I'm a week away from beginning my trip to California, where I will spend the next year or so of my life. Hockey season is over, and most of the people I know will not see me again for a while -- or at least, they won't have any reason to see my legs.
Which is a bit of a shame, really, considering how they look shaved.
For the first time ever, I have completely shaven my legs.
I shaved them some seven years ago, but only partly, shortly before I met A__. I bought a satiny lingerie outfit, with white fishnet stockings and a garter belt, for that occasion. I have nothing new yet this time, but I did shave as much of my leg hair as I could. It only took me about an hour, too.
I quickly showered to clean up any loose hair, and discovered the radically different texture of shaven legs. My skin is so soft, so smooth, so slippery when wet. Lathering my legs with soap was strange, because the soap had no hair to cling to. I got horny rubbing my legs to clean them. Even drying them was a new experience.
As soon as I dried off, I slipped on some black stockings, and hooked them onto my garter belt. I have never seen my stockings cling so easily to my legs. I have effeminate legs, covered in sheer nylon! And they will be like this for a few days at least, before the hair starts growing back. So I might as well enjoy this while I can. I won't look normal again for another 3 or 4 weeks.
Diary: Definitions
An observation: 'emasculation' and 'effemination' have the same meaning. Perhaps this implies, as I have known for so long, that only masculinity can be lost, and that femininity is permanent. It is impossible to lose one femininity, but it is always possible to either gain it or lose its opposite. Therefore, given this logic, women's clothes irreversibly effeminate their wearer.
Story Ideas: The Triangle; and, 3rd Person
Two story ideas:
- A twist on the typical dominatrix-browbeats-submissive-husband-into-effeminate-slavery story: The effemination has already happened, and the husband is a good little housekeeping bitch, but has become so effeminate that he easily passes for a gorgeous woman. Wife is settling on a boyfriend, a real macho type who dominates even her around. So the sissy, who feels confident and feminine enough to resent his wife for turning him into an almost-girl, jealously contrives to secretly turn the wife's boyfriend into his own little sissy bitch. Ends up with a three-way triangular domination: sissy's bitch is boyfriend, boyfriend's bitch is wife, and wife's bitch is sissy.
- Our narrator watches as his best friend sissifies out of control. He begins to see the appeal himself, and his own experiments rapidly spiral out of control as well.
Diary: Sissy Scoring System, Tweaked
After playing around with the scheme above, I have come up with a preliminary score template, which I have stored in the same folder. I have come to the conclusion that I must consider swimsuit bikinis as brassieres and panties. There really is very little difference. I have historically ranked underwear ahead of swimwear, but I now realize that that is simply absurd. Why should my wonderful pink string bikini rank less than mom's gitch? Just because it's not technically underwear? That's just not right. The fact is, it's shaped just like a bra and panties, and it serves a similar purpose. Why not just score the top and bottom each as underwear items, adding or subtracting points based on the material, the coverage, etc. just as I would for any other type of underwear? It makes much more sense this way.
Actually, I got an epiphany today, which changes the way I've thought of my feminine escapades for the last 20 years. Throughout these pages, and intractably imprinted on my mind, has been the idea of a hierarchy of women's clothes. It starts with pantyhose, on through swimwear, and ends at lingerie. One was forbidden, in my fantasies, from ever skipping ahead to a garment he isn't ready for. There was always a problem, because part of the fantasy involved doing just that - and hoping for the most effeminate consequences possible. How can you really deny me wearing white cotton panties even though I've worn string bikinis more times than I can count? It would surely be a letdown to graduate to the next level.
I realized today that the hierarchy came into my mind only as a way of protecting myself, back in the days when I tried to deny my passions. I worried then that if I went right ahead and wore a swimsuit before I was ready for its incredible femininity, I would lose control. This, of course, worked as both deterrent and incentive, depending on my state of mind. I could succumb to a swimsuit, and thank my stars that I hadn't dared to get into some lingerie, which would surely have destroyed my manhood; or perhaps while succumbing to that same swimsuit, and pray fervently for some lingerie, so that I could become that much more feminine.
It still stands as a very powerful fantasy. It has always been at odds with starting right at the top with lingerie, as other powerful fantasies call for.
Actually, I got an epiphany today, which changes the way I've thought of my feminine escapades for the last 20 years. Throughout these pages, and intractably imprinted on my mind, has been the idea of a hierarchy of women's clothes. It starts with pantyhose, on through swimwear, and ends at lingerie. One was forbidden, in my fantasies, from ever skipping ahead to a garment he isn't ready for. There was always a problem, because part of the fantasy involved doing just that - and hoping for the most effeminate consequences possible. How can you really deny me wearing white cotton panties even though I've worn string bikinis more times than I can count? It would surely be a letdown to graduate to the next level.
I realized today that the hierarchy came into my mind only as a way of protecting myself, back in the days when I tried to deny my passions. I worried then that if I went right ahead and wore a swimsuit before I was ready for its incredible femininity, I would lose control. This, of course, worked as both deterrent and incentive, depending on my state of mind. I could succumb to a swimsuit, and thank my stars that I hadn't dared to get into some lingerie, which would surely have destroyed my manhood; or perhaps while succumbing to that same swimsuit, and pray fervently for some lingerie, so that I could become that much more feminine.
It still stands as a very powerful fantasy. It has always been at odds with starting right at the top with lingerie, as other powerful fantasies call for.
Diary: Sissy Scoring System
I want to get scientific here for a moment. I've discussed the possible scenarios when a man is presented with women's underwear, but I've never done it right. I will rectify this shortly. First, I want to enumerate the possible outcomes when a man becomes aroused by his own femininity.
First, he might ignore it, either by thinking of something else and masturbating to that, or by not masturbating at all.
Second, he might simply fail to fulfill it because of extenuating circumstances. For example, he has no opportunity to masturbate before his passion abates.
Third, he succumbs to it in spirit, and masturbates naked or even in his own masculine clothes, reveling in pictures of his own womanhood.
Fourth, he fulfills his fantasy when he ejaculates clad in something girlish.
The first is a crime. Inadmissible under any circumstance. The second is unfortunate, but he gets points for having wanted to be a girl. The third is charming, better than the second, but not quite good enough. The fourth is the truest man of all.
Wait, there's something missing here: there are really more variables. What happens to the poor sap who manages to slip into a bikini, but who doesn't get the chance to blow his load? What if he does a whole fashion show with his girlfriend's wardrobe, fully intending to come in everything, but can only handle one or two outfits? And none of this takes into account doing anything in public.
So we have 1 constant: the passion to make himself feminine, or desire; and 3 variables: physically ejaculating, or success; physically wearing women's garments (we won't get into point values for specific types here), or dressing; and publicly displaying his penchant for girlishness, or exhibition. Thus the first scenario touches on only the constant; the second scores the same for lack of any action; the third scores points for success, and nothing more; the fourth achieves both success and dressing, and therefore wins. However, the man who publicly dresses as a woman for the thrill of appeasing his femininity, must score equally well if he does not eventually find success in his effeminate state. Also, points would certainly vary for the garments worn in each circumstance.
Beautiful, no?
So now we can tally up a score for each incident of effemination. The total score is what really counts, but the statistics are kept for the purpose of showing a balance of tendencies. As in baseball, where a pitcher can win many games and strike out many batters, but also allow many runs; while another can lose constantly striking out as many batters, and allowing fewer runs. The pitchers' totals may be the same, but they have slightly different profiles. Likewise, someone who privately wears lingerie and comes every time might tally up the same number of points as someone who walks around in dresses in public, but never dares to masturbate en femme.
The tricky part of all this is assigning an arbitrary point value to specific types of garments. There are endless varieties of women's clothes, and they all count for something. But even different types of panties must necessarily score radically differently. Surely a g-string is worth more than mother's total-coverage briefs! The value should be awarded based on a comparison to exact artifacts of clothing, which have constant values associated with them. The fit must also factor in (take tight over loose any time, but too small is no good either - ideally it should fit perfectly, as if you really could take on the shape of a woman). For a start, we'll take a pair of plain white cotton bikini briefs always to be worth 100 points. Add 10 points for lace trim. Add 25 points for exotic colours. Lose 15 points for silly, childish prints of teddy bears. A matching brassiere is worth 100 bonus points. So I award Bobbi over there the full 200 points for the matching cotton bra and panties, and give him another 15 for the lace in the bra. Unfortunately, he loses 25 because they're not really bikini briefs, but regular briefs, and are slightly larger. Candi, on the other hand, scores a massive 150 for his black satin bikini, and another 125 for a white satin brassiere; but he loses 50 points for the contrast.
Clearly, I need to establish the benchmarks in general categories. I would need a minimum and maximum amount of points for a type, identify examples of the two extremes and the median, and specify point values for frills or problems. This will take an awful lot of work. Hopefully, I can backtrack and rank my own outfits and experiences.
It also occurs to me that success should have a bonus if it involves another person or persons. Perhaps a points system similar to that for dressing is in order. The starting number of points would be for simply coming. More points for having someone masturbate you; more yet for sucking cock; still more for swallowing; etc. Also, the length of time of dressing and the extent of exhibition should factor in: number of people who know, multiplying each article of clothing they know about, multiplied by points for time (1 for 0-15 mins, 2 for 15-60, 3 for 1-4 hours, etc.).
Now we may return to our original problem: the scenarios when a man is confronted with women's underwear.
This time we can use our points system to accurately gauge the man's state of mind; only here desire is a variable, not a constant. Thus a man who has never even noticed his feminine side would start at 0, while a man who had pondered it twice would have 2 points. I would have thousands upon thousands.
Problem solved. Now to the new problem: scoring.
First, he might ignore it, either by thinking of something else and masturbating to that, or by not masturbating at all.
Second, he might simply fail to fulfill it because of extenuating circumstances. For example, he has no opportunity to masturbate before his passion abates.
Third, he succumbs to it in spirit, and masturbates naked or even in his own masculine clothes, reveling in pictures of his own womanhood.
Fourth, he fulfills his fantasy when he ejaculates clad in something girlish.
The first is a crime. Inadmissible under any circumstance. The second is unfortunate, but he gets points for having wanted to be a girl. The third is charming, better than the second, but not quite good enough. The fourth is the truest man of all.
Wait, there's something missing here: there are really more variables. What happens to the poor sap who manages to slip into a bikini, but who doesn't get the chance to blow his load? What if he does a whole fashion show with his girlfriend's wardrobe, fully intending to come in everything, but can only handle one or two outfits? And none of this takes into account doing anything in public.
So we have 1 constant: the passion to make himself feminine, or desire; and 3 variables: physically ejaculating, or success; physically wearing women's garments (we won't get into point values for specific types here), or dressing; and publicly displaying his penchant for girlishness, or exhibition. Thus the first scenario touches on only the constant; the second scores the same for lack of any action; the third scores points for success, and nothing more; the fourth achieves both success and dressing, and therefore wins. However, the man who publicly dresses as a woman for the thrill of appeasing his femininity, must score equally well if he does not eventually find success in his effeminate state. Also, points would certainly vary for the garments worn in each circumstance.
