So many of the other men are protesting against the very idea of compromising their manhood. The lingerie we are supposed to wear is absolutely gorgeous. It's just the type of thing I would have bought for my own, private, pleasure. But this is in public. They want me to wear it. I can't resist. I've never done this in front of anyone before, but I really like where this is going.
As soon as I slide into the panties, a rush of excitement almost makes me faint. I'm standing between two girls! I'm willingly putting on the same underwear as they are! How wonderfully, beautifully, arousingly exciting! I giggle nervously as I make eye contact with the pretty brunette to my right while putting on the exquisite bra just as easily as she did.
It's always been so difficult for me. I love girls so desperately. I worship their shape, their attitude, their softness. They make me swoon with desire. But I love them so much that I often feel the need to be like them. I never feel more intense a sexual rush than when I put on women's underwear and pretend that I'm turning into a girl. I have kept this secret most vigorously. Until now.
As I look around, I can tell by their faces that some of the other men are closet pansies just like me, but even now, with their fantasies fulfilling before their eyes, they still refuse to admit it. I can't conceal my joy, and I'm not even bothering to. I'm grinning from ear to ear, and fondling my new garments. They want to turn me into a girl!
The pretty brunette turns out to be Nancy. "How do you like your new panties?" she asks.
I blush and giggle like a schoolgirl. "I like them. A lot."
"They're really pretty on you. How do you like the idea of becoming a girl?"
"I can't wait!"
Fiction: Massive Forced Feminization: The Rookie
This time, we make sure that it goes slowly, after the initial push
"So," finished Lia, "you understand how this works?"
I nodded. I am wearing a panty and bra set, off-white, satiny, and lacy. Lia is a knockout in the same outfit. She has explained that I will learn to become a girl, just like her. It is my new ambition to become as feminine as she is - or more, if possible. We all know that I will be a horrible excuse for a woman for the first little while, but that I will eventually succeed. We also know that I am not doing this voluntarily, but with a gun to my head. Lia swears that I will come around in no time at all.
"Clearly, you love my body," she says. "But in all the wrong ways. Look at yourself! You're wearing the same thing as me! And you put it on yourself. You're already used to it, aren't you? Every millisecond you spend in that outfit pushes you further and further over the edge. Soon it will be a natural thing for you to put on a bra every day. And you'll like it, too!"
I want to smack the little bitch around, but, again, the guards have their weapons pointed at me. I'm supposed to be rooming with her, so I'll have my opportunity for revenge.
She comes up close to me, and brushes her tit against my cheek. She's touching me all over. "The first lesson," she whispers salaciously into my ear, "is called 'Exploring the Female Body.' You need to know, in great detail, what it is you need to strive for." She certainly has all the proper course materials at her disposal.
She takes a step back, and stands before me posing, in her - our - underwear. "Look at me. Tell me, what's the first thing you notice? And don't forget for a second that you're going to look like this, too, you little sissy."
Her hourglass figure is astounding. She has her right hand on her hip. Her smooth, fair skin hasn't got a single visible hair. The curvature from her thigh, up around her hip, into the valley of her waist, and back up suddenly to her wonderfully soft, round breast, drives me wild. I want to suckle on her gorgeous titties, and slide my hand down to her slender little belly, where her unbridled femininity seems to converge. I want to hold her ass in my hands as I bounce her off my cock. I want to lick her all over. I can't decide what I notice first, as the whole becomes so much more than the sum of her parts.
"Your tits!" Probably the expected answer. Such a difficult choice...
"OK," she says. "Let's look at my tits."
She takes my hands, and cups them around her breasts, over her bra. She throws back her head luxuriantly, and asks me to smell her cleavage.
I am caressing her now. I squeeze her nipples through the lace and satin of her brassiere. I slide my hands to her back and gently pull her towards me, in order to fully obey her command. A drop of perfume entices me to rub my face between her lovely, soft, round breasts, and breathe deeply. I reach for the clasp on her back, to get a better look.
Suddenly she pushes me away, her hands on my chest. I let go, fully aware of the ever-vigilant guards. "Now stay still, sissy boy," she says, as she squeezes my nipple through my own bra. I can feel it hardening between her fingers. "Let me show you a few things."
"Breasts are an obvious feminine feature. You know about my nipples - hardly a surprise. You like their firmness, their roundness, their softness. But there's more to my chest than that. You proved it yourself."
She raises her left arm over her head, and runs the fingers of her right hand along the bottom of her bra, to her armpit. "Take a look at this," she says. "Your hands lingered here. And now your eyes are, too. I have delicate lats. You love the way my bra looks here. You love the way my breast seems to extend out from this area. Now look at your armpit, and the way your bra looks."
I do as she says. I cannot deny the truth of her words. Nor can I fail to notice how the bra makes me look more feminine, in spite of my musculature. "See? Your bra looks pretty on you, too, but you need a lot of work to look like I do."
I put down my arm and stare at her with contempt.
"That's not all," she continues, stretching her shoulder straps with her thumbs. "Don't you love how these delicate little straps accentuate my equally delicate shoulders? See how slender my shoulders are? Now look at yours."
At length, we explore her upper body in great detail: how her cleavage leads up a very flat, solid, but soft chest, to her deliciously slender neck. How her back fits in with the rest of her body, and how her shoulder blades stick out. I can't argue with her. She is very feminine.
"The point," she concludes, "is that my bra accentuates all of these less obvious features, and that while men focus on the nipples, they rest of the package stands out in its own right."
She slinks in towards me again. "Now, the fun part," she snickers.
We kiss, deeply and passionately, as she grinds her pelvis into my lap. She holds onto my panties, and giggles.
"This is where all the action is," she explains. "These panties are gorgeously sexy, aren't they, sissy boy? This time, you tell me what you love about them."
"I love your belly. I love how everything converges there. I love the curve in your waist, and how your hips are so round. It's the hourglass shape." As I speak, she slides her hands along the exact places I talk about. "And your ass! Your fantastic, little round butt!"
"Don't you love the way my underwear - and yours - just caresses all of these parts? See how it makes my belly look a little round? Don't you just love the lace trim, how it looks against my skin? Let's not even talk about my crotch. . ." She rubs my cock with her hand as she speaks.
"Satin feels good, doesn't it, Rob? You can't deny it: see how hard you are?"
I am trying hard not to come.
"Just look how your body is already becoming like mine! You want my body, but not in any way you ever wanted it before! Feel how feminine you're becoming, just by wearing panties and a bra? You can't help yourself anymore, can you?"
I realize that I am helping her rub my crotch, I am feeling my panties against my flesh, I am fondling my panty waist. And I explode all over my belly, her hand, my hand.
She laughs as I turn away from her and curl up in a fetal ball.
"See how good it is to be a girl, even if it's just by wearing girls' underwear? You'll beg me for more!"
As expected, we bunk in the same room. I am very afraid to go anywhere near Lia, who sleeps peacefully across the room in her own bed. At least I can be naked now. But she's wearing a sheer nightgown.
It's not that I'm afraid of hurting her. I don't think I can now. I'm not afraid of the consequences of hurting her. I'm afraid of her femininity. I'm afraid of what she could show me in that little nightie of hers. I'm afraid of the thoughts crossing my mind, the strange, unaccountable, unspeakable desires. It can't be true!
The next morning, she lays out two outfits for me, which I am to choose from. There is a pair of control-top pantyhose, and another lingerie outfit, consisting of matching black satin and lace panties, a bustier, and stockings. I imagine how stunning Lia would look in the black lingerie, what with her white skin and black hair, and instinctively choose the pantyhose. I can't handle the thought of seeing her like that.
To my dismay, she wears it anyway.
"So," she says. "You're interested in learning about pantyhose!"
This goes on for several days, each choice becoming more and more difficult. She lays out two outfits; I choose one, and she wears the other. I tried desperately to avoid having to wear anything too sexy, but at the same time, I didn't want Lia to look too sexy, either. At any rate, there was little choice. I soon learned about leotards, sports bras, and one-piece bathing suits, while Lia wore gorgeous sets of underwear. I always chose more conservative underwear rather than discover what it feels like to wear bustiers, nighties, and bikinis. Mostly, I tried to wear anything I had worn before so as not to become corrupted any further. All the same, each day ended with me frolicking with guilty pleasure in my chosen garment, devouring Lia with my eyes, and explaining to her how each outfit accentuates our feminine features.
I can no longer allow her to manipulate me like this. She knows that I will invariably choose the less sexy outfit. She counts on it so that she can torment me all day long in something fantastically beautiful that I couldn't dare wear myself. I can't let her do this anymore. This morning, I turn the tables on her. I am wearing the red lingerie outfit, including a sheer baby doll and string bikini panties, garter belt, and stockings, while she wears the familiar one-piece bathing suit. But she doesn't seem shocked in the least by my selection. In fact, she smiles mischievously. God help me, but that one-piece swimsuit shows off her figure like nothing else! What have I done?
This is by far the most outrageously feminine outfit I have ever worn. I could write a book about how it shows off my ass, my shoulders, my tits, my thighs, my belly, my waist, my hips, my calves, my feet - that is, it would show them off if I were female. Oh, but how feminine it feels! I can hardly keep my hands off myself. Lia looks great in her bathing suit, but my clothes are far more sexy. I look forward to discussing this with her later. I want to discuss it now. All day long I participate with great enthusiasm in my lessons.
The nightly recap of lessons was even more intense than I had hoped for. Usually, Lia is the primary model for femininity. Tonight, it is me. I come twice before we even start talking about my stockings. I slide my hands all over myself as if I were fondling a real girl.
The next morning, I vow to never make that mistake again. No matter how sexy Lia looks in it, no matter how much she torments me in it, I can't handle wearing the sexier garment myself. I must choose the more mundane, or risk succumbing completely to this madness. Yet when she presents me with a leotard and a silk teddy, I must resist a powerful temptation to wear the teddy. I don't even need to imagine Lia in it; I imagine myself in it, and I want it. This strengthens my resolve to choose the leotard.
Now I look at Lia and admire the way her body looks in that teddy. I want to know how it feels! I need to know! That night, I close my eyes and imagine that we've swapped clothes.
