bikini swimsuit. I simultaneously hoped and feared that I would become a girl if I continued.
I became so disgusted with myself that I threw the swimsuit in the garbage, vowing to never wear women's clothes again. But it didn't work. My cravings became much worse, because I had no more outlet for them. So I stole panties from my sister. Only this time, rather than just stuff them into my pants, I went to the bathroom to put them on under my own underwear. That way, I would get to try them on at the same time as I concealed them more effectively.
The panties were white and frilly. They were gorgeous. The trouble was that I missed a bra. I needed one to feel the full femininity. I eventually stole that, too. I pleasured myself relentlessly in my sister's underwear. I began to fantasize about buying myself some lingerie.
It had gotten too easy to steal from my sister. I knew that she had a bikini, so I planned to steal that, too. I longed for one day and night, because I had never worn one before. She caught me red-handed, rummaging through her dresser. I must have been white as a ghost. She knew exactly what I was doing, knew exactly where her other clothes had vanished.
"So, you like my underwear, do you?"
I had to deny it. "What are you talking about?"
"I've caught you red-handed. Admit it: you want to wear my underwear, you sissy faggot pantywaist!"
She made me take off all my clothes in front of her, and put on her bikini. Somehow, she read my mind. I felt ridiculous.
So she took me to the store, and made me buy lingerie for myself, as well as all sorts of women's clothes. She turned me into a girl.
For the millionth time, let's get wrapped up in a fantasy:
What's more exciting? A fantasy about a first-timer, or the uncovering of a regular? Or the obliteration of shame by affirming femininity? Really, it all comes down to the affirmation, doesn't it? No matter what the story, the fun only really starts when the man discovers that he likes being a woman better. It doesn't even matter how it happens.
It started innocently enough (as it always does in these stories). It was just a lark, a joke, when I dressed up like a girl the first time. It was sorta funny, you know. It was, I suppose a mistake. I had been wearing bikini underwear for years before I actually noticed the label. I thought it was sexy and masculine, in the way that it was tight and skimpy. But the label clearly says, "Women's" on it. I don't know how I missed it. I don't know how I could have bought it without knowing what it was. But there it was, clear as day. All this time I had been wearing women's underwear.
You can understand how crestfallen I was.
I had never even imagined wearing women's clothes before. The thought never crossed my mind. If it did, I immediately dismissed it as frivolous. Imagine: a ladies' man like me wearing ladies' underwear. Absurd! Yet there I was, for years, doing just that.
What difference does it make, I thought to myself. It's the intentions that count, isn't it? I thought they were men's. I had no intention of wearing women's underwear. They don't look feminine at all, but I'll admit that they were certainly tight enough to look awfully good on a girl. So what's the big deal? Nobody knows but me, anyway.
That's what I thought on the surface. Underneath, subconsciously, it was a different story. A little seed had planted itself in my mind, and I didn't even know it. I suppose it's a mental association thing: the first little thought brought on a whole chain- no, a tree- of others, all derived from that little seed. Me, wearing women's underwear. Imagine me wearing sexy lace panties, a bra, and even a garter belt. I banished those thoughts as soon as they entered my mind. I was worried. I vowed to never wear those briefs again.
Of course, it didn't work out that way. I had to admit that I couldn't stay away from them. They were comfortable, damnit. And they made me horny. They made me think of women wearing lingerie. How could I resist that thought? A pure, wholesome, heterosexual male thought. Except it was different, somehow. I was fixated on the lingerie. Now THAT's women's underwear, I thought, as I salivated thinking about it, not this unisex crap I'm wearing.
I used to drive myself to climax in that underwear. I'd fantasize about girls and their sexy underthings. Somehow, the thought that I was wearing girlie underthings too made me hornier. I felt so subversive. I knew what I was doing, I thought at the time. When I was done, I'd feel just awful, like I would have to change out of them. I felt ashamed, and I didn't understand why.
It became pretty clear soon enough. I would think about those panties, and think of them in those terms, and get horny. I got a strange kick out of reading the label before putting them on. Nobody knows the difference, I thought, except me. And it struck me: I'm wearing women's underwear, on purpose, and it makes me horny.
The realization floored me. This could only damage my masculinity, I thought, and became even more aroused. This is so wrong, I thought, but it feels so good. Before I knew it, I was masturbating, imagining myself becoming more and more feminine every time I wore these panties. While I stroked myself, I didn't care what it did to my manhood. Girlhood felt so incredibly good that I wanted more and more of it. I felt so sexy. Then I came, and came right back to earth. I was so ashamed, and I threw the panties back into my dresser in self-disgust.