Beautiful, no?
So now we can tally up a score for each incident of effemination. The total score is what really counts, but the statistics are kept for the purpose of showing a balance of tendencies. As in baseball, where a pitcher can win many games and strike out many batters, but also allow many runs; while another can lose constantly striking out as many batters, and allowing fewer runs. The pitchers' totals may be the same, but they have slightly different profiles. Likewise, someone who privately wears lingerie and comes every time might tally up the same number of points as someone who walks around in dresses in public, but never dares to masturbate en femme.
The tricky part of all this is assigning an arbitrary point value to specific types of garments. There are endless varieties of women's clothes, and they all count for something. But even different types of panties must necessarily score radically differently. Surely a g-string is worth more than mother's total-coverage briefs! The value should be awarded based on a comparison to exact artifacts of clothing, which have constant values associated with them. The fit must also factor in (take tight over loose any time, but too small is no good either - ideally it should fit perfectly, as if you really could take on the shape of a woman). For a start, we'll take a pair of plain white cotton bikini briefs always to be worth 100 points. Add 10 points for lace trim. Add 25 points for exotic colours. Lose 15 points for silly, childish prints of teddy bears. A matching brassiere is worth 100 bonus points. So I award Bobbi over there the full 200 points for the matching cotton bra and panties, and give him another 15 for the lace in the bra. Unfortunately, he loses 25 because they're not really bikini briefs, but regular briefs, and are slightly larger. Candi, on the other hand, scores a massive 150 for his black satin bikini, and another 125 for a white satin brassiere; but he loses 50 points for the contrast.
Clearly, I need to establish the benchmarks in general categories. I would need a minimum and maximum amount of points for a type, identify examples of the two extremes and the median, and specify point values for frills or problems. This will take an awful lot of work. Hopefully, I can backtrack and rank my own outfits and experiences.
It also occurs to me that success should have a bonus if it involves another person or persons. Perhaps a points system similar to that for dressing is in order. The starting number of points would be for simply coming. More points for having someone masturbate you; more yet for sucking cock; still more for swallowing; etc. Also, the length of time of dressing and the extent of exhibition should factor in: number of people who know, multiplying each article of clothing they know about, multiplied by points for time (1 for 0-15 mins, 2 for 15-60, 3 for 1-4 hours, etc.).
Now we may return to our original problem: the scenarios when a man is confronted with women's underwear.
This time we can use our points system to accurately gauge the man's state of mind; only here desire is a variable, not a constant. Thus a man who has never even noticed his feminine side would start at 0, while a man who had pondered it twice would have 2 points. I would have thousands upon thousands.
Problem solved. Now to the new problem: scoring.
Diary: New Hot Pink String Bikini With Flowers
For how long have I fantasized about string bikinis? For as long as I can remember, they have been among the sexiest things on my list of garments to wear. I have never worn one.
I suppose they've always been on my radar, but only lately has it become obsessive. This summer, during the Canada Day celebrations, I saw a girl in Ottawa wearing a blue string bikini under her shorts. It was the kind with panties that tie up on the sides in a delectable knot, and her top tied up the same way behind her back and neck. It was blue. I could tell what she was wearing because she wasn't wearing a shirt, just the top; and those sexy knots hung out above the belt of her jean shorts. I was mesmerized.
Today, two nights before Xmas eve, I have succumbed and bought myself a wonderfully gorgeous string bikini.
It's hard to imagine how one string bikini could be less feminine than another. They are all so fantastically and unmistakably girlish that it's almost absurd - for the casual observer - to see much of a difference. To the trained eye, however, the differences can be astounding.
Take, for example, a solid black string bikini. It's absurdly sexy. Its shape alone determines entirely what type of person should be wearing it. Now think of a solid hot pink string bikini, and tell me which one is more feminine. Clearly, hot pink has overwhelmingly feminine connotations to it that black, sadly, lacks. Men never wear anything hot pink.
I present you now with a third string bikini: the pink floral print string bikini! Solid colours are simple, but floral patterns are radically effeminate, no matter what colour. Imagine the feminine implications of a floral pattern in pink! Imagine this insanely feminine pattern in the soft, stretchy lycra of a string bikini!
That is the bikini that I bought, and that I will wear. What follows is a celebration of this glorious new addition to my wardrobe.
Actually, I've copied a previous story (the ageless fantasy of the male hero being captured by the women's army, which is out to effeminate the world, and how the hero must go through exponential stages to become a woman) and will improve it somewhat. It's pretty good, so I'll make it better. During most of this time, and this is the key, I must resist wearing the bikini. I must starve myself from wearing it until later. The discipline involved will reflect that in the story, and also make me unbearably horny to wear it. I will have an unbelievable time with my bikini!
I suppose they've always been on my radar, but only lately has it become obsessive. This summer, during the Canada Day celebrations, I saw a girl in Ottawa wearing a blue string bikini under her shorts. It was the kind with panties that tie up on the sides in a delectable knot, and her top tied up the same way behind her back and neck. It was blue. I could tell what she was wearing because she wasn't wearing a shirt, just the top; and those sexy knots hung out above the belt of her jean shorts. I was mesmerized.
Today, two nights before Xmas eve, I have succumbed and bought myself a wonderfully gorgeous string bikini.
It's hard to imagine how one string bikini could be less feminine than another. They are all so fantastically and unmistakably girlish that it's almost absurd - for the casual observer - to see much of a difference. To the trained eye, however, the differences can be astounding.
Take, for example, a solid black string bikini. It's absurdly sexy. Its shape alone determines entirely what type of person should be wearing it. Now think of a solid hot pink string bikini, and tell me which one is more feminine. Clearly, hot pink has overwhelmingly feminine connotations to it that black, sadly, lacks. Men never wear anything hot pink.
I present you now with a third string bikini: the pink floral print string bikini! Solid colours are simple, but floral patterns are radically effeminate, no matter what colour. Imagine the feminine implications of a floral pattern in pink! Imagine this insanely feminine pattern in the soft, stretchy lycra of a string bikini!
That is the bikini that I bought, and that I will wear. What follows is a celebration of this glorious new addition to my wardrobe.
Actually, I've copied a previous story (the ageless fantasy of the male hero being captured by the women's army, which is out to effeminate the world, and how the hero must go through exponential stages to become a woman) and will improve it somewhat. It's pretty good, so I'll make it better. During most of this time, and this is the key, I must resist wearing the bikini. I must starve myself from wearing it until later. The discipline involved will reflect that in the story, and also make me unbearably horny to wear it. I will have an unbelievable time with my bikini!
Diary: Innocently Stunning
Oh, how I love your body! Your smooth, delicate curves, your soft skin, the grace of your movements... I fantasize about how you look in your underwear, or when you wear a swimsuit, how every gorgeous curve spins and slips underneath. Isn't it funny how my desperate longing for your body has me trying to emulate it?
I have this picture in my mind of you doing something mundane, like ironing or dusting, while wearing nothing but a smile and your undies. You are innocently stunning. You have no idea how ridiculously sexy you are. I could point it out to you, and you'd look down at your scantily clad body, maybe blush a little, and continue what you're doing, just a little more self-consciously, acutely aware of your femininity, amazed again at its powerful grasp on me, but still focused on the mundane task at hand.
As I write this, I want to look down at my own scantily clad body, slipped into the same slinky undergarments, and experience the same surprise upon discovering exactly what you did. I want to feel that faint surprise at realizing that I am a woman wearing nothing more than a bra and panties, and that I am sexy and beautiful; and I want to continue my tedious task, happy and proud, acutely aware of my femininity, and promise to take full advantage of it as soon as I'm done.
Notice that the first sentence of the second paragraph is intended to be ambiguous: who's wearing your underwear?
I have this picture in my mind of you doing something mundane, like ironing or dusting, while wearing nothing but a smile and your undies. You are innocently stunning. You have no idea how ridiculously sexy you are. I could point it out to you, and you'd look down at your scantily clad body, maybe blush a little, and continue what you're doing, just a little more self-consciously, acutely aware of your femininity, amazed again at its powerful grasp on me, but still focused on the mundane task at hand.
As I write this, I want to look down at my own scantily clad body, slipped into the same slinky undergarments, and experience the same surprise upon discovering exactly what you did. I want to feel that faint surprise at realizing that I am a woman wearing nothing more than a bra and panties, and that I am sexy and beautiful; and I want to continue my tedious task, happy and proud, acutely aware of my femininity, and promise to take full advantage of it as soon as I'm done.
Notice that the first sentence of the second paragraph is intended to be ambiguous: who's wearing your underwear?
Diary: Advice Column
An article in the [local tabloid newspaper] caught my attention last weekend. It's was part of an advice column about sex. A man wrote that during a night of heavy drinking, his girlfriend got him to try on her panties while they made love, and that it was the most intense sexual experience of his life. The problem was that he wanted to wear her panties often, and she wouldn't let him. He had resorted to buying his own. He openly admitted that wearing women's underwear had become an essential component of his sex life.
I wonder if this guy is completely honest. Either way, I love the story. It proves what I've always suspected: that any man who wears women's underwear will inevitably succumb to the awesome power of femininity. I fantasize about that happening to me. Is it possible that this man only realized what I've known all my life at that moment? Surely, he must have had confusing cravings before then. I'm willing to bet that he was always a closet pantywaist, and that this gave him an excuse to come out. I wonder if he realizes that he really wants to be a girl? I can just picture him lying about who initiated his transvestite experience. At any rate, he has surely begged her to wear her underwear.
I wonder if this guy is completely honest. Either way, I love the story. It proves what I've always suspected: that any man who wears women's underwear will inevitably succumb to the awesome power of femininity. I fantasize about that happening to me. Is it possible that this man only realized what I've known all my life at that moment? Surely, he must have had confusing cravings before then. I'm willing to bet that he was always a closet pantywaist, and that this gave him an excuse to come out. I wonder if he realizes that he really wants to be a girl? I can just picture him lying about who initiated his transvestite experience. At any rate, he has surely begged her to wear her underwear.
Fiction: Underwear Swap
[this sounds awfully familiar...]
Sandra was the sweetest, most outrageously gorgeous woman I ever had the fortune to meet. Having a relationship with her felt like winning the lottery. I couldn't believe my luck, and I felt like I would and should do anything to keep her. It was she who planted that dirty little seed in my head. I still don't know if she did it on purpose.
She looked like a fashion model. She was gorgeous even without makeup. She always dressed revealingly, right down to her underwear, but without looking sleazy. She always maintained a very classy, but at the same time sexy, look. She is the type of woman who is so feminine that you wonder how she can possibly be of the same species. She is inhumanly beautiful.