My vow lasts only two days. By the third, I nervously reach for the nightgown rather than the bathing suit. And I don't regret it at all. I wonder what else she has in her closet that I haven't tried yet. Maybe a bikini? That would be awfully fun!
But it never becomes an option. I wear the sexy garment all the time now, to the point where my choices are almost even in their femininity. There is never a bikini. I have secretly poked around in Lia's closet. She has several that I'd be overjoyed to wear. I wait a week, a month, still no bikini. By now I have learned to shave my body hair, and my feminine manners are improving drastically. This dramatically improves the sensation of wearing lingerie. I feel that I am ready.
"Lia," I plead, "when can I try on a bikini?"
"What? You want to wear a bikini?"
Realizing how this sounds, I falter. "Well. . ."
"Ha ha! You're asking me to wear a bikini now! How the mighty have fallen!"
I sulk.
"You never believed me when I told you you'd be begging for my clothes someday! Now here we are!"
"OK! So I want to wear a bikini! It's not such a big deal! That doesn't mean anything!"
"It means that you want to be a girl now. You're coming along quite nicely! I'm so proud of you!"
"So will you let me?"
"That, my dear Bobbie, will be up to you tomorrow."
I clap my hands with glee, trusting Lia to keep her word. I know that she has something up her sleeve, but my anticipation gets the better of me.
The next morning, as promised, she sets out my choice of clothes. On one side is a bikini. On the other, men's boxers, trousers, and a t-shirt.
"What's this all about," I ask uneasily.
"Today," she explains, "you have a choice: you can leave the feminization programme for good, a free man - yes, man - with appropriate clothing; or you can choose the bikini, and commit fully and voluntarily to completing the programme - meaning that you can't ever turn back again."
My manhood lies on the bed, next to my womanhood. I remember wanting to kill Lia for doing this to me. I could grab the boxers and turn my back on femininity forever, to explore it on masculine terms once again. A spectator. Back to normal. I could also put on that skimpy little pink bikini, and strut around like a woman, as I have wanted to for over a month.
"If I choose the pants, how will I forget what's happened here?"
"You probably can't."
"I'll still want to wear the bikini."
"Of course. But this one is mine. You'll have to get your own."
What kind of man wants to wear a woman's sexy bikini? How could I consider myself a man if I longed eternally for women's clothing? I could easily buy my own bikini, and experiment with it alone. But I couldn't wear panties and bras on a regular basis anymore. I'd probably have to give it up.
"What do you mean by committing fully to femininity? Why couldn't I go back?"
"The hormones would make it quite difficult, for one thing."
"You mean female hormones?"
"Yep."
"And there's no way to reverse those."
"Nope. They make you impotent. And you'll grow real breasts. Among other things."
I'm still wearing the nightgown I got into the habit of sleeping in some weeks ago. My legs are silken smooth - dynamite in stockings. My hair has grown long, and I've taken care to style it just like Ally McBeal's.
I look at the boxers again. Then the bikini. The choice is easy.
The bikini is everything I hoped it would be. I can't wait for my boobs to fill out these cups.
[Ugh. How about a willing convert of some sort?]
"So," finished Lia, "you understand how this works?"
I nodded. I am wearing a panty and bra set, off-white, satiny, and lacy. Lia is a knockout in the same outfit. She has explained that I will learn to become a girl, just like her. It is my new ambition to become as feminine as she is - or more, if possible. We all know that I will be a horrible excuse for a woman for the first little while, but that I will eventually succeed. We also know that I am not doing this voluntarily, but with a gun to my head. Lia swears that I will come around in no time at all.
"Clearly, you love my body," she says. "But in all the wrong ways. Look at yourself! You're wearing the same thing as me! And you put it on yourself. You're already used to it, aren't you? Every millisecond you spend in that outfit pushes you further and further over the edge. Soon it will be a natural thing for you to put on a bra every day. And you'll like it, too!"
I want to smack the little bitch around, but, again, the guards have their weapons pointed at me. I'm supposed to be rooming with her, so I'll have my opportunity for revenge.
She comes up close to me, and brushes her tit against my cheek. She's touching me all over. "The first lesson," she whispers salaciously into my ear, "is called 'Exploring the Female Body.' You need to know, in great detail, what it is you need to strive for." She certainly has all the proper course materials at her disposal.
She takes a step back, and stands before me posing, in her - our - underwear. "Look at me. Tell me, what's the first thing you notice? And don't forget for a second that you're going to look like this, too, you little sissy."
Her hourglass figure is astounding. She has her right hand on her hip. Her smooth, fair skin hasn't got a single visible hair. The curvature from her thigh, up around her hip, into the valley of her waist, and back up suddenly to her wonderfully soft, round breast, drives me wild. I want to suckle on her gorgeous titties, and slide my hand down to her slender little belly, where her unbridled femininity seems to converge. I want to hold her ass in my hands as I bounce her off my cock. I want to lick her all over. I can't decide what I notice first, as the whole becomes so much more than the sum of her parts.
"Your tits!" Probably the expected answer. Such a difficult choice...
"OK," she says. "Let's look at my tits."
She takes my hands, and cups them around her breasts, over her bra. She throws back her head luxuriantly, and asks me to smell her cleavage.
I am caressing her now. I squeeze her nipples through the lace and satin of her brassiere. I slide my hands to her back and gently pull her towards me, in order to fully obey her command. A drop of perfume entices me to rub my face between her lovely, soft, round breasts, and breathe deeply. I reach for the clasp on her back, to get a better look.
Suddenly she pushes me away, her hands on my chest. I let go, fully aware of the ever-vigilant guards. "Now stay still, sissy boy," she says, as she squeezes my nipple through my own bra. I can feel it hardening between her fingers. "Let me show you a few things."
"Breasts are an obvious feminine feature. You know about my nipples - hardly a surprise. You like their firmness, their roundness, their softness. But there's more to my chest than that. You proved it yourself."
She raises her left arm over her head, and runs the fingers of her right hand along the bottom of her bra, to her armpit. "Take a look at this," she says. "Your hands lingered here. And now your eyes are, too. I have delicate lats. You love the way my bra looks here. You love the way my breast seems to extend out from this area. Now look at your armpit, and the way your bra looks."
I do as she says. I cannot deny the truth of her words. Nor can I fail to notice how the bra makes me look more feminine, in spite of my musculature. "See? Your bra looks pretty on you, too, but you need a lot of work to look like I do."
I put down my arm and stare at her with contempt.
"That's not all," she continues, stretching her shoulder straps with her thumbs. "Don't you love how these delicate little straps accentuate my equally delicate shoulders? See how slender my shoulders are? Now look at yours."
At length, we explore her upper body in great detail: how her cleavage leads up a very flat, solid, but soft chest, to her deliciously slender neck. How her back fits in with the rest of her body, and how her shoulder blades stick out. I can't argue with her. She is very feminine.
"The point," she concludes, "is that my bra accentuates all of these less obvious features, and that while men focus on the nipples, they rest of the package stands out in its own right."
She slinks in towards me again. "Now, the fun part," she snickers.
We kiss, deeply and passionately, as she grinds her pelvis into my lap. She holds onto my panties, and giggles.
"This is where all the action is," she explains. "These panties are gorgeously sexy, aren't they, sissy boy? This time, you tell me what you love about them."
"I love your belly. I love how everything converges there. I love the curve in your waist, and how your hips are so round. It's the hourglass shape." As I speak, she slides her hands along the exact places I talk about. "And your ass! Your fantastic, little round butt!"
"Don't you love the way my underwear - and yours - just caresses all of these parts? See how it makes my belly look a little round? Don't you just love the lace trim, how it looks against my skin? Let's not even talk about my crotch. . ." She rubs my cock with her hand as she speaks.
"Satin feels good, doesn't it, Rob? You can't deny it: see how hard you are?"
I am trying hard not to come.
"Just look how your body is already becoming like mine! You want my body, but not in any way you ever wanted it before! Feel how feminine you're becoming, just by wearing panties and a bra? You can't help yourself anymore, can you?"
I realize that I am helping her rub my crotch, I am feeling my panties against my flesh, I am fondling my panty waist. And I explode all over my belly, her hand, my hand.
She laughs as I turn away from her and curl up in a fetal ball.
"See how good it is to be a girl, even if it's just by wearing girls' underwear? You'll beg me for more!"
As expected, we bunk in the same room. I am very afraid to go anywhere near Lia, who sleeps peacefully across the room in her own bed. At least I can be naked now. But she's wearing a sheer nightgown.
It's not that I'm afraid of hurting her. I don't think I can now. I'm not afraid of the consequences of hurting her. I'm afraid of her femininity. I'm afraid of what she could show me in that little nightie of hers. I'm afraid of the thoughts crossing my mind, the strange, unaccountable, unspeakable desires. It can't be true!
The next morning, she lays out two outfits for me, which I am to choose from. There is a pair of control-top pantyhose, and another lingerie outfit, consisting of matching black satin and lace panties, a bustier, and stockings. I imagine how stunning Lia would look in the black lingerie, what with her white skin and black hair, and instinctively choose the pantyhose. I can't handle the thought of seeing her like that.
To my dismay, she wears it anyway.
"So," she says. "You're interested in learning about pantyhose!"
This goes on for several days, each choice becoming more and more difficult. She lays out two outfits; I choose one, and she wears the other. I tried desperately to avoid having to wear anything too sexy, but at the same time, I didn't want Lia to look too sexy, either. At any rate, there was little choice. I soon learned about leotards, sports bras, and one-piece bathing suits, while Lia wore gorgeous sets of underwear. I always chose more conservative underwear rather than discover what it feels like to wear bustiers, nighties, and bikinis. Mostly, I tried to wear anything I had worn before so as not to become corrupted any further. All the same, each day ended with me frolicking with guilty pleasure in my chosen garment, devouring Lia with my eyes, and explaining to her how each outfit accentuates our feminine features.