I worried about what was happening to me. I tried to resist, but I couldn't. When I got horny, it was because I was thinking of wearing something feminine again. I didn't limit my imagination to my own panties, though. I fantasized about wearing silky and lacy lingerie, two-piece bikini bathing suits and tight sexy women's swimsuits. I was possessed. Soon I couldn't stop myself from trying. I had to have more than my panties. They weren't even real women's underwear. I decided to get my hands on a one-piece swimsuit, because it wasn't so extreme as a lingerie outfit or a bikini. I couldn't just dive into something like that. I wanted to, but I was afraid. I didn't want to lose control.
I already had, of course. Still, I took it slowly. Painfully slowly. I stole the swimsuit from my sister one day when I visited. She never suspected. I snuck into her room and rifled her dresser, stuffing it down my pants when I found it. When I got home, I couldn't wait to put it on. But I didn't trust it. I kept my own manly underwear on to protect me. I feared that the naked suit on me would be too much of a shock.
Even with my underwear to protect me, it was a phenomenal experience. It was so snug on my body, and so smooth. I loved fondling girls in their bathing suits. I loved how tightly they caressed female bodies. And now, here I was, wearing one myself. I didn't dare finish myself at first. It was just too much. So I took it off, and hid it in my dresser. The thought of it tortured me for minutes, until I decided to pull it out again, and finish what I had started. Only I desperately wanted to feel it against my naked crotch. I moaned in amazement when I finally had it on. I couldn't believe what I was doing. I felt so feminine, and I felt so incredibly good. Until after I came, that is.
Amazing, isn't it, the way desires can so cloud the mind? I was so disgusted with myself. I slinked out of my sister's bathing suit, and wondered how I could ever get it back into her dresser. There were stains all over it now. I couldn't dare wash it: it would look awfully conspicuous in then laundromat. I felt stupid and lecherous and perverted. This fantasy was wearing away my masculinity.
These misgivings only lasted a short while until I got horny again. I never did give that swimsuit back. I wore it as often as I wanted to. Which was pretty well daily. I frolicked girlishly in it, imagining that I was trapped in its tight, elastic femininity, and that I couldn't get out of it. The intense pleasure that I experienced from it was simply the magical process of my body becoming effeminate. Yes, I wanted desperately to escape from it, because I didn't want to become a girl; yet it felt so wonderful that I wanted even more desperately to wear it forever, or better yet, take it off and wear something even sexier, like a matching lace bra panty and garter belt set, or a bikini swimsuit. I simultaneously hoped and feared that I would become a girl if I continued.
I became so disgusted with myself that I threw the swimsuit in the garbage, vowing to never wear women's clothes again. But it didn't work. My cravings became much worse, because I had no more outlet for them. So I stole panties from my sister. Only this time, rather than just stuff them into my pants, I went to the bathroom to put them on under my own underwear. That way, I would get to try them on at the same time as I concealed them more effectively.
The panties were white and frilly. They were gorgeous. The trouble was that I missed a bra. I needed one to feel the full femininity. I eventually stole that, too. I pleasured myself relentlessly in my sister's underwear. I began to fantasize about buying myself some lingerie.
It had gotten too easy to steal from my sister. I knew that she had a bikini, so I planned to steal that, too. I longed for one day and night, because I had never worn one before. She caught me red-handed, rummaging through her dresser. I must have been white as a ghost. She knew exactly what I was doing, knew exactly where her other clothes had vanished.
"So, you like my underwear, do you?"
I had to deny it. "What are you talking about?"
"I've caught you red-handed. Admit it: you want to wear my underwear, you sissy faggot pantywaist!"
She made me take off all my clothes in front of her, and put on her bikini. Somehow, she read my mind. I felt ridiculous.
So she took me to the store, and made me buy lingerie for myself, as well as all sorts of women's clothes. She turned me into a girl.
Diary: Breakup
A__ and I are no more. She never wanted the panties part of the lingerie I gave her, so it's still in my dresser, along with the stockings. I have moved my other stuff into the same drawer now. What the Hell's the difference? It's all my underwear, isn't it? I like the idea of having girls' clothes in my underwear drawer.
I have to fantasize about this again. For weeks, the most intensely gratifyingly sexy deed I could think of involved fucking her, no kinks involved. But I have to forget that if I want to move on. So back to lingerie for me!
I've re-read much of this file. There's a lot in there to turn me on. I want to fantasize about it again, and get totally girlified once more. I want to explore the possibilities of my fantasies again, in a systematic way.