It pains me to think of her now. I am consumed with envy at the merest thought of her. You'll understand if I avoid going into much more detail about her. I'll leave it to your imagination.
One time after a particularly intimate session of lovemaking, she brought up the idea that would change me in ways I never conceived of: she wanted to swap underwear. She explained that it would make her feel closer to me if she could wear my briefs briefly. I would have to wear her lingerie to make the exchange equal. It would only be for a second or two, she said. She picked up my gitch from the floor, and put it on.
It was the funniest thing in the world to her. They didn't fit her all that well, but she still looked pretty damned gorgeous. Imagine that: she could even make a regular pair of gitch look feminine on her. I don't know if it turned her on or not. I, personally, was a bit spent from the arduous passion we had shared moments earlier.
She cajoled me into picking up her panties off the floor. I mentioned earlier that she wore classy but sexy clothes. Her unmentionables were no different. Her panties were off-white silk with lacy patterns on the sides and a very dainty little bunching up at the elastics. I won't describe how she looked in them. They dangled from my fingers as I looked at them stupidly. I tried to reconcile what seemed to me two impossibly disparate concepts. Sandra's panties. My crotch. North Pole and South Pole. Two positive ends of a magnet. The two could not possibly come in contact together, unless I was dry humping her as she wore them. For me to wear them seemed not only absurd, but physically impossible. She giggled behind me. Clearly, this was quite amusing to her. I wasn't even sure whether I was amused or not, the idea perplexed me so much.
"What are you afraid of?" she chided, "You think wearing them will make you less of a man?"
She hit the nail on the head. A classic dilemma: do I do what the most absolutely perfect woman in the world, whom I am most impossibly fortunate to have as a girlfriend, wants me to do, even if it undermines my masculinity? If I refuse, I risk losing her for not playing along; if I accept, I risk losing her for not being manly enough. Which would you choose? Pray that this never happens to you. In fact, my telling you this now will probably ruin you just as it did me. Don't say I didn't warn you. Maybe you should stop reading right now, if you know what's good for you.
In the end, it didn't matter. I had lost the moment she expressed that thought. I had been presented with a possibility that did not exist in my conception of the universe. My world became unraveled at that moment, even though I struggled mightily to keep it together. There I stood, naked, the threads of my world bunched together in a ball of lint in one hand, Sandra's intricate, beautiful, but durable panties in the other.
Days afterwards, I could think of nothing else. So it goes when your perceptions become fundamentally altered by a new idea. I still could not understand all of the consequences of the idea of wearing Sandra's panties. I needed time to think about it. It drove me to distraction. Would wearing the epitome of femininity's most intimately feminine clothes damage my manhood? If so, then doesn't that prove my manhood to be incredibly weak? I saw her wearing my underwear, and she maintained her womanhood. If anything, she made my gitch feminine. But then again, I am not nearly as masculine as she is feminine. Plus, manhood is much more fragile, ironically, than womanhood. Women never worry if they're feminine enough. Men struggle daily to prove their sexuality. Men can never prove enough. If a woman were caught wearing men's underwear, no one would question her sexuality. She would remain a woman no matter what. But if a man wears women's underwear, he brands himself a sissy at the very least. His manhood becomes forever suspect. But then, what kind of man would refuse to test his manhood? Doesn't it show fear, a most unmanly thing, to refuse to wear women's underwear? Sandra herself joked about it to me. Am I so underconfident that I wouldn't dare to wear something designed for women? Isn't my manhood strong enough.
These thoughts consumed me for weeks. Imagine thinking about the most gorgeous woman in the world and her underwear constantly. It's like being a pubescent teen again. Inevitably, I would work myself into a passionate frenzy thinking about Sandra's panties. Never mind the consequences, what would it be like to wear them? And what about other garments? What about bras, bathing suits, miniskirts, stockings, garter belts? What would it be like to wear makeup? Heels? Shave my legs? Every time I thought about it, I imagined what it would feel like to actually wear these things. I imagined how Sandra looked in all of them, and how they felt from the outside, and tried to picture how it would feel from the inside. It drove me crazy. It drove me to relieving my tension. It aroused more than curiosity to think of it.
I became more and more interested in what she wore. She never brought up panty swapping again, but I was captivated by her lingerie all the more. I couldn't dare bring it up myself.
I began to worry about my obsession with her clothes. I thought about wearing her underwear. Ever since the idea was introduced to me, I could suddenly conceive of the possibility of such a thing. I imagined every possible consequence, even the absurd. It could have absolutely no effect. Or it could instantly change my sex, and transform me into a woman as beautiful as Sandra. I knew that neither was true, and that reality was somewhere in between. I must admit that I dwelt far more on the latter scenario, and that such thoughts eventually brought unparalleled satisfaction. In plain English: I became aware that the thought of wearing Sandra's panties turned me on. In a big way.
At first I denied it. It couldn't possibly be true. But there I was, masturbating every time I imagined myself in her panties, or her bikini, or her nightgown, or whatever, and metamorphosing into a woman. The shame I felt afterwards was unbearable. I figured that as long as I didn't actually do it, I would be in no danger of losing my masculinity. The very thought of losing my masculinity actually turned me on even more. It was only a matter of time.
When I finally found myself alone with Sandra's panties, I shook with dread. Part of me absolutely had to wear those panties. Part of me resisted. The latter part lost. I dared to put them on for a few seconds, took them off immediately, and ran off to masturbate. As long as I didn't do it with them on, I would surely be fine, I thought, while deep down I knew that I had contaminated myself with femininity, and hoped that it would only get much, much worse. I promised myself that I wouldn't ever have to wear anything like it again, because now I knew what it's like. I also promised myself that I would wear nothing but women's clothes from then on and officially become a woman right then and there.
Of course, I moped with shame after I was done. I had succumbed most brutally to femininity. I swore to never do it again. The very next day, Sandra's laundry still wasn't done, and I still had her panties at my apartment. I wore them longer than the last time, with the exact same result. How I wanted to wear them longer! How I wanted to wear all her clothes, and experience the full gamut of women's clothing! How I kicked myself after I was done and cursed that my manhood would now slowly erode, and swore to never even think about it again.
I tried to fool myself that I was protecting myself by keeping on my male socks as I masturbated in them. How I tricked myself into believing that I could get away with wearing them under my clothes all day long. None of it mattered, as I eventually succumbed to dressing fully as a woman, and reveled in my girlishness, knowing that I was doomed to becoming more and more effeminate the further I went, and loving every second of it.
Sandra was the sweetest, most outrageously gorgeous woman I ever had the fortune to meet. Having a relationship with her felt like winning the lottery. I couldn't believe my luck, and I felt like I would and should do anything to keep her. It was she who planted that dirty little seed in my head. I still don't know if she did it on purpose.
She looked like a fashion model. She was gorgeous even without makeup. She always dressed revealingly, right down to her underwear, but without looking sleazy. She always maintained a very classy, but at the same time sexy, look. She is the type of woman who is so feminine that you wonder how she can possibly be of the same species. She is inhumanly beautiful.
It pains me to think of her now. I am consumed with envy at the merest thought of her. You'll understand if I avoid going into much more detail about her. I'll leave it to your imagination.
One time after a particularly intimate session of lovemaking, she brought up the idea that would change me in ways I never conceived of: she wanted to swap underwear. She explained that it would make her feel closer to me if she could wear my briefs briefly. I would have to wear her lingerie to make the exchange equal. It would only be for a second or two, she said. She picked up my gitch from the floor, and put it on.
It was the funniest thing in the world to her. They didn't fit her all that well, but she still looked pretty damned gorgeous. Imagine that: she could even make a regular pair of gitch look feminine on her. I don't know if it turned her on or not. I, personally, was a bit spent from the arduous passion we had shared moments earlier.
She cajoled me into picking up her panties off the floor. I mentioned earlier that she wore classy but sexy clothes. Her unmentionables were no different. Her panties were off-white silk with lacy patterns on the sides and a very dainty little bunching up at the elastics. I won't describe how she looked in them. They dangled from my fingers as I looked at them stupidly. I tried to reconcile what seemed to me two impossibly disparate concepts. Sandra's panties. My crotch. North Pole and South Pole. Two positive ends of a magnet. The two could not possibly come in contact together, unless I was dry humping her as she wore them. For me to wear them seemed not only absurd, but physically impossible. She giggled behind me. Clearly, this was quite amusing to her. I wasn't even sure whether I was amused or not, the idea perplexed me so much.
"What are you afraid of?" she chided, "You think wearing them will make you less of a man?"
She hit the nail on the head. A classic dilemma: do I do what the most absolutely perfect woman in the world, whom I am most impossibly fortunate to have as a girlfriend, wants me to do, even if it undermines my masculinity? If I refuse, I risk losing her for not playing along; if I accept, I risk losing her for not being manly enough. Which would you choose? Pray that this never happens to you. In fact, my telling you this now will probably ruin you just as it did me. Don't say I didn't warn you. Maybe you should stop reading right now, if you know what's good for you.
In the end, it didn't matter. I had lost the moment she expressed that thought. I had been presented with a possibility that did not exist in my conception of the universe. My world became unraveled at that moment, even though I struggled mightily to keep it together. There I stood, naked, the threads of my world bunched together in a ball of lint in one hand, Sandra's intricate, beautiful, but durable panties in the other.
Days afterwards, I could think of nothing else. So it goes when your perceptions become fundamentally altered by a new idea. I still could not understand all of the consequences of the idea of wearing Sandra's panties. I needed time to think about it. It drove me to distraction. Would wearing the epitome of femininity's most intimately feminine clothes damage my manhood? If so, then doesn't that prove my manhood to be incredibly weak? I saw her wearing my underwear, and she maintained her womanhood. If anything, she made my gitch feminine. But then again, I am not nearly as masculine as she is feminine. Plus, manhood is much more fragile, ironically, than womanhood. Women never worry if they're feminine enough. Men struggle daily to prove their sexuality. Men can never prove enough. If a woman were caught wearing men's underwear, no one would question her sexuality. She would remain a woman no matter what. But if a man wears women's underwear, he brands himself a sissy at the very least. His manhood becomes forever suspect. But then, what kind of man would refuse to test his manhood? Doesn't it show fear, a most unmanly thing, to refuse to wear women's underwear? Sandra herself joked about it to me. Am I so underconfident that I wouldn't dare to wear something designed for women? Isn't my manhood strong enough.
These thoughts consumed me for weeks. Imagine thinking about the most gorgeous woman in the world and her underwear constantly. It's like being a pubescent teen again. Inevitably, I would work myself into a passionate frenzy thinking about Sandra's panties. Never mind the consequences, what would it be like to wear them? And what about other garments? What about bras, bathing suits, miniskirts, stockings, garter belts? What would it be like to wear makeup? Heels? Shave my legs? Every time I thought about it, I imagined what it would feel like to actually wear these things. I imagined how Sandra looked in all of them, and how they felt from the outside, and tried to picture how it would feel from the inside. It drove me crazy. It drove me to relieving my tension. It aroused more than curiosity to think of it.