I can no longer allow her to manipulate me like this. She knows that I will invariably choose the less sexy outfit. She counts on it so that she can torment me all day long in something fantastically beautiful that I couldn't dare wear myself. I can't let her do this anymore. This morning, I turn the tables on her. I am wearing the red lingerie outfit, including a sheer baby doll and string bikini panties, garter belt, and stockings, while she wears the familiar one-piece bathing suit. But she doesn't seem shocked in the least by my selection. In fact, she smiles mischievously. God help me, but that one-piece swimsuit shows off her figure like nothing else! What have I done?
This is by far the most outrageously feminine outfit I have ever worn. I could write a book about how it shows off my ass, my shoulders, my tits, my thighs, my belly, my waist, my hips, my calves, my feet - that is, it would show them off if I were female. Oh, but how feminine it feels! I can hardly keep my hands off myself. Lia looks great in her bathing suit, but my clothes are far more sexy. I look forward to discussing this with her later. I want to discuss it now. All day long I participate with great enthusiasm in my lessons.
The nightly recap of lessons was even more intense than I had hoped for. Usually, Lia is the primary model for femininity. Tonight, it is me. I come twice before we even start talking about my stockings. I slide my hands all over myself as if I were fondling a real girl.
The next morning, I vow to never make that mistake again. No matter how sexy Lia looks in it, no matter how much she torments me in it, I can't handle wearing the sexier garment myself. I must choose the more mundane, or risk succumbing completely to this madness. Yet when she presents me with a leotard and a silk teddy, I must resist a powerful temptation to wear the teddy. I don't even need to imagine Lia in it; I imagine myself in it, and I want it. This strengthens my resolve to choose the leotard.
Now I look at Lia and admire the way her body looks in that teddy. I want to know how it feels! I need to know! That night, I close my eyes and imagine that we've swapped clothes.
My vow lasts only two days. By the third, I nervously reach for the nightgown rather than the bathing suit. And I don't regret it at all. I wonder what else she has in her closet that I haven't tried yet. Maybe a bikini? That would be awfully fun!
But it never becomes an option. I wear the sexy garment all the time now, to the point where my choices are almost even in their femininity. There is never a bikini. I have secretly poked around in Lia's closet. She has several that I'd be overjoyed to wear. I wait a week, a month, still no bikini. By now I have learned to shave my body hair, and my feminine manners are improving drastically. This dramatically improves the sensation of wearing lingerie. I feel that I am ready.
"Lia," I plead, "when can I try on a bikini?"
"What? You want to wear a bikini?"
Realizing how this sounds, I falter. "Well. . ."
"Ha ha! You're asking me to wear a bikini now! How the mighty have fallen!"
I sulk.
"You never believed me when I told you you'd be begging for my clothes someday! Now here we are!"
"OK! So I want to wear a bikini! It's not such a big deal! That doesn't mean anything!"
"It means that you want to be a girl now. You're coming along quite nicely! I'm so proud of you!"
"So will you let me?"
"That, my dear Bobbie, will be up to you tomorrow."
I clap my hands with glee, trusting Lia to keep her word. I know that she has something up her sleeve, but my anticipation gets the better of me.
The next morning, as promised, she sets out my choice of clothes. On one side is a bikini. On the other, men's boxers, trousers, and a t-shirt.
"What's this all about," I ask uneasily.
"Today," she explains, "you have a choice: you can leave the feminization programme for good, a free man - yes, man - with appropriate clothing; or you can choose the bikini, and commit fully and voluntarily to completing the programme - meaning that you can't ever turn back again."
My manhood lies on the bed, next to my womanhood. I remember wanting to kill Lia for doing this to me. I could grab the boxers and turn my back on femininity forever, to explore it on masculine terms once again. A spectator. Back to normal. I could also put on that skimpy little pink bikini, and strut around like a woman, as I have wanted to for over a month.
"If I choose the pants, how will I forget what's happened here?"
"You probably can't."
"I'll still want to wear the bikini."
"Of course. But this one is mine. You'll have to get your own."
What kind of man wants to wear a woman's sexy bikini? How could I consider myself a man if I longed eternally for women's clothing? I could easily buy my own bikini, and experiment with it alone. But I couldn't wear panties and bras on a regular basis anymore. I'd probably have to give it up.
"What do you mean by committing fully to femininity? Why couldn't I go back?"
"The hormones would make it quite difficult, for one thing."
"You mean female hormones?"
"Yep."
"And there's no way to reverse those."
"Nope. They make you impotent. And you'll grow real breasts. Among other things."
I'm still wearing the nightgown I got into the habit of sleeping in some weeks ago. My legs are silken smooth - dynamite in stockings. My hair has grown long, and I've taken care to style it just like Ally McBeal's.
I look at the boxers again. Then the bikini. The choice is easy.
The bikini is everything I hoped it would be. I can't wait for my boobs to fill out these cups.
[Ugh. How about a willing convert of some sort?]
Fiction: Massive Forced Feminization
I thought of something today that never occurred to me before. The element of coercion always must enter into the equation in a good transformation story, but I've never pushed it to the limit. I don't think it has ever been a matter of life or death. I'm imagining my exploration of every possible scenario, and I must admit that I never once thought of the threat of instant death as a factor in aiding the decision. That's a problem with the long unfinished story above: the motivation is highly suspect.
Another element of fantasy that crossed my mind is the victim's visceral desire to retain at least some vestige of his manhood throughout as a safety net. He starts off slowly, careful not to expose himself too much to womanhood, always keeping on some article of men's clothing. However, femininity's hold only strengthens with each experiment, to the point where he's fully feminized except for, say, a masculine wristwatch, or some even more insignificant thing. He maintains the delusion that this tiny article of clothing keeps him from totally succumbing to womanhood, even as the evidence mounts against his belief. Eventually, in the throes of passion, he casts aside his last remaining link to masculinity, and the theory is reversed: from that moment on, he cannot bear to be without some article of women's clothing, no matter how insignificant, as a pledge to his newly avowed femininity.
Now, let's combine the stories into my epic. We have about 120 test subjects, all of whom have answered a short survey. Half are women, who will act as coaches and control subjects. All will be forced to become ultra-feminine. The questions are as follows:
This yields 120 possibilities. Many are mundane, and need not be explored. Others are incredibly fascinating. So here goes:
The test subjects, all 150 of them, are lined up in the gymnasium. Each is naked. Each has an armed guard pointing a rifle at him or her. In front of each is a matching bra and panty set, off-white, silk, lace-trimmed, and very feminine. Each is instructed to put them on.
"Put on the underwear," blares the voice over the PA, "or die."
Are they really going to shoot me if I don't put on this underwear? They must be joking. Some of the others - mostly the women - are putting it on. I can't move.
"What the fuck is this?" shouts the guy to my left. "I ain't putting this shit on! No way!"
A few others join the protest. I want to, but I'm petrified with fear.
"This is an order. Put on the underwear, or DIE!" repeats the voice on the PA. Most of the men remain naked. We seem to be arranged in alternating genders: boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, girl. Thus I have a beautiful woman on each side of me. Both of them giggled as they put on their underwear. They look incredibly hot in this lingerie, and I can't reconcile the idea of actually putting on the same panties and bra, right in front of them.
"What are you waiting for?" says the one to my right. "They'll kill you if you don't put it on!"
"You don't seriously expect me to wear that, do you?"
"Would you rather die than sacrifice your precious manhood for just one second?" Some of the men are making quite a commotion. "It's not so bad! Look at me! Doesn't this look great on me?" She's right: she looks fantastic.
"Um, I hate to tell you, but I'm not built like you." The shouting intensifies over to my right.
"Oh, come on! You'll look so cute in that bra!"
Several loud popping noises make everyone cringe, and the room goes silent. Just a bit to my right, one of the protesting men has been shot in the head. "This is your last warning. I will count to three. Anyone not wearing lingerie when I finish will be shot. One."
I urgently scramble for the panties and bra. I am wearing them before the voice says...
"Two."
"See? It's not so bad, is it?"
"Three."
A few more shots ring out. Only three more men, out of the fifty or so protesters, have fallen to the ground dead. All the rest are now wearing a very sexy matching panty and bra set, a beautiful woman on each side wearing the exact same thing.
"Ladies! Welcome to femininity training! For some of you, this is a new experience. The vast majority of you have done this before. Some of you are participating under duress. At the end of this course, you will all be gorgeous, ultra-feminine, and proud of it! Remember that at every step of the way, our guards will assist you in your decisions. You all look so pretty in your new underwear! I look forward to seeing you all blossom into the sexy women you were all meant to be!
"Those of you who now think of yourselves as men: turn to your right. The woman you see will be your training partner. Being more experienced with womanhood, she will guide you through your training. You have all been carefully matched to maximize both of your learning experiences. Remember! The women are also here to train! You will become ultra-feminine together!
"Those women whose designated partners have been killed will be your instructors. They, too, have been carefully selected for their role. They were deliberately matched up with men who would rather die than discover the glory of girlhood. They are already far, far advanced in the ways of womanhood, and will have much to teach you all. Treat them with respect.
"Now please take your partner's hand, and begin your first lesson from the book in front of you. All classes are public, but your personal development may continue in private.
"Enjoy!"
I am dumfounded. How can I possibly become ultra-feminine? How did I get myself into this?
"Hey there, cutie pie!" gushes the gorgeous woman to my right. "Looks like we're partners!"
She is ridiculously curvaceous, slim, and beautiful. She is unquestionably one of the sexiest, most beautiful women I have ever seen. She has long blonde hair and emerald green eyes. Her skin is delicate and smooth. She looks like she could be a model. And we are wearing the same panty and bra set.
"What's your name?" she asks.
"Rob."
"So from now on," she giggles, "I guess it's gonna be Bobbie."
I say nothing.
"Oh, come on! It'll be fun! You're gonna love being a girl!"
"I can't fucking believe this."
"What?"
"I was forced to put on lingerie at gunpoint, and you're telling me this is gonna be fun?!?"
"Didn't you want to be here?"
"No."
"You mean. . . you don't even want to be a girl?"
"No."
"Yeah, right."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"For somebody who doesn't want to be a girl, you sure put that bra on like an expert."
"Excuse me?"
"And look at you! Your boner is practically busting out of those panties!"