I have to fantasize about this again. For weeks, the most intensely gratifyingly sexy deed I could think of involved fucking her, no kinks involved. But I have to forget that if I want to move on. So back to lingerie for me!
I've re-read much of this file. There's a lot in there to turn me on. I want to fantasize about it again, and get totally girlified once more. I want to explore the possibilities of my fantasies again, in a systematic way.
Fiction: Put Yourself In Her Place
"You know, honey," she said petulantly, "I'm sick of you treating me like a sex object. All you ever want me to wear is lingerie. How come you don't have to wear anything like this to turn me on??"
"Because you're a woman."
"So?"
"Women look great in lingerie."
"Would you wear lingerie if it made you look good? Cause God knows you don't as you are. . ."
"Lingerie's for women. Why would I want to wear women's underwear?"
"What if I thought you looked good in it?"
"I wouldn't feel comfortable in it."
"You think I feel comfortable like this?"
"Why shouldn't you? You look incredible!"
"I feel like a slut. This stuff isn't made for comfort, you know. It's just too revealing. I feel silly."
"Oh, don't feel that way! Won't you wear it just for me?"
"It's just not fair, that's all. I'd like to see how you'd feel if I just sat there in my gitch and watched you parade around in tight silky frilly panties and a garter belt and a bra. . ."
"That's a bit different I think."
"How so?"
"Well, those things are made for women."
"I disagree. They're made for men who want to make women feel silly."
"Gimme a break."
"No, I insist. You wear the lingerie this time. I'm sick of it."
"You must be joking."
"No. I'm dead serious." She took off her bra, and tossed it onto his lap. Then she began unhooking her stockings.
"What, you actually expect me to wear this?"
"Why not? I had to wear it for you!"
"Yeah, but. . ."
"But what?"
"It's a bra."
"No shit."
"Bras are for women."
"No woman would ever actually want to wear a bra. Do you realize how constricting and uncomfortable those things are? Bras are for men. Men like looking at bras. Well, now it's my turn. I want to see you wear it. And I want to see you wear these ridiculous little panties and these stockings and this garter belt, too."
"I can't do that."
"Why not? I thought you liked my lingerie."
"I love it- on you."
"Well, you picked it out, not me. If I have to wear what you want, then you should have to wear what I want you to. And I want you to wear this lingerie outfit."
"All right. Fine." His face was almost purple. It wasn't rage. He looked nervous. I think he was sweating.
"What, are you afraid?"
"No."
"Are you scared of what people will think? Nobody has to know. Just me."
"All right, I said. I'll put it on."
And he did.
"Well, then. You look gorgeous!"
"Oh, shut up."
"How do you like it? Do you feel sexy? Or is it uncomfortable?"
"Shut up."
"You have an awfully big boner."
He almost burst with embarrassment. He was speechless.
"Don't try to hide it. I think you look adorable in a bra. If only you shaved your legs, you'd look beautiful."
"I don't see what you'd complain about, you know."
"I'm not complaining."
"I mean when you wear the lingerie."
"Why? Do you like it?"
"It's pretty comfortable."
She snorted. "You like it!"
"It's really not so bad."
"I'm really happy for you."
"It's all smooth and form-fitting."
"I can't believe this. Are you serious?"
"Yes. It's comfy. I like it."
"You actually enjoy wearing my lingerie."
"I suppose."
"You're such a bullshitter. Take it off. You're making fun of me."
"No, I'm serious."
"Enough, already. You've made your point."
"What point?"
"That I shouldn't complain about wearing lingerie."
"I just can't understand why you'd feel uncomfortable. I even feel a little sexy."
"Just take it off and let's get on with it."
"Could it wait a bit?"
"Why?"
"I don't want to take this off. It feels really nice."
"Please stop fucking around. It's not funny anymore."
"No, I'm serious. I'm seriously horny. This is amazing!"
"Alright. Whatever."
"Hey, you wanted me to wear it. But you were right. Lingerie is for men. I always thought women looked so good in their underwear. There's something. . . intimate about women's underwear. It's incredibly sexy. And I feel sexy wearing it."
"You're starting to scare me."
"Can I try on some of your other stuff? Like your bathing suits? Your bikini? A mini-skirt?"
"Because you're a woman."
"So?"
"Women look great in lingerie."
"Would you wear lingerie if it made you look good? Cause God knows you don't as you are. . ."
"Lingerie's for women. Why would I want to wear women's underwear?"
"What if I thought you looked good in it?"
"I wouldn't feel comfortable in it."
"You think I feel comfortable like this?"
"Why shouldn't you? You look incredible!"