I became more and more interested in what she wore. She never brought up panty swapping again, but I was captivated by her lingerie all the more. I couldn't dare bring it up myself.
I began to worry about my obsession with her clothes. I thought about wearing her underwear. Ever since the idea was introduced to me, I could suddenly conceive of the possibility of such a thing. I imagined every possible consequence, even the absurd. It could have absolutely no effect. Or it could instantly change my sex, and transform me into a woman as beautiful as Sandra. I knew that neither was true, and that reality was somewhere in between. I must admit that I dwelt far more on the latter scenario, and that such thoughts eventually brought unparalleled satisfaction. In plain English: I became aware that the thought of wearing Sandra's panties turned me on. In a big way.
At first I denied it. It couldn't possibly be true. But there I was, masturbating every time I imagined myself in her panties, or her bikini, or her nightgown, or whatever, and metamorphosing into a woman. The shame I felt afterwards was unbearable. I figured that as long as I didn't actually do it, I would be in no danger of losing my masculinity. The very thought of losing my masculinity actually turned me on even more. It was only a matter of time.
When I finally found myself alone with Sandra's panties, I shook with dread. Part of me absolutely had to wear those panties. Part of me resisted. The latter part lost. I dared to put them on for a few seconds, took them off immediately, and ran off to masturbate. As long as I didn't do it with them on, I would surely be fine, I thought, while deep down I knew that I had contaminated myself with femininity, and hoped that it would only get much, much worse. I promised myself that I wouldn't ever have to wear anything like it again, because now I knew what it's like. I also promised myself that I would wear nothing but women's clothes from then on and officially become a woman right then and there.
Of course, I moped with shame after I was done. I had succumbed most brutally to femininity. I swore to never do it again. The very next day, Sandra's laundry still wasn't done, and I still had her panties at my apartment. I wore them longer than the last time, with the exact same result. How I wanted to wear them longer! How I wanted to wear all her clothes, and experience the full gamut of women's clothing! How I kicked myself after I was done and cursed that my manhood would now slowly erode, and swore to never even think about it again.
I tried to fool myself that I was protecting myself by keeping on my male socks as I masturbated in them. How I tricked myself into believing that I could get away with wearing them under my clothes all day long. None of it mattered, as I eventually succumbed to dressing fully as a woman, and reveled in my girlishness, knowing that I was doomed to becoming more and more effeminate the further I went, and loving every second of it.
Diary: Enumerations
Place items of feminine clothing in reverse order of impact. Special combinations count as separate items (e.g. panties is one item; panties with matching brassiere, garter belt and and stockings is quite another). Distinct types of items also count as separate items (e.g. silk stockings are not the same as fishnet stockings).
- Kilt, wearing men's underwear underneath. Dressed like a Scot.
- Long skirt, everything else, including underwear, masculine
- Long skirt and blouse, men's underwear underneath
- Regular pantyhose, men's underwear
- Control-top pantyhose, men's underwear
- Bicycle shorts, no underwear.
- Regular pantyhose. Nothing else.
- Control-top pantyhose. Nothing else.
- 80's style leotard, no underwear.
- Lycra hot pants, no underwear.
- Lycra hot pants and a matching fairly full sport bra-type top. No underwear.
- One-piece swimsuit, men's underwear underneath.
- One-piece swimsuit, control-top pantyhose underneath
- One-piece swimsuit, regular pantyhose underneath.
- Full-coverage one-piece swimsuit.
- Granny panties
- High-cut one-piece swimsuit
- High-cut one-piece swimsuit with racer back.
- Low-cut cotton bikini bottom
- Low-cut lycra bikini bottom
- Low-cut cotton bikini bottom and matching strapless bra
- Low-cut lycra bikini bottom and matching strapless bra
- High-cut cotton bikini and matching bra with straps
- Black cotton panties, full
- White cotton panties, full
- String bikini bottom
- High cut lycra bikini and matching bra with straps
- Full white cotton panties and bra
- Garter belt and nylon stockings
- Garter belt and silk stockings
- Garter belt and fishnet stockings
- Lace teddy, any colour
- White lace panties
- Black lace panties
- White silk or satin panties
- Black silk or satin panties
- Silk or satin teddy
- Lace panties and bra
- Silk or satin panties and bra
- Panties, bra, garter belt, and stockings
- Silk or satin teddy and garter belt and stockings
- Any panties and bra under a long flowing dress
- Any panties and bra under a long tight dress
- Any panties and bra under a short dress
- Any panties and bra under a tight miniskirt and halter top
- Pantyhose (regular)
- Control-top pantyhose
- Leotard tights
- Full Leotard
- Leotard without tights
- One-piece swimsuit
- Bikini bottom
- Bikini with strapless top
- Bikini
- Panties
- Bra
- Garter belt
- Fishnet stockings
- White satin teddy
- Black lace teddy
- White lace teddy
- Bustier
- Long dress
- Short dress
- Miniskirt
- Makeup
Do you own more different swimsuits than most women?
Fiction: Conditioning Experiments
I was desperate. I needed the money, or else I'd have been living on the street. I always laughed at people who volunteered for scientific experiments for a price. The scientists never told you what they were going to do to you. I figured I would be trying out some new drugs or something. I never expected them to do surgery.
I was so desperate that I let them do something to my cock. They gave me a local anesthetic, cut my piece on two sides, and put in some stringy wire thing. Then they stitched me up and told me not to engage in any sexual activity for 2 weeks, and to come back then.
Let me tell you, it was a nightmare to not allow myself any sexual gratification at all for that long. It doesn't seem long, but I probably thought about it more often just because they told me I couldn't do it. At any rate, I could barely notice that they had done anything to me. The stitches were very fine and small. The wire was so thin that I could only barely feel it under my skin. Regardless, however difficult it was to resist wanking or fucking for two weeks, they sure didn't prepare me for their little experiment.
They sat me down on a chair and tied up my arms. "Why the restraints?" I asked.
"Because we don't want you touching yourself at this point," explained a cute little blonde in a lab coat, as she wrote notes on a clipboard. "We need to test your thresholds, and you touching yourself would throw off our calibrations."
She disappeared, and I was left alone in the room looking at a dark mirror in front of me. It was like one of those cold, grey interrogation rooms in TV cop shows. I knew they were watching me from behind that one-way glass.
Suddenly, I felt a little twinge in my dick. Didn't know what to make of it. Then I felt it again, just as suddenly. I felt a bit embarrassed, and worried. I hoped that I hadn't reacted too strongly, knowing that they were watching my every move.
Gradually the twinges became more persistent, and I knew that they were doing something to me. It felt like a slight pressure on my cock. It felt quite pleasant in fact. I was getting aroused.
The sensation in my dick grew more and more pronounced. It felt like something oscillating within me. It felt like a phantom was giving me a hand job. I must have turned purple, because I was horribly embarrassed. A bunch of scientists were watching me try to keep a straight expression as they fiddled with my shaft with their remote control. I squirmed in my seat. I longed to touch myself, just as the cute little blonde had warned. I wonder if I would have dared knowing that I was being watched.
Pretty soon, I didn't even care. I felt so horny from the pulsation in my penis that I would have jerked off right in front of them. I started doing a little dance in my chair, gyrating my hips instinctively. It was growing to a fever pitch. Pretty soon the pressure and pulse was enough that I didn't even think I'd need to touch my dick. I was beginning to feel orgasmic. I couldn't contain my pleasure. I was breathing heavily, sweating, swinging my hips, moaning. It must have looked like I was fucking a ghost. It felt incredible. I didn't even need to move! Pure gratification.
Then I came all over myself, and collapsed into my chair. But the pulses wouldn't stop. In fact, they kept getting stronger. Moments later, I was right back in my state of ecstasy, in spite of the initial discomfort. I came all over myself again.
And again.
And yet again.
After the fifth time, I think I passed out. My cock hurt like hell from all the work. It couldn't handle any more. They unstrapped me and handed me a clean pair of pants and underwear, and sent me to the showers. Or rather, they rolled me to the showers, because I couldn't walk.
A week later, as scheduled, they ran the same experiment. I was still sore from the week before. This time, I lasted only four times, but man I was enjoying this experiment. The sensation was almost as good as the best sex, I kid you not. Or at least I thought so then. I was scheduled to continue attending for six more weeks, and my resistance got stronger and stronger. It was like working out a muscle for strength training. I learned to control my orgasms like an expert. I could hold out for at least an hour before coming. Imagine the most intense sex you've ever had, and stretch out the peaks for an entire day. This was much better than sex.
At the end they gave me my last paycheque and sent me on my way. I had tried to pick up the little blonde, but she was probably pretty grossed out by what I had been through. I felt like I could be the greatest lover a woman had ever known. She looked totally uninterested when she shot me down. Oh well.
It didn't take long for me to spend that cash. Lucky for me they asked me if I wanted to come back for a longer experiment. I jumped at the chance. This time the experiment would go for six months. Six months! Getting jerked off for six months, and getting paid for it! How could I resist? I signed all the forms without even looking at them.
It turned out that I had to move in to their facility. I didn't even have to go home anymore. It seems the experiments were going to require constant monitoring. It wouldn't be once a week anymore, but daily! I was really beginning to like this. Then they sprang their first stunt on me.
They weren't strapping me down anymore. Instead, they sat me at a table, where they placed a closed box, and left the room. Inside it was a pile of dead grasshoppers. They told me to eat one. I couldn't believe it. I felt nothing in my dick. Nothing at all. They told me to open the box. When I did, I felt them zap me something soothing and nice. As soon as I let go of the box, it stopped. Right away, I knew what they were up to. They wanted to see how far I would stoop before giving in to my sexual desires. Believe me, I tried to hold out. It felt like hours, but apparently it was only 42:51. It tasted awful, but the orgasm was phenomenal! I felt cheap and disgusting, manipulated into doing something so revolting.
This went on for a week before they got to the real point of their experiment. They had made me eat shit, smear it all over myself, lick the floor of a filthy latrine, drink toilet water, you name it. I was totally enslaved. I couldn't resist anything that they wanted me to do. I began to despise them. Even the cute little blonde.
I was supposed to have the weekend off. They still needed to monitor me though, apparently, and the cute little blonde drew the short straw and had to watch me all weekend. I think she had it all planned out.
In the middle of breakfast, the unmistakable pulse worked its way through my pyjamas. This remote control worked from the other side of the building! I ran back to the lab, cock throbbing with pleasure, ready to throttle the bitch. When I got near her, she flipped a knob and I sank to my knees in agony. The bitch! She made me crawl to her, only alleviating the pain as I did her bidding. She gave me an instant, super-intense orgasm when I finally complied and licked her feet.