I blush with shame. "I'm talking to a gorgeous woman! Why else would I have a boner?"
Now she blushes. "Thank you," she says demurely. "But that's gonna have to stop if we're to make a girl out of you."
My guard prods me with his rifle. "Get on with the lesson you two!"
"Alright, let's get on with this," I offer, not wanting to get shot.
The coursebook begins with an introduction to the programme. We will be introduced to every conceivable type of woman's garment. We will be required to wear some item of women's clothing at all times. We will learn how to put on a bra properly, and how to properly care for delicate silks and satins. We will learn proper feminine mannerisms. And we will learn proper sexual techniques. My heart misses a beat as every detail comes to light.
The first lesson consists of learning how to properly put on a bra. I must keep on my panties as I practice with the bra. My partner, whose name is Cindy, is obviously an expert. It takes me little time to get the hang of it.
"So how did you know how to do that already?" she asks.
"I've seen enough girls getting dressed to have gotten a good idea."
"Seeing and doing are two different things."
"Not in this case."
Now I must prance around in my new underwear, and affirm my desire for womanhood. Those who fail to comply are threatened with death.
"I love being a girl," I recite. "I love being ultra-feminine."
After several repetitions of this, we begin to explore the details of our underwear, and how certain features make it sexy. This consists of identifying features, and exploring them on both Cindy and me.
"The lace on the waistband gives a delicate appearance to the soft skin of the lower belly." I practically come all over Cindy's hand as we explore my panties.
The class ends with everyone, including the women, going up on stage and reciting these same affirmations in front of everyone.
"You did great!" says Cindy, after I'm done. I have to admit, I was very convincing. I had my hand on my hip, and did a twirl after my affirmation. Very feminine.
"Thanks."
"Do you mean it?"
"I kinda have to, don't I?"
"I can tell. You meant it."
"I have a gun pointed at my head."
"Admit it: you've done this before."
"Gimme a break."
"Admit it! You've worn girls' clothes before!"
"Never!"
"I can tell! And you enjoy it!"
"No way!"
"You might as well tell me. You're gonna be a girl anyway, so it's not like I'll think any less of you if you admit it."
"Well. . ."
"I knew it!"
"I've done it once or twice. It's no big deal."
"Which was it?"
"Huh?"
"Was it once or was it twice? Surely you can count up to two."
"It was more than once."
"Was it more than twice?"
"Maybe."
"Ooooo, so you're a sissy pantywaist already! And we've just barely started! How many times?"
"A few."
"Five? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? What did you wear?"
"I dunno."
"Come on! Tell me!"
"I dunno!"
"Is it more times than you can count?"
I blush. I try not to, but I can't help it.
"Did you like it?"
I must be purple now. "Kinda."
"Oh my God! You're an expert!"
"No!"
"So you just kinda liked it?"
I stop in my tracks.
"Cindy. Don't tell anybody. But I have always loved wearing girls' clothes, and I can't believe that I'm living out my most intense sexual fantasy. I love my new underwear! I feel so sexy in it! It's just so weird wearing it in front of so many people. I've always done it in private. Nobody was ever supposed to know. I never signed up for this. And now here I am, getting turned into a girl, for real! I just don't know if I really want to go through with it. I was perfectly happy being a man with a secret."
Another element of fantasy that crossed my mind is the victim's visceral desire to retain at least some vestige of his manhood throughout as a safety net. He starts off slowly, careful not to expose himself too much to womanhood, always keeping on some article of men's clothing. However, femininity's hold only strengthens with each experiment, to the point where he's fully feminized except for, say, a masculine wristwatch, or some even more insignificant thing. He maintains the delusion that this tiny article of clothing keeps him from totally succumbing to womanhood, even as the evidence mounts against his belief. Eventually, in the throes of passion, he casts aside his last remaining link to masculinity, and the theory is reversed: from that moment on, he cannot bear to be without some article of women's clothing, no matter how insignificant, as a pledge to his newly avowed femininity.
Now, let's combine the stories into my epic. We have about 120 test subjects, all of whom have answered a short survey. Half are women, who will act as coaches and control subjects. All will be forced to become ultra-feminine. The questions are as follows:
- Are you male?
- Do you like feminine things (i.e. flowers, lace, panties, silk, etc.)?
- Are you aware of your own femininity?
- How often do you explore your femininity (choose one of: never, rarely, occasionally, often, always)?
- Rate your interest in exploring your femininity in a controlled environment (choose one of: low, moderate, high).
This yields 120 possibilities. Many are mundane, and need not be explored. Others are incredibly fascinating. So here goes:
The test subjects, all 150 of them, are lined up in the gymnasium. Each is naked. Each has an armed guard pointing a rifle at him or her. In front of each is a matching bra and panty set, off-white, silk, lace-trimmed, and very feminine. Each is instructed to put them on.
"Put on the underwear," blares the voice over the PA, "or die."
Are they really going to shoot me if I don't put on this underwear? They must be joking. Some of the others - mostly the women - are putting it on. I can't move.
"What the fuck is this?" shouts the guy to my left. "I ain't putting this shit on! No way!"
A few others join the protest. I want to, but I'm petrified with fear.
"This is an order. Put on the underwear, or DIE!" repeats the voice on the PA. Most of the men remain naked. We seem to be arranged in alternating genders: boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, girl. Thus I have a beautiful woman on each side of me. Both of them giggled as they put on their underwear. They look incredibly hot in this lingerie, and I can't reconcile the idea of actually putting on the same panties and bra, right in front of them.
"What are you waiting for?" says the one to my right. "They'll kill you if you don't put it on!"
"You don't seriously expect me to wear that, do you?"
"Would you rather die than sacrifice your precious manhood for just one second?" Some of the men are making quite a commotion. "It's not so bad! Look at me! Doesn't this look great on me?" She's right: she looks fantastic.
"Um, I hate to tell you, but I'm not built like you." The shouting intensifies over to my right.
"Oh, come on! You'll look so cute in that bra!"
Several loud popping noises make everyone cringe, and the room goes silent. Just a bit to my right, one of the protesting men has been shot in the head. "This is your last warning. I will count to three. Anyone not wearing lingerie when I finish will be shot. One."
I urgently scramble for the panties and bra. I am wearing them before the voice says...
"Two."
"See? It's not so bad, is it?"
"Three."
A few more shots ring out. Only three more men, out of the fifty or so protesters, have fallen to the ground dead. All the rest are now wearing a very sexy matching panty and bra set, a beautiful woman on each side wearing the exact same thing.
"Ladies! Welcome to femininity training! For some of you, this is a new experience. The vast majority of you have done this before. Some of you are participating under duress. At the end of this course, you will all be gorgeous, ultra-feminine, and proud of it! Remember that at every step of the way, our guards will assist you in your decisions. You all look so pretty in your new underwear! I look forward to seeing you all blossom into the sexy women you were all meant to be!
"Those of you who now think of yourselves as men: turn to your right. The woman you see will be your training partner. Being more experienced with womanhood, she will guide you through your training. You have all been carefully matched to maximize both of your learning experiences. Remember! The women are also here to train! You will become ultra-feminine together!
"Those women whose designated partners have been killed will be your instructors. They, too, have been carefully selected for their role. They were deliberately matched up with men who would rather die than discover the glory of girlhood. They are already far, far advanced in the ways of womanhood, and will have much to teach you all. Treat them with respect.
"Now please take your partner's hand, and begin your first lesson from the book in front of you. All classes are public, but your personal development may continue in private.
"Enjoy!"
I am dumfounded. How can I possibly become ultra-feminine? How did I get myself into this?
"Hey there, cutie pie!" gushes the gorgeous woman to my right. "Looks like we're partners!"
She is ridiculously curvaceous, slim, and beautiful. She is unquestionably one of the sexiest, most beautiful women I have ever seen. She has long blonde hair and emerald green eyes. Her skin is delicate and smooth. She looks like she could be a model. And we are wearing the same panty and bra set.
"What's your name?" she asks.
"Rob."
"So from now on," she giggles, "I guess it's gonna be Bobbie."
I say nothing.
"Oh, come on! It'll be fun! You're gonna love being a girl!"
"I can't fucking believe this."
"What?"
"I was forced to put on lingerie at gunpoint, and you're telling me this is gonna be fun?!?"
"Didn't you want to be here?"
"No."
"You mean. . . you don't even want to be a girl?"
"No."
"Yeah, right."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"For somebody who doesn't want to be a girl, you sure put that bra on like an expert."
"Excuse me?"
"And look at you! Your boner is practically busting out of those panties!"
I blush with shame. "I'm talking to a gorgeous woman! Why else would I have a boner?"
Now she blushes. "Thank you," she says demurely. "But that's gonna have to stop if we're to make a girl out of you."
My guard prods me with his rifle. "Get on with the lesson you two!"
"Alright, let's get on with this," I offer, not wanting to get shot.
The coursebook begins with an introduction to the programme. We will be introduced to every conceivable type of woman's garment. We will be required to wear some item of women's clothing at all times. We will learn how to put on a bra properly, and how to properly care for delicate silks and satins. We will learn proper feminine mannerisms. And we will learn proper sexual techniques. My heart misses a beat as every detail comes to light.
The first lesson consists of learning how to properly put on a bra. I must keep on my panties as I practice with the bra. My partner, whose name is Cindy, is obviously an expert. It takes me little time to get the hang of it.
"So how did you know how to do that already?" she asks.
"I've seen enough girls getting dressed to have gotten a good idea."
"Seeing and doing are two different things."
"Not in this case."
Now I must prance around in my new underwear, and affirm my desire for womanhood. Those who fail to comply are threatened with death.
"I love being a girl," I recite. "I love being ultra-feminine."
After several repetitions of this, we begin to explore the details of our underwear, and how certain features make it sexy. This consists of identifying features, and exploring them on both Cindy and me.
"The lace on the waistband gives a delicate appearance to the soft skin of the lower belly." I practically come all over Cindy's hand as we explore my panties.
The class ends with everyone, including the women, going up on stage and reciting these same affirmations in front of everyone.