"I feel like a slut. This stuff isn't made for comfort, you know. It's just too revealing. I feel silly."
"Oh, don't feel that way! Won't you wear it just for me?"
"It's just not fair, that's all. I'd like to see how you'd feel if I just sat there in my gitch and watched you parade around in tight silky frilly panties and a garter belt and a bra. . ."
"That's a bit different I think."
"How so?"
"Well, those things are made for women."
"I disagree. They're made for men who want to make women feel silly."
"Gimme a break."
"No, I insist. You wear the lingerie this time. I'm sick of it."
"You must be joking."
"No. I'm dead serious." She took off her bra, and tossed it onto his lap. Then she began unhooking her stockings.
"What, you actually expect me to wear this?"
"Why not? I had to wear it for you!"
"Yeah, but. . ."
"But what?"
"It's a bra."
"No shit."
"Bras are for women."
"No woman would ever actually want to wear a bra. Do you realize how constricting and uncomfortable those things are? Bras are for men. Men like looking at bras. Well, now it's my turn. I want to see you wear it. And I want to see you wear these ridiculous little panties and these stockings and this garter belt, too."
"I can't do that."
"Why not? I thought you liked my lingerie."
"I love it- on you."
"Well, you picked it out, not me. If I have to wear what you want, then you should have to wear what I want you to. And I want you to wear this lingerie outfit."
"All right. Fine." His face was almost purple. It wasn't rage. He looked nervous. I think he was sweating.
"What, are you afraid?"
"No."
"Are you scared of what people will think? Nobody has to know. Just me."
"All right, I said. I'll put it on."
And he did.
"Well, then. You look gorgeous!"
"Oh, shut up."
"How do you like it? Do you feel sexy? Or is it uncomfortable?"
"Shut up."
"You have an awfully big boner."
He almost burst with embarrassment. He was speechless.
"Don't try to hide it. I think you look adorable in a bra. If only you shaved your legs, you'd look beautiful."
"I don't see what you'd complain about, you know."
"I'm not complaining."
"I mean when you wear the lingerie."
"Why? Do you like it?"
"It's pretty comfortable."
She snorted. "You like it!"
"It's really not so bad."
"I'm really happy for you."
"It's all smooth and form-fitting."
"I can't believe this. Are you serious?"
"Yes. It's comfy. I like it."
"You actually enjoy wearing my lingerie."
"I suppose."
"You're such a bullshitter. Take it off. You're making fun of me."
"No, I'm serious."
"Enough, already. You've made your point."
"What point?"
"That I shouldn't complain about wearing lingerie."
"I just can't understand why you'd feel uncomfortable. I even feel a little sexy."
"Just take it off and let's get on with it."
"Could it wait a bit?"
"Why?"
"I don't want to take this off. It feels really nice."
"Please stop fucking around. It's not funny anymore."
"No, I'm serious. I'm seriously horny. This is amazing!"
"Alright. Whatever."
"Hey, you wanted me to wear it. But you were right. Lingerie is for men. I always thought women looked so good in their underwear. There's something. . . intimate about women's underwear. It's incredibly sexy. And I feel sexy wearing it."
"You're starting to scare me."
"Can I try on some of your other stuff? Like your bathing suits? Your bikini? A mini-skirt?"
Diary: Missing A__'s Wardrobe
I miss living with A__, and having the opportunity to dress up whenever she slept at her mother's. I desperately want to dress up right now. I want to put on some sweet little white undies and a bra, slip into some stockings, and wear a tight little black minidress on top. And I'd wear cute sexy sandals on my feet, too.
Fiction: Queen of the Brothels, Redux
Now, let's get back to our detective story:
So the kid got conned into wearing women's clothes. I'm not sure how it happened. It doesn't even matter I suppose. They could have forced him. They could have coerced him. They could have convinced him. He could have resisted them. He could have reluctantly agreed. He could have been in no position to resist. He could have even suggested it himself. But I think they probably took away his clothes when he took up with them, and told him to wear women's clothes or else they turf him. They limited his choices to either running away naked, unprotected from his creditors, or staying there and dressing like a girl. He probably values his life, and he chose the latter.
From there, they slowly trained him to get used to it. He couldn't run away then, especially then. He looked ridiculous dressed that way. Who would help him? Then they started demanding his money. They promised him that he could live with them forever, and not have to ever worry about food or money again. He only had to do as he was told. Evidently, he did it voluntarily. Wrote them a big fat cheque with all the money his parents gave him.