"Now, let there be no question about who's boss around here, OK?" she sneered.
I nodded meekly in reverence to her power over me. I had to do everything she said.
She made me wear women's underwear. She rewarded me sweetly for it, too. She made me Nair off all my body hair, put on makeup, and become a complete sissy boy for her. And she rewarded me sweetly at every step. I didn't want to. But I had to. It felt so incredibly good.
She punished me quite a bit before I finally sucked her boyfriend's cock. I resisted that for days, actually. Finally, when I succumbed, she rewarded me with the most intense erotic sensation I have ever felt. I sucked with complete relish as she fucked me remotely. The more passionately I sucked, the more pleasure she granted me. She finished me off as I finished licking the slimy mess from his thighs and balls that spilled out of my mouth when I couldn't swallow it fast enough.
I was so desperate that I let them do something to my cock. They gave me a local anesthetic, cut my piece on two sides, and put in some stringy wire thing. Then they stitched me up and told me not to engage in any sexual activity for 2 weeks, and to come back then.
Let me tell you, it was a nightmare to not allow myself any sexual gratification at all for that long. It doesn't seem long, but I probably thought about it more often just because they told me I couldn't do it. At any rate, I could barely notice that they had done anything to me. The stitches were very fine and small. The wire was so thin that I could only barely feel it under my skin. Regardless, however difficult it was to resist wanking or fucking for two weeks, they sure didn't prepare me for their little experiment.
They sat me down on a chair and tied up my arms. "Why the restraints?" I asked.
"Because we don't want you touching yourself at this point," explained a cute little blonde in a lab coat, as she wrote notes on a clipboard. "We need to test your thresholds, and you touching yourself would throw off our calibrations."
She disappeared, and I was left alone in the room looking at a dark mirror in front of me. It was like one of those cold, grey interrogation rooms in TV cop shows. I knew they were watching me from behind that one-way glass.
Suddenly, I felt a little twinge in my dick. Didn't know what to make of it. Then I felt it again, just as suddenly. I felt a bit embarrassed, and worried. I hoped that I hadn't reacted too strongly, knowing that they were watching my every move.
Gradually the twinges became more persistent, and I knew that they were doing something to me. It felt like a slight pressure on my cock. It felt quite pleasant in fact. I was getting aroused.
The sensation in my dick grew more and more pronounced. It felt like something oscillating within me. It felt like a phantom was giving me a hand job. I must have turned purple, because I was horribly embarrassed. A bunch of scientists were watching me try to keep a straight expression as they fiddled with my shaft with their remote control. I squirmed in my seat. I longed to touch myself, just as the cute little blonde had warned. I wonder if I would have dared knowing that I was being watched.
Pretty soon, I didn't even care. I felt so horny from the pulsation in my penis that I would have jerked off right in front of them. I started doing a little dance in my chair, gyrating my hips instinctively. It was growing to a fever pitch. Pretty soon the pressure and pulse was enough that I didn't even think I'd need to touch my dick. I was beginning to feel orgasmic. I couldn't contain my pleasure. I was breathing heavily, sweating, swinging my hips, moaning. It must have looked like I was fucking a ghost. It felt incredible. I didn't even need to move! Pure gratification.
Then I came all over myself, and collapsed into my chair. But the pulses wouldn't stop. In fact, they kept getting stronger. Moments later, I was right back in my state of ecstasy, in spite of the initial discomfort. I came all over myself again.
And again.
And yet again.
After the fifth time, I think I passed out. My cock hurt like hell from all the work. It couldn't handle any more. They unstrapped me and handed me a clean pair of pants and underwear, and sent me to the showers. Or rather, they rolled me to the showers, because I couldn't walk.
A week later, as scheduled, they ran the same experiment. I was still sore from the week before. This time, I lasted only four times, but man I was enjoying this experiment. The sensation was almost as good as the best sex, I kid you not. Or at least I thought so then. I was scheduled to continue attending for six more weeks, and my resistance got stronger and stronger. It was like working out a muscle for strength training. I learned to control my orgasms like an expert. I could hold out for at least an hour before coming. Imagine the most intense sex you've ever had, and stretch out the peaks for an entire day. This was much better than sex.
At the end they gave me my last paycheque and sent me on my way. I had tried to pick up the little blonde, but she was probably pretty grossed out by what I had been through. I felt like I could be the greatest lover a woman had ever known. She looked totally uninterested when she shot me down. Oh well.
It didn't take long for me to spend that cash. Lucky for me they asked me if I wanted to come back for a longer experiment. I jumped at the chance. This time the experiment would go for six months. Six months! Getting jerked off for six months, and getting paid for it! How could I resist? I signed all the forms without even looking at them.
It turned out that I had to move in to their facility. I didn't even have to go home anymore. It seems the experiments were going to require constant monitoring. It wouldn't be once a week anymore, but daily! I was really beginning to like this. Then they sprang their first stunt on me.
They weren't strapping me down anymore. Instead, they sat me at a table, where they placed a closed box, and left the room. Inside it was a pile of dead grasshoppers. They told me to eat one. I couldn't believe it. I felt nothing in my dick. Nothing at all. They told me to open the box. When I did, I felt them zap me something soothing and nice. As soon as I let go of the box, it stopped. Right away, I knew what they were up to. They wanted to see how far I would stoop before giving in to my sexual desires. Believe me, I tried to hold out. It felt like hours, but apparently it was only 42:51. It tasted awful, but the orgasm was phenomenal! I felt cheap and disgusting, manipulated into doing something so revolting.
This went on for a week before they got to the real point of their experiment. They had made me eat shit, smear it all over myself, lick the floor of a filthy latrine, drink toilet water, you name it. I was totally enslaved. I couldn't resist anything that they wanted me to do. I began to despise them. Even the cute little blonde.
I was supposed to have the weekend off. They still needed to monitor me though, apparently, and the cute little blonde drew the short straw and had to watch me all weekend. I think she had it all planned out.
In the middle of breakfast, the unmistakable pulse worked its way through my pyjamas. This remote control worked from the other side of the building! I ran back to the lab, cock throbbing with pleasure, ready to throttle the bitch. When I got near her, she flipped a knob and I sank to my knees in agony. The bitch! She made me crawl to her, only alleviating the pain as I did her bidding. She gave me an instant, super-intense orgasm when I finally complied and licked her feet.
"Now, let there be no question about who's boss around here, OK?" she sneered.
I nodded meekly in reverence to her power over me. I had to do everything she said.
She made me wear women's underwear. She rewarded me sweetly for it, too. She made me Nair off all my body hair, put on makeup, and become a complete sissy boy for her. And she rewarded me sweetly at every step. I didn't want to. But I had to. It felt so incredibly good.
She punished me quite a bit before I finally sucked her boyfriend's cock. I resisted that for days, actually. Finally, when I succumbed, she rewarded me with the most intense erotic sensation I have ever felt. I sucked with complete relish as she fucked me remotely. The more passionately I sucked, the more pleasure she granted me. She finished me off as I finished licking the slimy mess from his thighs and balls that spilled out of my mouth when I couldn't swallow it fast enough.
Fiction: The Knight of Lingerie
[The knight rode in, gleaming in her armour, atop her white horse, taller than most men, but radiantly beautiful nonetheless. Her armour was fitted to her feminine form. She unhorsed many a knight during the tournament. She took them prisoner, as is her right as victor, and returned to the land of Amazonia. The men were never heard from again. Perhaps they hid themselves in their shame for losing to a woman, even though she was formidable in her own right.]
[The woman-knight rides in and collects her prisoners in the name of the Queen of Amazonia. She sends taunting messages from her Liege, which brings great shame to our kingdom. But knights are afraid to challenge her. She is so powerful that they fear losing to her. It seems shameful merely to dress for battle against her, a woman.]
The king was troubled that none of his knights would take the challenge. His kingdom became a wasteland, a mockery. Until the White Knight appeared.
The White Knight meets the Princess of Amazonia in a joust. They fight long and hard, but he eventually emerges victorious. As his prize, he gets the Princess of Amazonia's hand, and all of her lands. They travel together to Amazonia.
When they arrive, they treat him to a hero's welcome. The Princess has hundreds of pages, all former knights that she has vanquished, at her service, and at the service of the White Knight. She also has scores of beautiful maidens, who command the pages as they please, but also serve both the Princess and the White Knight.
As is the custom, the Princess bids her servants make the White Knight some clothes. As they bring him his new garments, he remarks on how they appear unmistakably feminine. But he cannot refuse them, or else he will dishonour himself. Therefore he must agree to wear them.
First, the maidens have him slide into tight, white, silken breeches, with lacy trim, and tie him into a matching harness for his chest. This harness appears shaped to hold a woman's breasts. They then girt him with an elegant white belt, made of the finest silk and lace he had ever seen. From his belt hang ribbons of silk with buttons on the end. It clinches him tightly around the waist, so tightly as to make him uncomfortable, but the maidens insist that this is the way it is meant to be, and that it suits him perfectly. They bring him skin-tight silk stockings, pristine white, just like the breeches, chest harness, and belt. He slides them onto his legs and luxuriates in the sensation. At last, they present him with a beautiful white robe, which fits him tightly around the waist and chest and arms, but flares out at his legs. They bring him delicate white leather shoes, with pointed toe and raised heel, which he barely manages to keep his balance in.
He marvels at the sensation that these clothes bring him. He remarks on how the women of his land would wear exactly such clothing, but that he will willingly suffer wearing it to please his hostess.
At last, they bring him to the Hall, where all the Amazonian knights and ladies await a great feast celebrating the impending wedding of their Princess. To his dismay, the men and ladies follow similar fashions to his own people. The knights gape at him in shock, and the ladies snicker. The Princess appears beside him, more beautiful and radiant than ever any woman before her, wearing the same clothes.
"Lady," he complains, "You have dishonored me! I will forever suffer the ridicule of my fellow knights, no matter how valiantly I fight, no matter how many knights and lands I conquer! You have made me dress like a woman, and parade myself before hundreds of noble lords and ladies. My dishonour will follow me like my shadow."
The Princess comforts him, reminding him how he seemed to enjoy his clothes earlier, and that he willingly put them on anyway. Also, he reminded him that her honour lasts in spite of her wearing the same clothes.
The White Knight reddens with shame at this. He flees to his chamber, to fling off his dress, and put on his armour. His own clothes are gone, and he cannot go into his armour naked, so he keeps on his stockings, breeches, and chest harness. He gallops far away from Amazonia, swearing to never return. The Princess prophesies the contrary.
The White Knight, defending his honour along the way, conquers many more knights, whom he forces to surrender to the Princess of Amazonia and beg her to wear her clothing. This would absolve him of all shame, because all knights wear women's clothing, not just him. He arrives home to ridicule, and removes his armour to replace the object of his shame with more masculine attire. He need not even vow to never wear women's clothing again.