"You did great!" says Cindy, after I'm done. I have to admit, I was very convincing. I had my hand on my hip, and did a twirl after my affirmation. Very feminine.
"Thanks."
"Do you mean it?"
"I kinda have to, don't I?"
"I can tell. You meant it."
"I have a gun pointed at my head."
"Admit it: you've done this before."
"Gimme a break."
"Admit it! You've worn girls' clothes before!"
"Never!"
"I can tell! And you enjoy it!"
"No way!"
"You might as well tell me. You're gonna be a girl anyway, so it's not like I'll think any less of you if you admit it."
"Well. . ."
"I knew it!"
"I've done it once or twice. It's no big deal."
"Which was it?"
"Huh?"
"Was it once or was it twice? Surely you can count up to two."
"It was more than once."
"Was it more than twice?"
"Maybe."
"Ooooo, so you're a sissy pantywaist already! And we've just barely started! How many times?"
"A few."
"Five? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? What did you wear?"
"I dunno."
"Come on! Tell me!"
"I dunno!"
"Is it more times than you can count?"
I blush. I try not to, but I can't help it.
"Did you like it?"
I must be purple now. "Kinda."
"Oh my God! You're an expert!"
"No!"
"So you just kinda liked it?"
I stop in my tracks.
"Cindy. Don't tell anybody. But I have always loved wearing girls' clothes, and I can't believe that I'm living out my most intense sexual fantasy. I love my new underwear! I feel so sexy in it! It's just so weird wearing it in front of so many people. I've always done it in private. Nobody was ever supposed to know. I never signed up for this. And now here I am, getting turned into a girl, for real! I just don't know if I really want to go through with it. I was perfectly happy being a man with a secret."
Diary: Wherein I Realize That I Wish I Had a Vagina
I dreamed last night that I had a cunt. My cock got chopped off, and turned into a cunt. I've never imagined it so vividly before. It's always been a sort of tangential concept, not fully explored. Last night I dreamed it, felt it as if it were real. I was so pleased that I could wear panties now and they'd fit around my new equipment just the way they're supposed to. I began to masturbate, and swore that I would suck as much cock as I possibly could, now that I was a girl. It was so intense that I have been thinking about it all day long. I think the point is that I never really understood that that is what I really am always fantasizing about. I have said over and over again that I want to be a girl, but I never conceived of it in that fundamental way before.
Anyway, I have lost focus in the story I was writing. It's becoming painfully slow and repetitive. It needs a swift kick in the ass to get it going again.
There are a couple of elements I'd like to mention once again. First, the desire to transform must be entirely voluntary, yet completely unexpected. There can be an element of force or coercion to get it started, but there must be a conscious decision on the victim's part. For example, one of the stories I like has a pair of wives, a psychologist and a plastic surgeon, turn their husbands into transsexuals. The trouble is that neither man had any interest in becoming a woman before the psychologist hypnotized him. If not for the hypnosis, neither man would have gone through with it. There was no shocking discovery, just instant feminization. Also, humiliation should play a role. There should be an internal struggle between humiliation and bliss, such that bliss must eventually prevail.
Anyway, I have lost focus in the story I was writing. It's becoming painfully slow and repetitive. It needs a swift kick in the ass to get it going again.
There are a couple of elements I'd like to mention once again. First, the desire to transform must be entirely voluntary, yet completely unexpected. There can be an element of force or coercion to get it started, but there must be a conscious decision on the victim's part. For example, one of the stories I like has a pair of wives, a psychologist and a plastic surgeon, turn their husbands into transsexuals. The trouble is that neither man had any interest in becoming a woman before the psychologist hypnotized him. If not for the hypnosis, neither man would have gone through with it. There was no shocking discovery, just instant feminization. Also, humiliation should play a role. There should be an internal struggle between humiliation and bliss, such that bliss must eventually prevail.
Fiction: Why Do You Look At Pictures Of Sexy Girls?
This journal has been very difficult to keep over the last several months. I can't even begin to write extensively about this without getting so caught up in the fantasy that I end up not writing anything. Here's another futile attempt to tell the same old story.
My girlfriend caught me looking at pictures of Imogen Bailey. She was devastated. Imogen Bailey is probably the most incredibly gorgeous woman on the planet. Jenny, whose self-confidence was low to begin with, in spite of her own considerable beauty, took this as a betrayal.
"I try so hard to be beautiful for you, and yet you still look at other girls!"
"You are beautiful!"
"So why are you looking at her?"
"She's beautiful too."
"Is she more beautiful than me?"
Great. A dangerously loaded question. My hesitation alone gives Jenny's argument momentum.
"See? You think she's more beautiful than me!"
"That's not true," I lie.
"So, I ask you again, why are you looking at still pictures of her when you can look at me, a real, living, breathing woman, standing right here?"
"You're being irrational."
"Answer my question!"
"I'm sorry, but she's a beautiful woman. You can't expect me to stop looking at other women just because we're living together."
Big mistake.
"Then maybe we shouldn't be living together."
I have dug myself even deeper into the hole. This will not be easy.
"Jenny, you know that I love you, and that I wouldn't ever dream of being with another girl. You know that you don't need to compete with other women."
"So are you attracted to Imogen Bailey?"
"I'd be lying if I said otherwise. But that doesn't mean I don't find you outrageously beautiful too."
"I sure hope so. I've been trying so hard to look like her, just to please you."
"Honey, I love you exactly as you are. You don't need to try to look like anyone else."
"Well, if you look at Imogen Bailey so much, then I need to draw your attention away from her and back to me."
"You don't need to. I am all yours."
"So why do you need to look at her?"
Again, my hesitation kills me. I just don't know how to answer this diplomatically and truthfully at the same time.
"Tell me!"
"I look at her because she looks like you, not the other way around." Another lie.
"I'm sick of this. Obviously, I've got it all wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"You're so evasive about this. I've tried so hard to be Imogen Bailey for you, and it hasn't mattered. Maybe you look at her for other reasons."
"Like what?"
"Oh, let me guess: you're interested in her political views."
"What?"
"No? Of course not, she has none. You are after all just looking at her pictures."
"Yes, we've established that."
"Fine then. So you look at her because she's pretty and sexy. Nothing else."
"What else do you want me to say? If you know so well what she looks like, and if you're trying to look at her, then maybe I should be jealous, too."
"I don't look at her because she gets me off."
"Neither do I." Oops. Barefaced lie.
"Really?" she asks, skeptically.
"Really," I assure her.
"Then maybe you look at her for the same reasons I look at her."
"What's that?"
"You want to be just like her too."
"What?"
"Yes! That's it! You want to be blonde and curvaceous and have big tits and look dynamite in a bikini!"
"Now you're being silly."
"All right. If that's not the reason, then you're looking at her because she gets you off, and if that's the truth, then I'm leaving you."
"You're serious!"
"Yes, I'm serious."
She is serious. Clearly, I must do her bidding or lose her.
"Please don't!"
"Why not? Does she get you off?"
"Well..."
"Fine! I'm out of here!" She turns to go. I can tell that she means it too. I grab her arm and pull her back.
"Please, don't go!"
"OK. Here are your options: if you look at pictures of Imogen Bailey to get yourself off, then I'm not your girlfriend anymore. If you do it for the same reasons I do - because you want to look just like her, then I'll stay."
The trouble is that Jenny really does look like Imogen Bailey. And she's a very smart, kind, and generous woman who shares my taste in music, movies, food, and books. We are a wonderful match. I love her deeply, with all my heart, and I can't allow her to leave me. Curse that Imogen Bailey! I cave.
"Jenny, don't go. She doesn't get me off. I swear it."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes."
"So you want to be just like her, as much as I do?"
"Yes." I'll say anything to keep Jenny.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Say it!"
"I want to be just like Imogen Bailey, and that's why I look at pictures of her."
"How do I know you're not just telling me what I want to hear?"
Good ol' Jenny, always as sharp as a tack.
"You'll have to take my word for it."
"Well I don't believe you."
"What do you want from me?"
"Prove it!"
"How?"
"Prove to me that you want to be just like Imogen Bailey!"
"How can I do that? I can't be like her."
"Don't you want to?"
"Yes. I told you."
"Then you'll have to make an effort to look like her if you want me to believe you."
"What do you mean?" I'm on my knees, begging her. She's beaming down at me devilishly.
"Do you really mean it when you say that I look like her?"
"Yes, you really do look like her."
"So my efforts to look like her have worked?"
"I would say so, yes."
"So just follow my advice, and you'll do just fine."
With that, she brought me back to the computer, and quickly found my stash of Imogen Bailey photos. She skipped past a few nude shots, and settled on one of her in a bikini.
"You want to look like that?" she asks.
"Yes," I reply, still playing the game.
"You know that I have a bikini just like that, because of this very photo?"
"You know, I did notice that."
"Good. There's how you start."
"What do you mean?"
"Get yourself a bikini."
"What, like that one?"
"Sure. If you like another one better, go for that one."
"This one is fine."
"I thought so too. You can borrow mine if you like." She disappears into the bedroom. I can hear her rummaging around a bit.
"Wait a minute. Why am I doing this?" She asks. "You're supposed to prove to me that you want to look like her. Why don't you come here and pick it out yourself!"
Before I know it, I'm picking through her panty drawer for Imogen Bailey's bikini. I feel awkward looking through her intimates, as if I'm doing something dirty. I feel as though I'm discovering things in her dresser that no man should know about.
Having found the bikini, I take it out of Jenny's panty drawer, and present it to her, bra in one hand, panty in the other.
"What are you giving it to me for? You're the one who wants to look like Imogen Bailey."
"What do you want me to do with it? Wear it?"
"Of course. How else are you going to look like her? I doubt she'd ever wear your kind of briefs.
Reluctantly, I disrobe, under her triumphant gaze. I tremble as I pull on the panties. The soft spandex caresses my member so gently that it instantly and involuntarily becomes erect. Jenny giggles at me. "The bra, too," she says.
I struggle to clasp it behind my back. After a few minutes of struggle, through which Jenny giggled incessantly, I finally got it on properly. There I stood, in front of my beautiful girlfriend, wearing her bikini, my hard cock straining against the tight panty.