From there, it was slow effeminization. They taught him how to act effeminately. He learned. They gave him hormones. He eagerly measured his bust every morning, waiting for his breasts to grow. And they had him acting in their pornos, as a she-male. A chick with a dick. I've seen him in one or two of them, sucking dicks. He's not quite girlish, but his tits are pretty damned real.
OK, that's going nowhere. I can't forget in one of the dragscape stories, how the submissive husband was forced by his wife to become a girl. He had a fetish for sweaters (of all things), and she had him dress up in one. Then she had him put on her panties and bra, put a sweater on top, and go shopping for lingerie. From then on, he wore nothing but women's clothes. He became a girl for her then. But she had a master plan. She wanted to show him off later in public as a girl, with real tits. She asked him to sign up for hormone replacement. He was reluctant to go in for such a permanent change, but he did. And he became a she-male, sucking his wife's boyfriends' dicks. Voluntarily. Now that's interesting.
So the kid got conned into wearing women's clothes. I'm not sure how it happened. It doesn't even matter I suppose. They could have forced him. They could have coerced him. They could have convinced him. He could have resisted them. He could have reluctantly agreed. He could have been in no position to resist. He could have even suggested it himself. But I think they probably took away his clothes when he took up with them, and told him to wear women's clothes or else they turf him. They limited his choices to either running away naked, unprotected from his creditors, or staying there and dressing like a girl. He probably values his life, and he chose the latter.
From there, they slowly trained him to get used to it. He couldn't run away then, especially then. He looked ridiculous dressed that way. Who would help him? Then they started demanding his money. They promised him that he could live with them forever, and not have to ever worry about food or money again. He only had to do as he was told. Evidently, he did it voluntarily. Wrote them a big fat cheque with all the money his parents gave him.
From there, it was slow effeminization. They taught him how to act effeminately. He learned. They gave him hormones. He eagerly measured his bust every morning, waiting for his breasts to grow. And they had him acting in their pornos, as a she-male. A chick with a dick. I've seen him in one or two of them, sucking dicks. He's not quite girlish, but his tits are pretty damned real.
OK, that's going nowhere. I can't forget in one of the dragscape stories, how the submissive husband was forced by his wife to become a girl. He had a fetish for sweaters (of all things), and she had him dress up in one. Then she had him put on her panties and bra, put a sweater on top, and go shopping for lingerie. From then on, he wore nothing but women's clothes. He became a girl for her then. But she had a master plan. She wanted to show him off later in public as a girl, with real tits. She asked him to sign up for hormone replacement. He was reluctant to go in for such a permanent change, but he did. And he became a she-male, sucking his wife's boyfriends' dicks. Voluntarily. Now that's interesting.
Diary: New Silver Bikini!
Impulsively, I bought another bikini today. I think I struck gold.
I had actually been thinking of it for some time. I looked up a wholesale swimwear shop, hoping to find a good deal. The place was pretty small, near [a bakery we used to frequent], and pretty empty. I pretended to be interested in some flippers, but instead I took the silver bikini. It's a size 9-10, but the cut is very sexy. It's silver and shimmery, with a black plastic trim on the bra. I paid exactly $46 for it. I've been wearing the panties since I got home.
It fits quite nicely. I needed it badly. It's much better than that last one I had, although I wish I hadn't lost it. I wish I had been more careful about all of that stuff. There were some really good things in that bag, but it's gone now. Easy come, easy go. I'll especially miss that satin teddy with my first garter belt and my white fishnet stockings.
I've always been turned on by the idea of wearing women's underwear under my clothes. It's symbolic of how I feel girlish inside. Just as there's girl's undies under my clothes, there's a girl under my skin.
My only regret is having looked at myself. I look just awful in it.
I feel pretty good though.
I had actually been thinking of it for some time. I looked up a wholesale swimwear shop, hoping to find a good deal. The place was pretty small, near [a bakery we used to frequent], and pretty empty. I pretended to be interested in some flippers, but instead I took the silver bikini. It's a size 9-10, but the cut is very sexy. It's silver and shimmery, with a black plastic trim on the bra. I paid exactly $46 for it. I've been wearing the panties since I got home.
It fits quite nicely. I needed it badly. It's much better than that last one I had, although I wish I hadn't lost it. I wish I had been more careful about all of that stuff. There were some really good things in that bag, but it's gone now. Easy come, easy go. I'll especially miss that satin teddy with my first garter belt and my white fishnet stockings.
I've always been turned on by the idea of wearing women's underwear under my clothes. It's symbolic of how I feel girlish inside. Just as there's girl's undies under my clothes, there's a girl under my skin.
My only regret is having looked at myself. I look just awful in it.
I feel pretty good though.
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.
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