At length, he finds himself longing for the Princess again. He remembers the shame of wearing her clothing, but also thinks fondly of it for reminding him of his beloved Princess. He longs so much for it that he has similar undergarments made for himself. He wears them under his armour, just as he did when he departed Amazonia.
He jousts another knight, who recognizes him, and chides him about his dishonour. The other knight can see the white silk under a piece of armour he has knocked off the White Knight. The enrages the White Knight, who vanquishes his opponent and kills him. In his shame, he removes his womanly clothes at his first opportunity, vowing to avenge his shame.
But he returns to it, as if by enchantment. He wears it more and more. But it only increases his longing for his Princess, because he knows it to be a mere imitation of the genuine article. He craves more and more the privilege of wearing his Princess's clothing. He begins to feel more powerfully feminine than before. He becomes more and more proud of his longing. He begins to wear his feminine clothes as a badge of honour. He has armour made for himself like he saw on his beloved princess. He begins to become more and more like a woman. His breasts begin to grow, his body hair thins, his voice rises.
At last he returns to her, happy to admit his folly, and agrees to become her equal, her sister in arms. In a ceremony in front of all the vanquished knights, who have been forced to wear women's clothing, and praying for a saviour, the White Knight proclaims manhood dead, and vows to become a true woman, and rule Amazonia as a woman.
Fantasy: Technological Feminization
Men are obsessed with the female form. What's more, we pretend that we can't like delicate, frilly, flowery pretty things, yet we melt at the site of women who have all of these qualities. In truth, men won't admit to obsessing over feminine things, because that would undermine their own sexuality. Secretly, though, they can't get enough. And secretly, they all want to surround themselves with femininity, but they just can't dare. Women dress the way they do because they know that men like it. They like it because they want to be feminine too.
Here's a fantasy: technological advances have made possible feminization through clothes. The cosmetics industry has designed garments that help women maintain their femininity far longer and more easily than before. They have been shown to feminize the butchiest women. Nobody thought they could be so useful on men.
Masculinity is extremely fragile, but femininity is irrevocable.
The thigh-high stockings I've been forced to wear will electrolyze my leg hair completely off, permanently, while pumping a healthy dose of hormones into my skin. Bras and panties concentrate energy on my female erogenous zones, and make it incredibly pleasurable to wear them. The shoes, of course, form my feet into the perfect shape for 2-inch heels. A garter belt squeezes my waist in. I wear skirts and dresses only, because my panties burn up and punish me if they aren't allowed contact with air. My vocal cords shrink, my body hair falls out, and I start liking boys a lot more. I figure that I might as well enjoy my impending girlhood, because I can't resist anymore. It's like a perpetual orgasm. And I feel so pretty.
Here's a fantasy: technological advances have made possible feminization through clothes. The cosmetics industry has designed garments that help women maintain their femininity far longer and more easily than before. They have been shown to feminize the butchiest women. Nobody thought they could be so useful on men.
Masculinity is extremely fragile, but femininity is irrevocable.
The thigh-high stockings I've been forced to wear will electrolyze my leg hair completely off, permanently, while pumping a healthy dose of hormones into my skin. Bras and panties concentrate energy on my female erogenous zones, and make it incredibly pleasurable to wear them. The shoes, of course, form my feet into the perfect shape for 2-inch heels. A garter belt squeezes my waist in. I wear skirts and dresses only, because my panties burn up and punish me if they aren't allowed contact with air. My vocal cords shrink, my body hair falls out, and I start liking boys a lot more. I figure that I might as well enjoy my impending girlhood, because I can't resist anymore. It's like a perpetual orgasm. And I feel so pretty.
Diary: Formative Years
At what point is it forced? At what point does it become voluntary? How and when does he succumb? Does he do it knowing that he will love it? Does he do it because he thinks he won't? Or does he simply get caught up in it, unable to explain it or deny it, unable to understand what is happening to him?
It's the danger of forbidden knowledge. We are made to feel ashamed of our sexual urges as children. We learn to hide our secret desires, feel embarrassed by them. Interest in women and everything associated with them becomes dangerous. It's a matter of identity: I'm not a girl, I'm a boy, and I must therefore do boy things; I must make a distinction between the sexes, and make it as rigid as possible. We struggle all our lives to discover who we are. We make choices based on what others do and how they appear. I had to identify with other boys. Girls identify with each other. But secretly, we all want to know more about the other camp. I secretly adore girls, and everything about them fascinates me in ways that I cannot begin to explain. But I'll never admit to that in public.
So it's forbidden for me to know much about them. I know how they look clothed, but I'm not allowed to see them naked. That's far too intimate. Only girls should see girls naked. That's why they have segregated washrooms. What would happen if I did know what they wear under their clothes?
Now I know. I know that I know too much. I have seen girls in their underwear. In their swimwear. I know what their clothes look like from the inside. I have been initiated. I found out how it feels to wear their clothes. Their swimwear. Their underwear. I know how to put on pantyhose, stockings, panties, a garter belt, a brassiere. Now that I know, I can never go back.
It's the danger of forbidden knowledge. We are made to feel ashamed of our sexual urges as children. We learn to hide our secret desires, feel embarrassed by them. Interest in women and everything associated with them becomes dangerous. It's a matter of identity: I'm not a girl, I'm a boy, and I must therefore do boy things; I must make a distinction between the sexes, and make it as rigid as possible. We struggle all our lives to discover who we are. We make choices based on what others do and how they appear. I had to identify with other boys. Girls identify with each other. But secretly, we all want to know more about the other camp. I secretly adore girls, and everything about them fascinates me in ways that I cannot begin to explain. But I'll never admit to that in public.
So it's forbidden for me to know much about them. I know how they look clothed, but I'm not allowed to see them naked. That's far too intimate. Only girls should see girls naked. That's why they have segregated washrooms. What would happen if I did know what they wear under their clothes?
Now I know. I know that I know too much. I have seen girls in their underwear. In their swimwear. I know what their clothes look like from the inside. I have been initiated. I found out how it feels to wear their clothes. Their swimwear. Their underwear. I know how to put on pantyhose, stockings, panties, a garter belt, a brassiere. Now that I know, I can never go back.
Fantasy: Laetitia's Priestess
Laetitia Casta is a goddess.
She exudes femininity in every picture I've ever seen of her. She has that intangible femaleness that would lure any heterosexual man to his very death. She models underwear and swimwear. France has declared her a national icon, the representation of her country. I would give up everything to just touch her. Everything.
So by chance I met her. She is everything in person that she is in photos. I told her that I would give up everything to just touch her. So she let me touch her.
She allowed me to follow her around like a lost puppy. She wore as much as she does in her photos. I touched her once, but that was all. I wanted more, and she knew it. But she remained adamant. I was not permitted to touch her again in any way until I gave her everything.
She tormented me. She came very close to me, sensuously, and let me smell her skin. I could not dare touch her. She teased me as she stripped in front of me and showed me all the underwear she has.
This went on for days. I couldn't take it anymore. I came at the sight of her. And I was still putty in her hands. She teased me more and more viciously, still awaiting that I give her everything. One day she started allowing me to touch her underwear after she discarded it. I treasured it. It had been so close to her, had touched her most intimate details. It was almost her. There was a part of her in it. She giggled about this. She had it all figured out from the beginning.
"Wear it," she said.
I didn't hesitate. My body shook with anticipation of my cock touching something that she had been in contact with -- much less worn against -- her glorious pussy. As I slid the panties up to my waist, my knees buckled as I collapsed in the sheer ecstasy of the experience. At that moment, I understood what she meant to do with me. And I welcomed it.
She had had me worship her femininity. Now I had become initiated into her priesthood. I now abandoned everything I owned to become her disciple. I cast off all my own possessions, down to my underwear. From now on, I would strive to become as much like my goddess as possible. I would wear anything she discarded, and try to become as feminine as her. She had me model her underwear and swimwear after her, and mark my progress.
I did as much as I could with that unsightly bulge between my legs. I grew my own hair, breasts, and lost all my body hair. My voice changed pitch. Even as my dick shrank, I anticipated losing it altogether. I would become a girl just like her, only not natural like her.
At last she got everything when I finally had my penis removed. As a token of my gift to her, I cooked it and ate it before her. Finally after all this time, she allowed me to touch her. I caressed her skin not as a lover but as a sister.
She exudes femininity in every picture I've ever seen of her. She has that intangible femaleness that would lure any heterosexual man to his very death. She models underwear and swimwear. France has declared her a national icon, the representation of her country. I would give up everything to just touch her. Everything.
So by chance I met her. She is everything in person that she is in photos. I told her that I would give up everything to just touch her. So she let me touch her.
She allowed me to follow her around like a lost puppy. She wore as much as she does in her photos. I touched her once, but that was all. I wanted more, and she knew it. But she remained adamant. I was not permitted to touch her again in any way until I gave her everything.
She tormented me. She came very close to me, sensuously, and let me smell her skin. I could not dare touch her. She teased me as she stripped in front of me and showed me all the underwear she has.
This went on for days. I couldn't take it anymore. I came at the sight of her. And I was still putty in her hands. She teased me more and more viciously, still awaiting that I give her everything. One day she started allowing me to touch her underwear after she discarded it. I treasured it. It had been so close to her, had touched her most intimate details. It was almost her. There was a part of her in it. She giggled about this. She had it all figured out from the beginning.
"Wear it," she said.
I didn't hesitate. My body shook with anticipation of my cock touching something that she had been in contact with -- much less worn against -- her glorious pussy. As I slid the panties up to my waist, my knees buckled as I collapsed in the sheer ecstasy of the experience. At that moment, I understood what she meant to do with me. And I welcomed it.
She had had me worship her femininity. Now I had become initiated into her priesthood. I now abandoned everything I owned to become her disciple. I cast off all my own possessions, down to my underwear. From now on, I would strive to become as much like my goddess as possible. I would wear anything she discarded, and try to become as feminine as her. She had me model her underwear and swimwear after her, and mark my progress.
I did as much as I could with that unsightly bulge between my legs. I grew my own hair, breasts, and lost all my body hair. My voice changed pitch. Even as my dick shrank, I anticipated losing it altogether. I would become a girl just like her, only not natural like her.
At last she got everything when I finally had my penis removed. As a token of my gift to her, I cooked it and ate it before her. Finally after all this time, she allowed me to touch her. I caressed her skin not as a lover but as a sister.
Diary: Britney Lookalike
An interesting news story caught my eye this weekend. It seems that teen pop star Britney Spears had a lookalike contest, the winner of which would get to hang around with her backstage at one of her concerts. Naturally, all the teeny-boppers in the world who idolize her and want to be just like her. So did 23-year old Robert Stephens. He's been practicing all his life to be just like Britney Spears. He dressed up like her and won the contest hands down. At the concert, when he claimed his prize, the press mistook him for Britney herself, he looks so much like her, and her publicists went ballistic and threw him out.