"There!" she says. "You don't look anything like Imogen Bailey, but you look at lot more like her than you did an hour ago. How does it feel?"
I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. The panty is high-cut, and exposes the side of my thigh all the way up to my hip. The material is very soft to the touch. I love the way it looks on Imogen and on Jenny. I can't stop thinking of how sexy both of them look in it. The sensation of a tight band around my chest reminds me constantly that I'm wearing a bra. The bra straps feel dainty against my broad shoulders.
"I kinda like it," I reply, shyly, blushing, and trying very hard to convince myself that I am lying.
"Wow! It shows, too. Why don't you prance around a bit, like Imogen would."
I can't help but get into the act. I'm swinging my hips, sashaying around the bedroom and running my hands against my breasts, my butt, my hips, my thighs, as femininely as I can. It's getting me incredibly hot. Jenny drops her jaw in amazement. She's looking randy, too, and she starts to prance around with me, feeling me up now and again. I am lost to the moment. I am Imogen Bailey, I am Jenny. And I feel sexy in a way that I never have before. A little voice in my head warns me that I am not a woman, and that I'm jeopardizing my manhood by doing this. The overwhelming sensations in my body scream in assent YES, I'M TURNING INTO A GIRL AND I LOVE IT! I imagine the panty re-shaping my crotch into that of a woman. I imagine my waist sucking in. I imagine the bra filling with my own full breasts. I welcome my imaginary metamorphosis not with open arms, but with greedy, grasping arms.
I have ejaculated all over myself, and all over the bed sheets. I have come crashing back to earth. Jenny has stripped to her underwear, and lies beside me in bed, flushed. She has her hand in her panties. I am flushed with shame, aghast at my actions. She says nothing until she finishes coming.
"Geez, Rob. You must really love me. You're still wearing my bikini," she breathes.
Disgusted, I clean up and get myself out of her bikini.
"You know," she says, "I think you'll make a great Imogen."
"Are you happy now?"
"Yes!"
"Good."
"I hope you don't think this is over."
"Why not?"
"I still don't believe you really want to be Imogen."
I say nothing, stewing in my shame.
"I'm satisfied for now," she says, "but you've still got a lot of work to do."
Thankfully, my plentiful stock of Imogen Bailey photos remained on my hard drive, forgotten in the frenzy described above. Jenny would normally have had me delete them all, but this time, she forgot. Or perhaps she felt she humiliated me enough, and didn't need to punish me further. Better still, I had no shortage of other gorgeous women on my hard drive. I went back to them the very next day, just to spite Jenny.
I am furious. How dare she mock my masculinity? She showed no respect to my manhood. She turned me - ever so briefly - into a prancing faggot. It was bad enough that she made me wear items of her clothing; even worse that it was one of her sexiest, skimpiest outfits; worst of all, and I shudder to think of it, she made me enjoy it. I nearly faint with shame when I face the intolerable truth of it. How can she ever take my manhood seriously again? Hell, how can I?
These photos take on an entirely new meaning for me. I cannot allow her to ruin this for me. I linger on the picture that triggered all this madness. I wore that same bikini! I still have trouble believing it, let alone comprehending the consequences. I used to jerk off to this photo. Now it reminds me of my humiliation. Maybe that's why Jenny didn't remember to delete it. My heart sinks with humiliation.
I need to relieve some tension. I need vengeance. I am stroking my cock, admiring Imogen's firm, round breasts, her glorious waves of golden hair, her sleek, slender thighs, and the way they converge in that soft, delicate pocket of thin, scanty spandex such as I wore only last night. Oh how I love the way she poses, so sensuous, so eager! How her tight little bikini focuses her femininity (I know how that feels). I can just imagine sliding my hand along her round little ass, snapping her panty waist (as Jenny did mine).
You enjoyed it, didn't you! You loved every second of it! You dressed up like a girl, and you liked it!
My conscience's accusations, as much as I attempt to deny them, drive the intense pleasure in my massively erect dick. I know that I can't continue to stroke, because I am still, paradoxically, undermining my manhood. I want to be just like Imogen Bailey! I want to be soft and curvaceous and blonde and slinky and scantily clad gorgeously femi-
No! I must control myself. This is absurd. I want to fuck her. I want to throw her roughly onto my bed, hold down her arms, and force myself into her, as she gasps for breath. I want to grab hold of her ass as I pump my love juice into her.
Amazingly, I lose my groove. I am no longer pumping. I am failing.
Unacceptable! I cannot allow Jenny's mind games to prevent me from masturbating with sexy pictures of other women. I must come, if only to establish control again. I know just the thing to turn myself on again, I think slyly to myself. I can imagine myself as Imogen Bailey, wearing that sexy lit-
I am losing control again! But I'm also going to come! If I come, I win because I defy Jenny; but I also lose because I surrender my manhood . . . and what could be better? I think to myself lasciviously, Doesn't it feel wonderful being feminine? Oh God! Does it ever! Wouldn't it be wonderful if Jenny caught me right now and made me wear her bikini again! Or maybe her lingerie!
As I clean up, I rationalize my capitulation by convincing myself that this was an act of defiance. I am ashamed, but I won't admit it. I know that last night's incident has indeed adversely affected my masculinity. But this won't happen again. Ever.
"So, Imogen, are you ready for another show?"
I can feel the blood rush to my face. My legs are weak. My hands tremble. "That's not funny, Jen."
"It's not meant to be, Imogen." She spits the name, like venom. "Put it on."
I reach into Jenny's panty drawer. I know exactly where to find it now. Oh God! Look at all that pretty underwear! Wouldn't that be- I must concentrate on controlling myself. I cannot show pleasure again. Oooh! Silk! I have the bra in one hand, the panty in the other. Again. "I don't understand why you insist -"
"You're the one who wants to be Imogen Bailey, aren't you? Or did you lie to me?"
I've lain the bikini out on the bed. I don't want to wear it. I can't wait to put it on! I'm hoping that if I concentrate enough, I can avoid succumbing to my overwhelming urge to feel feminine! My delaying tactic is only making things worse: my erection grows ever larger as I anticipate the horror ecstasy to come. I have to admit, it is an incredibly sexy bikini. I have to put it on now - just to hide my boner, of course. Of course.
I am trying incredibly hard to pretend that this annoys me. Yet I caress my bikini-clad hips. I want to show Jenny that this has gone far enough as I hook on my bra like an expert. I want her to know that I don't really want to be Imogen Bailey, that I'm just doing this to please her and to keep her. I'm playing coy just like a shy girl. I pout to show my displeasure.
"Oh, don't be sad, Imogen," she says, standing up now to caress my effeminated body. "You look very pretty in your bikini." She rubs my pulsating member through the spandex as she says this, and I practically collapse at her feet in a heap of sensuous femininity. I'm a girl! I'm a girl! I'm wearing a bikini! I'm a girl!
Like the first time, I prance and preen like a supermodel for my lovely Jenny. Only this time, I'm consciously loving it. What better way to convince her that I'm sincere? She'll surely believe this act. If only it were an act!
When it's all over, and I've cleaned up my mess, I know that I have lost again. Jenny smiles smugly beside me in bed, having masturbated herself to orgasm with me. Even as I strip off my bikini in disgust. As I toss it across the room, I realize that I have seen Jenny do the same thing herself. Even in my belated denial of femininity, I am flushed with girlishness.
In our time together, I have handled some of Jenny's laundry. I have separated out her underwear from mine. I have handled her silks. I have bought her lingerie for special occasions. I have seen her in her most intimate undergarments. I always found her clothes to be inherently sexy. I always felt a surge of intimacy at the realization that I have been allowed to see and touch her almost sacred underthings. Now I find myself yearning to explore that intimacy in far more detail than ever before.
I am pawing through Jenny's underwear drawer. Piled in with her bikini are myriads of matching and unmatched panties and brassieres, two garter belts, a one-piece swimsuit, sexy nightgowns and satin teddies. Silk panties melt out of my hands like water. I hold them up, one at a time, and admire the flowery lace patterns, and the beautiful trims. All of these things are so ridiculously feminine. Many of them even outshine the bikini I've actually worn.
Jenny has not insisted for almost a week now. I have had time to think about my actions. All sorts of insignificant things trigger memories of my two incidents with this bikini. Embarrassingly, these memories arouse me. Clearly, my wearing it has tainted my manhood. I find myself longing to wear it again. Worse, I find myself fantasizing about even sexier garments. Imagine how much more corrupted I would be if Jenny had forced me to wear her lingerie instead. I shudder with anticipation.
I figure that I might as well prepare myself for the possibility by examining all the options. Perhaps if I know beforehand what I might have to wear, I can lessen its impact. Perhaps if I know beforehand what's available, I can pick something really sexy, like a garter belt and stockings, or a ni-
Curse her!
I place everything gingerly back in its place, livid with shame, and go masturbate.
Tonight Jenny comes home with a present for me. There is no special occasion. She beams with a sinister joy.
"I bought you something at the mall!"
"What is it?"
"Open the bag and see!" She practically bounces off the walls with excitement. I open the bag.
All I see inside is what appears to be a bikini.
"I thought that since you want to be like Imogen Bailey, there's no sense in you borrowing my bikini all the time, so you might as well have your own!"
It's another bikini, all right. It's a similar one from another of my pictures. A floral pink. Just my size, too, maybe a little smaller.
"I'm so glad you like it!" she gushes.
I am, of course, ashen and trembling; I can hardly see anything except the sexy, skimpy, ultra-feminine bikini in my hands. Oh my God! I never imagined I'd get to wear this!
"We're gonna have so much fun tonight!" she says, rushing upstairs to get changed. I follow her zombie-like, and tuck my new bikini into a corner of my own underwear drawer.
Dinner is interminable. I can hardly eat a bite. Jenny babbles on as if everything is normal. We wash the dishes. We put away the dishes. We watch a bit of television. I have my very own bikini waiting for me in my underwear drawer. How am I supposed to react? I realize that I haven't spoken a word since I opened the shopping bag.
At length, she cuddles up to me lasciviously and whispers into my ear, "Let's try on your new bikini."
"Okay," I answer, automatically. She leads me up to the bedroom.
She sits on the bed, waiting. I lose no time in stripping down, and reaching into my drawer for my new bikini. I don't think I should be doing this. It truly is a gorgeous piece of work. I can just imagine how erotically it will hug my hips. I can't let her see me enjoying this! It's not right! I'm losing my manhood!
I step into the panties and slide them up to my crotch, savouring the touch of spandex against my cock. I slowly strap on the bra, revelling in the realization that I am putting on a woman's bikini that happens to belong solely to me. I have wantonly abandoned any pretense of hesitation or displeasure. I close my eyes and slide my hand across my chest and cock, imagining myself metamorphosed into Imogen Bailey herself. I'm effeminating myself in front of my girlfriend, and I just don't care! Inspired, I sidle up to Jenny, who sits on the bed watching.
"Thank you so much," I whisper in her ear seductively, "I always wanted my own bikini."
My God! I can't believe I just said that!
"You really like it?"
"Yeah," I reply, coyly. "I love it!"
"That's so cool!"
She drags me onto the bed, where I strip her to her underwear, and we make out, comparing bras and panties and body parts. It is the most sensuous lovemaking I have ever experienced, yet neither of us is fully naked.
Even after last night, I suspect that Jenny believes I'm still just playing the role. I only wish I were. When I woke up this morning, still wearing my bikini, it took every every ounce of my willpower to take it off and put it away. I could think of nothing else all day.
It's one thing to wear it to please Jenny. I can always fall back on the excuse that I'm doing it only for her, even though I know that's not true. It's quite another thing to have an overpowering urge to wear it now, alone, to get off. Am I insane?
It's so easy. I have my very own bikini. It amazes me when I look into my underwear drawer, and see this pink floral bra and panty among my butchy boxers and gitch. I want more! I want my underwear drawer to look much more like Jenny's, when I get in this kind of mood. I want to be able to wear a matching black lace panty and bra. I want to have elaborate silk and satin unmentionables.
I just can't help myself. I pick up where I left off this morning, and slip into my very own bikini. By God, look at me! I'm wearing an unmistakably feminine outfit, and it's turning me on! I did it of my own volition! And I'm fantasizing about doing it again and again, with all sorts of women's fashions! I am a complete pantywaist! I know that wearing this - especially unsupervised - is making me even more of a pantywaist! This is turning me into an outright woman! And I love it!
If only Jenny knew how much I really enjoy this. I can't let her find out I'm doing this on my own. I know she's only playing the game. She doesn't really want me to turn myself into Imogen Bailey Oh my God! Even though I'm fantasizing that my bikini is shaping my ass into a round, tight little girlie ass, and smoothing and sculpting my waist, and swelling my chest into a perfect pair of perky, round titties.
She must not know!
This is the third night since Jenny returned from her mother's. We had sex the last two nights. Frankly, it was a bit dull. There was no mention of the new addition to my wardrobe. I am desperate to get into something feminine - and watching Jenny lounge around the bedroom in her frilly little nighty does nothing to assuage my desire.
When she comes to bed, I leave a light on and cuddle up to her, fondling the waist of her panties and the spaghetti straps of her nightie. "You look so incredibly sexy in that nightie," I whisper, imagining it on me instead of her.
"Thanks," she replies coyly.
"I love the way it caresses your tush."
"I kind of figured you'd like it."
"Do I ever!"
The last two nights have not included this kind of sexy pillow talk. We tore our clothes off and fucked our brains out. In fact, I never used to remember to compliment her on her lingerie. I was more interested in what was underneath it. The last time I said things like that, she repeated similar compliments to me.
We are making out. I am not even attempting to remove her nighty. I am imagining wearing it as I rub my naked chest against it. What would it feel like to wear satin?
"Do you mind if I slip into something more comfortable?" I ask.
Jenny grins. "Please do, Imogen." Busted.
I sheepishly get my bikini and put it on for her, in a reverse strip-tease. I am openly staring at her nightie. There's no hiding my desire. I am wearing a bikini in front of my girlfriend, and fantasizing about wearing her sexy nightgown. What is happening to me?
She pulls me into bed, and we fondle each other in sheer bliss for what seems like eternity.
"So, you really like wearing bikinis, do you?"
"Uh-huh."
"Are you doing it just to please me?"
"Uh-unh."
"Why, then?"
"Because," I reply shyly, luxuriating in my femininity, "it makes me feel so sexy."
"Mmmmmm, and you are sexy!"
I can no longer even pretend to deny it to her anymore. I feel somehow relieved. Free at last!
(I dare to throw away the bikini in a moment of shame)
(When the ritual occurs, and the bikini is gone, she is furious. I am eager to please, so I volunteer to wear some of her underwear, and to buy her (me) a replacement)
(I practically lose my mind in a swimwear store)
(I parade an inexact replica for her, without prompting)
(I experiment with all her clothes when she's not there)
(I experiment with all her clothes when she is there)
(I surprise her by wearing her panties all day)
(We shop together for my new under-wardrobe)
(We sleep in matching nightgowns)
(I shave away my body hair)
(I perfect a convincing feminine look with Jenny)
(I begin to take estrogen)
(I suck her new boyfriend's cock)
(I publicly take on a female identity)
(My new boyfriend fucks me)
(I become a real girl)
My girlfriend caught me looking at pictures of Imogen Bailey. She was devastated. Imogen Bailey is probably the most incredibly gorgeous woman on the planet. Jenny, whose self-confidence was low to begin with, in spite of her own considerable beauty, took this as a betrayal.
"I try so hard to be beautiful for you, and yet you still look at other girls!"
"You are beautiful!"
"So why are you looking at her?"
"She's beautiful too."
"Is she more beautiful than me?"
Great. A dangerously loaded question. My hesitation alone gives Jenny's argument momentum.
"See? You think she's more beautiful than me!"
"That's not true," I lie.
"So, I ask you again, why are you looking at still pictures of her when you can look at me, a real, living, breathing woman, standing right here?"
"You're being irrational."
"Answer my question!"
"I'm sorry, but she's a beautiful woman. You can't expect me to stop looking at other women just because we're living together."
Big mistake.
"Then maybe we shouldn't be living together."
I have dug myself even deeper into the hole. This will not be easy.
"Jenny, you know that I love you, and that I wouldn't ever dream of being with another girl. You know that you don't need to compete with other women."
"So are you attracted to Imogen Bailey?"
"I'd be lying if I said otherwise. But that doesn't mean I don't find you outrageously beautiful too."
"I sure hope so. I've been trying so hard to look like her, just to please you."
"Honey, I love you exactly as you are. You don't need to try to look like anyone else."
"Well, if you look at Imogen Bailey so much, then I need to draw your attention away from her and back to me."
"You don't need to. I am all yours."
"So why do you need to look at her?"
Again, my hesitation kills me. I just don't know how to answer this diplomatically and truthfully at the same time.
"Tell me!"
"I look at her because she looks like you, not the other way around." Another lie.
"I'm sick of this. Obviously, I've got it all wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"You're so evasive about this. I've tried so hard to be Imogen Bailey for you, and it hasn't mattered. Maybe you look at her for other reasons."
"Like what?"
"Oh, let me guess: you're interested in her political views."
"What?"
"No? Of course not, she has none. You are after all just looking at her pictures."
"Yes, we've established that."
"Fine then. So you look at her because she's pretty and sexy. Nothing else."
"What else do you want me to say? If you know so well what she looks like, and if you're trying to look at her, then maybe I should be jealous, too."
"I don't look at her because she gets me off."
"Neither do I." Oops. Barefaced lie.
"Really?" she asks, skeptically.
"Really," I assure her.
"Then maybe you look at her for the same reasons I look at her."
"What's that?"
"You want to be just like her too."
"What?"
"Yes! That's it! You want to be blonde and curvaceous and have big tits and look dynamite in a bikini!"
"Now you're being silly."
"All right. If that's not the reason, then you're looking at her because she gets you off, and if that's the truth, then I'm leaving you."
"You're serious!"
"Yes, I'm serious."
She is serious. Clearly, I must do her bidding or lose her.
"Please don't!"
"Why not? Does she get you off?"
"Well..."
"Fine! I'm out of here!" She turns to go. I can tell that she means it too. I grab her arm and pull her back.
"Please, don't go!"
"OK. Here are your options: if you look at pictures of Imogen Bailey to get yourself off, then I'm not your girlfriend anymore. If you do it for the same reasons I do - because you want to look just like her, then I'll stay."
The trouble is that Jenny really does look like Imogen Bailey. And she's a very smart, kind, and generous woman who shares my taste in music, movies, food, and books. We are a wonderful match. I love her deeply, with all my heart, and I can't allow her to leave me. Curse that Imogen Bailey! I cave.
"Jenny, don't go. She doesn't get me off. I swear it."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes."
"So you want to be just like her, as much as I do?"
"Yes." I'll say anything to keep Jenny.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Say it!"
"I want to be just like Imogen Bailey, and that's why I look at pictures of her."
"How do I know you're not just telling me what I want to hear?"
Good ol' Jenny, always as sharp as a tack.
"You'll have to take my word for it."
"Well I don't believe you."
"What do you want from me?"
"Prove it!"
"How?"
"Prove to me that you want to be just like Imogen Bailey!"
"How can I do that? I can't be like her."
"Don't you want to?"
"Yes. I told you."
"Then you'll have to make an effort to look like her if you want me to believe you."
"What do you mean?" I'm on my knees, begging her. She's beaming down at me devilishly.
"Do you really mean it when you say that I look like her?"
"Yes, you really do look like her."
"So my efforts to look like her have worked?"
"I would say so, yes."
"So just follow my advice, and you'll do just fine."
With that, she brought me back to the computer, and quickly found my stash of Imogen Bailey photos. She skipped past a few nude shots, and settled on one of her in a bikini.
"You want to look like that?" she asks.
"Yes," I reply, still playing the game.
"You know that I have a bikini just like that, because of this very photo?"
"You know, I did notice that."
"Good. There's how you start."
"What do you mean?"
"Get yourself a bikini."