What a lucky bastard!
I remember hearing about a guy who idolized Elle MacPherson so much that he became a lookalike of her. Now that's dedication. I would love to do that, too. Britney is incredibly beautiful. I imagine he went the whole nine yards, meaning that he wasn't wearing anything masculine underneath. He looks so much like her - and she looks pretty damned feminine - that he must put in hours of practice. He must even move like her. That's incredibly cool. The guy made himself into one of the most beautiful girls on the planet. What an ambition! What a fantasy!
Imagine being forced to become a lookalike of a supermodel...
What a lucky bastard!
I remember hearing about a guy who idolized Elle MacPherson so much that he became a lookalike of her. Now that's dedication. I would love to do that, too. Britney is incredibly beautiful. I imagine he went the whole nine yards, meaning that he wasn't wearing anything masculine underneath. He looks so much like her - and she looks pretty damned feminine - that he must put in hours of practice. He must even move like her. That's incredibly cool. The guy made himself into one of the most beautiful girls on the planet. What an ambition! What a fantasy!
Imagine being forced to become a lookalike of a supermodel...
Fiction: Getting Interested
I always thought of myself as a good judge of women's looks. That means that I know what looks good on a woman. I know what I want to see women wearing. Now, I can't say that I ever took an active interest in women's fashions, but I know what I like. Doesn't that sound subversive? It's as if I can't really be a man if I know anything about women's clothes. Anyone who knows that much about women's clothes must be effeminate. It's either too much a female thing for a guy to be preoccupied about, or its likely to rub off on a guy and make him effeminate.
My girl was always very shy, very unwilling to take a chance on something too flashy or revealing. I liked to shop with her and subtly point out the things I wanted her to wear. It would have been too strange for me to actively push her to wear something I wanted to see her in. Like I said, it would appear effeminate of me to take such a keen interest in women's fashions. My manhood would inevitably come into doubt. Still, I, and I'm sure most men, know what they want to see. It made perfect sense to me to have an interest.
As we wandered through the stores, I would picture her in everything, and get inwardly excited at the thought of her wearing certain outfits. I struggled through the lingerie stores, let me tell you. I came to appreciate the subtleties of lace and spaghetti straps that show off shoulders, and the softness of silk and satin, how certain shapes set off certain of the more delectable portions of the female anatomy. Everything was so delicate, accented the delicacy of my woman. The clothes themselves take on a life of their own, a sexuality of their own. A nightgown or a brassiere turned me on by itself, exuding a femininity that, combined with my girl's body, would be irresistible.
Naturally, I loved to feel this femininity in my hands, against my body, exploring it and caressing it lovingly. Every man needs to feel this. I wanted to surround myself with her, drown in her, submerge myself entirely within her girlhood. That's what men do. That's how we get off.
With that in mind, somehow I got it in my head that by holding her nightie while I slept, it would comfort me, make me closer to her when she wasn't there. It did. But I would lose my grip in my sleep, and thereby lose it. So I had to drape it over myself. The easiest and most logical way to accomplish that would be to wear it.
Women do this all the time. Nobody questions their sexuality.
It was such a wonderful substitute. It made me horny, even. It was like I was surrounded by womanhood. I couldn't help but gratify myself in it. I even brought it into our lovemaking. After we were done, I would take her nightie and caress it, not letting her have it back. I told her all about how it made me feel. She was a little repulsed at first, but she agreed to let me sleep in her nighty every now and then. She's so lucky: she gets to be surrounded by girl stuff all the time. I only get these rare moments to slake my thirst.
I began to truly admire her then. I envied her. She could look so incredibly good, she could wear such wonderfully sexy, delicate, beautiful clothing, and feel great about it and herself. I worshiped her womanhood. To the point of wanting to emulate her.
She began to dominate in our lovemaking, as I held her in such high esteem. At first, I would half-jokingly beg her to touch her underwear. Then she would make me wear it. At length, it escalated to the point where where she would choose lingerie for ME to wear, and not the other way around. We frolicked together in her undergarments, celebrating femininity.
Every time I wore her clothes, I dreamed of them shaping me like her. I wanted to become like her. I wanted to be a woman, pretty and delicate and sexy.
My girl was always very shy, very unwilling to take a chance on something too flashy or revealing. I liked to shop with her and subtly point out the things I wanted her to wear. It would have been too strange for me to actively push her to wear something I wanted to see her in. Like I said, it would appear effeminate of me to take such a keen interest in women's fashions. My manhood would inevitably come into doubt. Still, I, and I'm sure most men, know what they want to see. It made perfect sense to me to have an interest.
As we wandered through the stores, I would picture her in everything, and get inwardly excited at the thought of her wearing certain outfits. I struggled through the lingerie stores, let me tell you. I came to appreciate the subtleties of lace and spaghetti straps that show off shoulders, and the softness of silk and satin, how certain shapes set off certain of the more delectable portions of the female anatomy. Everything was so delicate, accented the delicacy of my woman. The clothes themselves take on a life of their own, a sexuality of their own. A nightgown or a brassiere turned me on by itself, exuding a femininity that, combined with my girl's body, would be irresistible.
Naturally, I loved to feel this femininity in my hands, against my body, exploring it and caressing it lovingly. Every man needs to feel this. I wanted to surround myself with her, drown in her, submerge myself entirely within her girlhood. That's what men do. That's how we get off.
With that in mind, somehow I got it in my head that by holding her nightie while I slept, it would comfort me, make me closer to her when she wasn't there. It did. But I would lose my grip in my sleep, and thereby lose it. So I had to drape it over myself. The easiest and most logical way to accomplish that would be to wear it.
Women do this all the time. Nobody questions their sexuality.
It was such a wonderful substitute. It made me horny, even. It was like I was surrounded by womanhood. I couldn't help but gratify myself in it. I even brought it into our lovemaking. After we were done, I would take her nightie and caress it, not letting her have it back. I told her all about how it made me feel. She was a little repulsed at first, but she agreed to let me sleep in her nighty every now and then. She's so lucky: she gets to be surrounded by girl stuff all the time. I only get these rare moments to slake my thirst.
I began to truly admire her then. I envied her. She could look so incredibly good, she could wear such wonderfully sexy, delicate, beautiful clothing, and feel great about it and herself. I worshiped her womanhood. To the point of wanting to emulate her.
She began to dominate in our lovemaking, as I held her in such high esteem. At first, I would half-jokingly beg her to touch her underwear. Then she would make me wear it. At length, it escalated to the point where where she would choose lingerie for ME to wear, and not the other way around. We frolicked together in her undergarments, celebrating femininity.
Every time I wore her clothes, I dreamed of them shaping me like her. I wanted to become like her. I wanted to be a woman, pretty and delicate and sexy.
Fiction: A First Time
The idea came to me so subtly that I didn't even notice it at first. I don't even think that I can adequately retrace the path my mind took to get to it. But I will try.
There are times when I get horny for no good reason. I just have a general feeling of arousal, brought on by nothing. It's not a feeling of desire, but an acknowledgment of a potential for it. Are there not times when you're aroused, but not particularly horny? This is the opposite: horny, but not yet aroused. This particular moment, I happened to be looking at a page 3 girl wearing a one-piece swimsuit. She wasn't even all that pretty, but she looked very nice in that tight little outfit. It just so happened that my girl at the time had one very similar, if not identical, to it. And I knew where she kept it.
Seeing the page 3 girl made me think of my girl in her swimsuit, and how I had seen her out of that same swimsuit and made love to her. I thought of all her delicious curves, and how they stood out so much in that swimsuit. Unfortunately, I was alone in the apartment, and she wouldn't be back for quite a while, so I couldn't yank her into bed and fuck her on the spot. I would have liked her to model it for me, too, just because I had it on my mind and felt a little playful.
It would have been strange to ask her, in the middle of the day, to put on a swimsuit so that I could ogle her and bang her. If she were here, that is. I don't think she would have quite understood. I had asked her to wear lingerie before, and a bikini or something for a day at the beach, but not like this. Every man loves to see his woman wearing something sexy, and I'm no exception. Somehow, it got into my mind that I had to see at least the swimsuit, even if she weren't in it. Perhaps the thought went even deeper, and I didn't consciously admit it to myself at that time. I felt a little kinky about it, and got that much hornier.
I resisted for a few hours, but, like I said, I had that potential, and I couldn't let it go to waste. I had all day with nothing to do. Why not indulge in a little fantasy? I couldn't resist. So I went straight to her dresser to peek at her swimsuit.
It was easy to find among all her dainty feminine things. It was so bright and colourful. It excited me to touch her panties, and especially that swimsuit. I fondled it a bit and closed the drawer, feeling a bit foolish. I relished the soft silkiness of the material as I imagined her in it, soft and curvaceous. What was I doing? I mustered up some discipline and left it.
I grew restless for the twenty minutes I managed to keep away from her dresser. I couldn't stop fantasizing about it, about her, about the page 3 girl, about what I would do about it all. I needed to touch the swimsuit again. I needed to examine it closely, admire it and picture it on my girl. Or so I thought to myself. By then I had started to realize that I didn't even care about my girl at this moment, just her swimsuit. There is something inherently feminine about women's underwear and swimwear. Something about the way it accentuates female shapes makes it ultra-feminine. It's delicate and pretty by itself. And there's also something forbidden about it. No man should be so intimate with women's clothing. It's something so personal, so sexual, so intimate that no-one but the most extraordinary man should be worthy to know it. And here I came, uninitiated, defiling this altar of womanhood. I suppose it's overdramatic to put it that way, but that's how I felt. I was being naughty. And I was taking a risk of being overpowered by something feminine.
The problem is that I wanted to be overpowered. That's what sex is all about. I had already succumbed, even before I stood with the bathing suit dangling in my hand, holding it in front of myself, smelling it, exploring its composition and shape. It had to be feminine: it was so unlike anything I or any other man had ever worn. The crotch looked so sensual. I could imagine what my girl put against it when she wore it. It was like I was exploring a woman. I caressed it with my fingers, rubbed my face in it. I was fixated by it, aroused by it. It was so tight and stretchy. I pictured my girl getting into it, and out of it, and gallivanting around in it. So tight, so girlish! Then the idea struck me full on, and scared the shit out of me. I think I must have blushed.
Again, I stuffed it back where I found it and vowed not to think of it again. I had gotten too naughty, and I was getting far too excited about it. I had to control myself. I took a cold shower to take my mind off of it.
Somehow, water doesn't really make one forget about bathing suits. I was getting dressed when the thought came to me full force again. I certainly blushed again. I tried to avoid going back to her dresser, but it was so close to mine. Water and bathing suits go together quite well, I hear.
I had managed enough control to put on pants and a shirt, but I not to avoid the swimsuit. I took it right out of the dresser again, and fondled it some more. I wanted to see it stretch with the shape of a lithe female body. I filled the cups with my fists, but they had the wrong shape. I needed to fill in the butt, the crotch, the waist, the belly, and the shoulders under the straps. I rubbed it against my chest as I lifted up my shirt. So soft! I needed more. I rubbed it against my crotch, but through my pants. Not enough!
I flopped onto the bed, stepping out of my pants. I tore off my shirt. I sat in only my underwear, the bathing suit beside me. I rubbed it against my crotch, but still that wasn't enough. I knew what I had to do, but couldn't dare. I jerked myself just thinking about it. I couldn't believe what I was thinking, much less that it aroused me so much. It was so naughty, not for defiling the feminine altar, but for defiling my own manhood, and willingly. The thought of betraying my gender this way aroused me enormously. But I still couldn't go all the way with it.
I finally decided to take the plunge. My hands trembled as I seized the bathing suit in front of me, and grabbing it by the waist, sure to have the front facing away from me. I'd seen my girl do it before. I didn't dare take off my underwear, for fear of what would happen if I went too far too fast. Something inside me wanted to, not for the rush of risking the consequences, but specifically to suffer them.
I stepped into the leg holes, and pulled the bathing suit up slowly and sensuously to my crotch. I yanked it up as high as it would go, but didn't put my arms through the shoulder straps. It was so tight against my body that I almost creamed right then and there. And I was still wearing my underwear underneath, to protect me from the femininity. It was bad enough that I was doing this already, but what if I liked it? I would surely do it more and more, until I wear it all the time! And God help me if there wasn't a part of me that screamed YES! YES! WEAR IT ALL THE TIME! I fondled myself like this for a while, overjoyed to finally have a body to fondle under that swimsuit. I reveled in its tightness, its smoothness, its girlishness. I wanted to be female at that moment, and I admitted it freely, but guiltily to myself. I was wearing my girl's swimsuit for the thrill of feeling feminine.
It had to go further. I had tasted this half-worn swimsuit over my underwear, just fondling the shoulder straps, teasing myself about actually sliding all the way into it. I was teasing myself about becoming feminine. I wanted to be a girl now. I had to experience wearing a woman's swimsuit like only a woman can. I slid on the straps, just to test my commitment, and kept it on like that for a few minutes. Even that was exhilarating. I knew it would be difficult for me to slide the swimsuit off, but I had to to remove my underwear. I had kept it as a last shred of manhood, the last layer protecting me against becoming completely engulfed in femininity. Now I flung it off and welcomed girlishness wholeheartedly, recklessly, ecstatically. I strapped myself in, and swung my hips effeminately.
I couldn't believe how wonderfully it made me feel! I had never worn anything that caressed my crotch and my hips quite the way this bathing suit did. It was so high-cut, so tight, so smooth, so sexy. I celebrated my new-found womanhood with vigour. I couldn't help but begin to imagine what it would feel like to try a bikini, a garter belt, panties, a bra, pantihose, skirts, dresses, makeup. . . Thoughts of lingerie filled my head, and to think that I had such items so close at hand, in my girl's dresser! This rush was far better than any sex I had ever had.
I creamed the swimsuit so badly that I panicked. I didn't know what to do. If my girl found out, it would be over, and I would be so humiliated. I felt deep shame. I had gone way too far. But it felt so incredibly good! I vowed, nonetheless, to never do it again. I washed the swimsuit by hand, and placed it carefully back where it belonged. The sight of silk and satin in her dresser now had a whole new meaning for me.
There are times when I get horny for no good reason. I just have a general feeling of arousal, brought on by nothing. It's not a feeling of desire, but an acknowledgment of a potential for it. Are there not times when you're aroused, but not particularly horny? This is the opposite: horny, but not yet aroused. This particular moment, I happened to be looking at a page 3 girl wearing a one-piece swimsuit. She wasn't even all that pretty, but she looked very nice in that tight little outfit. It just so happened that my girl at the time had one very similar, if not identical, to it. And I knew where she kept it.
Seeing the page 3 girl made me think of my girl in her swimsuit, and how I had seen her out of that same swimsuit and made love to her. I thought of all her delicious curves, and how they stood out so much in that swimsuit. Unfortunately, I was alone in the apartment, and she wouldn't be back for quite a while, so I couldn't yank her into bed and fuck her on the spot. I would have liked her to model it for me, too, just because I had it on my mind and felt a little playful.
It would have been strange to ask her, in the middle of the day, to put on a swimsuit so that I could ogle her and bang her. If she were here, that is. I don't think she would have quite understood. I had asked her to wear lingerie before, and a bikini or something for a day at the beach, but not like this. Every man loves to see his woman wearing something sexy, and I'm no exception. Somehow, it got into my mind that I had to see at least the swimsuit, even if she weren't in it. Perhaps the thought went even deeper, and I didn't consciously admit it to myself at that time. I felt a little kinky about it, and got that much hornier.
I resisted for a few hours, but, like I said, I had that potential, and I couldn't let it go to waste. I had all day with nothing to do. Why not indulge in a little fantasy? I couldn't resist. So I went straight to her dresser to peek at her swimsuit.
It was easy to find among all her dainty feminine things. It was so bright and colourful. It excited me to touch her panties, and especially that swimsuit. I fondled it a bit and closed the drawer, feeling a bit foolish. I relished the soft silkiness of the material as I imagined her in it, soft and curvaceous. What was I doing? I mustered up some discipline and left it.
I grew restless for the twenty minutes I managed to keep away from her dresser. I couldn't stop fantasizing about it, about her, about the page 3 girl, about what I would do about it all. I needed to touch the swimsuit again. I needed to examine it closely, admire it and picture it on my girl. Or so I thought to myself. By then I had started to realize that I didn't even care about my girl at this moment, just her swimsuit. There is something inherently feminine about women's underwear and swimwear. Something about the way it accentuates female shapes makes it ultra-feminine. It's delicate and pretty by itself. And there's also something forbidden about it. No man should be so intimate with women's clothing. It's something so personal, so sexual, so intimate that no-one but the most extraordinary man should be worthy to know it. And here I came, uninitiated, defiling this altar of womanhood. I suppose it's overdramatic to put it that way, but that's how I felt. I was being naughty. And I was taking a risk of being overpowered by something feminine.
The problem is that I wanted to be overpowered. That's what sex is all about. I had already succumbed, even before I stood with the bathing suit dangling in my hand, holding it in front of myself, smelling it, exploring its composition and shape. It had to be feminine: it was so unlike anything I or any other man had ever worn. The crotch looked so sensual. I could imagine what my girl put against it when she wore it. It was like I was exploring a woman. I caressed it with my fingers, rubbed my face in it. I was fixated by it, aroused by it. It was so tight and stretchy. I pictured my girl getting into it, and out of it, and gallivanting around in it. So tight, so girlish! Then the idea struck me full on, and scared the shit out of me. I think I must have blushed.
Again, I stuffed it back where I found it and vowed not to think of it again. I had gotten too naughty, and I was getting far too excited about it. I had to control myself. I took a cold shower to take my mind off of it.
Somehow, water doesn't really make one forget about bathing suits. I was getting dressed when the thought came to me full force again. I certainly blushed again. I tried to avoid going back to her dresser, but it was so close to mine. Water and bathing suits go together quite well, I hear.
I had managed enough control to put on pants and a shirt, but I not to avoid the swimsuit. I took it right out of the dresser again, and fondled it some more. I wanted to see it stretch with the shape of a lithe female body. I filled the cups with my fists, but they had the wrong shape. I needed to fill in the butt, the crotch, the waist, the belly, and the shoulders under the straps. I rubbed it against my chest as I lifted up my shirt. So soft! I needed more. I rubbed it against my crotch, but through my pants. Not enough!
I flopped onto the bed, stepping out of my pants. I tore off my shirt. I sat in only my underwear, the bathing suit beside me. I rubbed it against my crotch, but still that wasn't enough. I knew what I had to do, but couldn't dare. I jerked myself just thinking about it. I couldn't believe what I was thinking, much less that it aroused me so much. It was so naughty, not for defiling the feminine altar, but for defiling my own manhood, and willingly. The thought of betraying my gender this way aroused me enormously. But I still couldn't go all the way with it.
I finally decided to take the plunge. My hands trembled as I seized the bathing suit in front of me, and grabbing it by the waist, sure to have the front facing away from me. I'd seen my girl do it before. I didn't dare take off my underwear, for fear of what would happen if I went too far too fast. Something inside me wanted to, not for the rush of risking the consequences, but specifically to suffer them.
I stepped into the leg holes, and pulled the bathing suit up slowly and sensuously to my crotch. I yanked it up as high as it would go, but didn't put my arms through the shoulder straps. It was so tight against my body that I almost creamed right then and there. And I was still wearing my underwear underneath, to protect me from the femininity. It was bad enough that I was doing this already, but what if I liked it? I would surely do it more and more, until I wear it all the time! And God help me if there wasn't a part of me that screamed YES! YES! WEAR IT ALL THE TIME! I fondled myself like this for a while, overjoyed to finally have a body to fondle under that swimsuit. I reveled in its tightness, its smoothness, its girlishness. I wanted to be female at that moment, and I admitted it freely, but guiltily to myself. I was wearing my girl's swimsuit for the thrill of feeling feminine.
It had to go further. I had tasted this half-worn swimsuit over my underwear, just fondling the shoulder straps, teasing myself about actually sliding all the way into it. I was teasing myself about becoming feminine. I wanted to be a girl now. I had to experience wearing a woman's swimsuit like only a woman can. I slid on the straps, just to test my commitment, and kept it on like that for a few minutes. Even that was exhilarating. I knew it would be difficult for me to slide the swimsuit off, but I had to to remove my underwear. I had kept it as a last shred of manhood, the last layer protecting me against becoming completely engulfed in femininity. Now I flung it off and welcomed girlishness wholeheartedly, recklessly, ecstatically. I strapped myself in, and swung my hips effeminately.
I couldn't believe how wonderfully it made me feel! I had never worn anything that caressed my crotch and my hips quite the way this bathing suit did. It was so high-cut, so tight, so smooth, so sexy. I celebrated my new-found womanhood with vigour. I couldn't help but begin to imagine what it would feel like to try a bikini, a garter belt, panties, a bra, pantihose, skirts, dresses, makeup. . . Thoughts of lingerie filled my head, and to think that I had such items so close at hand, in my girl's dresser! This rush was far better than any sex I had ever had.
I creamed the swimsuit so badly that I panicked. I didn't know what to do. If my girl found out, it would be over, and I would be so humiliated. I felt deep shame. I had gone way too far. But it felt so incredibly good! I vowed, nonetheless, to never do it again. I washed the swimsuit by hand, and placed it carefully back where it belonged. The sight of silk and satin in her dresser now had a whole new meaning for me.
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.
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