"What, like that one?"
"Sure. If you like another one better, go for that one."
"This one is fine."
"I thought so too. You can borrow mine if you like." She disappears into the bedroom. I can hear her rummaging around a bit.
"Wait a minute. Why am I doing this?" She asks. "You're supposed to prove to me that you want to look like her. Why don't you come here and pick it out yourself!"
Before I know it, I'm picking through her panty drawer for Imogen Bailey's bikini. I feel awkward looking through her intimates, as if I'm doing something dirty. I feel as though I'm discovering things in her dresser that no man should know about.
Having found the bikini, I take it out of Jenny's panty drawer, and present it to her, bra in one hand, panty in the other.
"What are you giving it to me for? You're the one who wants to look like Imogen Bailey."
"What do you want me to do with it? Wear it?"
"Of course. How else are you going to look like her? I doubt she'd ever wear your kind of briefs.
Reluctantly, I disrobe, under her triumphant gaze. I tremble as I pull on the panties. The soft spandex caresses my member so gently that it instantly and involuntarily becomes erect. Jenny giggles at me. "The bra, too," she says.
I struggle to clasp it behind my back. After a few minutes of struggle, through which Jenny giggled incessantly, I finally got it on properly. There I stood, in front of my beautiful girlfriend, wearing her bikini, my hard cock straining against the tight panty.
"There!" she says. "You don't look anything like Imogen Bailey, but you look at lot more like her than you did an hour ago. How does it feel?"
I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. The panty is high-cut, and exposes the side of my thigh all the way up to my hip. The material is very soft to the touch. I love the way it looks on Imogen and on Jenny. I can't stop thinking of how sexy both of them look in it. The sensation of a tight band around my chest reminds me constantly that I'm wearing a bra. The bra straps feel dainty against my broad shoulders.
"I kinda like it," I reply, shyly, blushing, and trying very hard to convince myself that I am lying.
"Wow! It shows, too. Why don't you prance around a bit, like Imogen would."
I can't help but get into the act. I'm swinging my hips, sashaying around the bedroom and running my hands against my breasts, my butt, my hips, my thighs, as femininely as I can. It's getting me incredibly hot. Jenny drops her jaw in amazement. She's looking randy, too, and she starts to prance around with me, feeling me up now and again. I am lost to the moment. I am Imogen Bailey, I am Jenny. And I feel sexy in a way that I never have before. A little voice in my head warns me that I am not a woman, and that I'm jeopardizing my manhood by doing this. The overwhelming sensations in my body scream in assent YES, I'M TURNING INTO A GIRL AND I LOVE IT! I imagine the panty re-shaping my crotch into that of a woman. I imagine my waist sucking in. I imagine the bra filling with my own full breasts. I welcome my imaginary metamorphosis not with open arms, but with greedy, grasping arms.
I have ejaculated all over myself, and all over the bed sheets. I have come crashing back to earth. Jenny has stripped to her underwear, and lies beside me in bed, flushed. She has her hand in her panties. I am flushed with shame, aghast at my actions. She says nothing until she finishes coming.
"Geez, Rob. You must really love me. You're still wearing my bikini," she breathes.
Disgusted, I clean up and get myself out of her bikini.
"You know," she says, "I think you'll make a great Imogen."
"Are you happy now?"
"Yes!"
"Good."
"I hope you don't think this is over."
"Why not?"
"I still don't believe you really want to be Imogen."
I say nothing, stewing in my shame.
"I'm satisfied for now," she says, "but you've still got a lot of work to do."
Thankfully, my plentiful stock of Imogen Bailey photos remained on my hard drive, forgotten in the frenzy described above. Jenny would normally have had me delete them all, but this time, she forgot. Or perhaps she felt she humiliated me enough, and didn't need to punish me further. Better still, I had no shortage of other gorgeous women on my hard drive. I went back to them the very next day, just to spite Jenny.
I am furious. How dare she mock my masculinity? She showed no respect to my manhood. She turned me - ever so briefly - into a prancing faggot. It was bad enough that she made me wear items of her clothing; even worse that it was one of her sexiest, skimpiest outfits; worst of all, and I shudder to think of it, she made me enjoy it. I nearly faint with shame when I face the intolerable truth of it. How can she ever take my manhood seriously again? Hell, how can I?
These photos take on an entirely new meaning for me. I cannot allow her to ruin this for me. I linger on the picture that triggered all this madness. I wore that same bikini! I still have trouble believing it, let alone comprehending the consequences. I used to jerk off to this photo. Now it reminds me of my humiliation. Maybe that's why Jenny didn't remember to delete it. My heart sinks with humiliation.
I need to relieve some tension. I need vengeance. I am stroking my cock, admiring Imogen's firm, round breasts, her glorious waves of golden hair, her sleek, slender thighs, and the way they converge in that soft, delicate pocket of thin, scanty spandex such as I wore only last night. Oh how I love the way she poses, so sensuous, so eager! How her tight little bikini focuses her femininity (I know how that feels). I can just imagine sliding my hand along her round little ass, snapping her panty waist (as Jenny did mine).
You enjoyed it, didn't you! You loved every second of it! You dressed up like a girl, and you liked it!
My conscience's accusations, as much as I attempt to deny them, drive the intense pleasure in my massively erect dick. I know that I can't continue to stroke, because I am still, paradoxically, undermining my manhood. I want to be just like Imogen Bailey! I want to be soft and curvaceous and blonde and slinky and scantily clad gorgeously femi-
No! I must control myself. This is absurd. I want to fuck her. I want to throw her roughly onto my bed, hold down her arms, and force myself into her, as she gasps for breath. I want to grab hold of her ass as I pump my love juice into her.
Amazingly, I lose my groove. I am no longer pumping. I am failing.
Unacceptable! I cannot allow Jenny's mind games to prevent me from masturbating with sexy pictures of other women. I must come, if only to establish control again. I know just the thing to turn myself on again, I think slyly to myself. I can imagine myself as Imogen Bailey, wearing that sexy lit-
I am losing control again! But I'm also going to come! If I come, I win because I defy Jenny; but I also lose because I surrender my manhood . . . and what could be better? I think to myself lasciviously, Doesn't it feel wonderful being feminine? Oh God! Does it ever! Wouldn't it be wonderful if Jenny caught me right now and made me wear her bikini again! Or maybe her lingerie!
As I clean up, I rationalize my capitulation by convincing myself that this was an act of defiance. I am ashamed, but I won't admit it. I know that last night's incident has indeed adversely affected my masculinity. But this won't happen again. Ever.
"So, Imogen, are you ready for another show?"
I can feel the blood rush to my face. My legs are weak. My hands tremble. "That's not funny, Jen."
"It's not meant to be, Imogen." She spits the name, like venom. "Put it on."
I reach into Jenny's panty drawer. I know exactly where to find it now. Oh God! Look at all that pretty underwear! Wouldn't that be- I must concentrate on controlling myself. I cannot show pleasure again. Oooh! Silk! I have the bra in one hand, the panty in the other. Again. "I don't understand why you insist -"
"You're the one who wants to be Imogen Bailey, aren't you? Or did you lie to me?"
I've lain the bikini out on the bed. I don't want to wear it. I can't wait to put it on! I'm hoping that if I concentrate enough, I can avoid succumbing to my overwhelming urge to feel feminine! My delaying tactic is only making things worse: my erection grows ever larger as I anticipate the horror ecstasy to come. I have to admit, it is an incredibly sexy bikini. I have to put it on now - just to hide my boner, of course. Of course.
I am trying incredibly hard to pretend that this annoys me. Yet I caress my bikini-clad hips. I want to show Jenny that this has gone far enough as I hook on my bra like an expert. I want her to know that I don't really want to be Imogen Bailey, that I'm just doing this to please her and to keep her. I'm playing coy just like a shy girl. I pout to show my displeasure.
"Oh, don't be sad, Imogen," she says, standing up now to caress my effeminated body. "You look very pretty in your bikini." She rubs my pulsating member through the spandex as she says this, and I practically collapse at her feet in a heap of sensuous femininity. I'm a girl! I'm a girl! I'm wearing a bikini! I'm a girl!
Like the first time, I prance and preen like a supermodel for my lovely Jenny. Only this time, I'm consciously loving it. What better way to convince her that I'm sincere? She'll surely believe this act. If only it were an act!
When it's all over, and I've cleaned up my mess, I know that I have lost again. Jenny smiles smugly beside me in bed, having masturbated herself to orgasm with me. Even as I strip off my bikini in disgust. As I toss it across the room, I realize that I have seen Jenny do the same thing herself. Even in my belated denial of femininity, I am flushed with girlishness.
In our time together, I have handled some of Jenny's laundry. I have separated out her underwear from mine. I have handled her silks. I have bought her lingerie for special occasions. I have seen her in her most intimate undergarments. I always found her clothes to be inherently sexy. I always felt a surge of intimacy at the realization that I have been allowed to see and touch her almost sacred underthings. Now I find myself yearning to explore that intimacy in far more detail than ever before.
I am pawing through Jenny's underwear drawer. Piled in with her bikini are myriads of matching and unmatched panties and brassieres, two garter belts, a one-piece swimsuit, sexy nightgowns and satin teddies. Silk panties melt out of my hands like water. I hold them up, one at a time, and admire the flowery lace patterns, and the beautiful trims. All of these things are so ridiculously feminine. Many of them even outshine the bikini I've actually worn.
Jenny has not insisted for almost a week now. I have had time to think about my actions. All sorts of insignificant things trigger memories of my two incidents with this bikini. Embarrassingly, these memories arouse me. Clearly, my wearing it has tainted my manhood. I find myself longing to wear it again. Worse, I find myself fantasizing about even sexier garments. Imagine how much more corrupted I would be if Jenny had forced me to wear her lingerie instead. I shudder with anticipation.
I figure that I might as well prepare myself for the possibility by examining all the options. Perhaps if I know beforehand what I might have to wear, I can lessen its impact. Perhaps if I know beforehand what's available, I can pick something really sexy, like a garter belt and stockings, or a ni-
Curse her!
I place everything gingerly back in its place, livid with shame, and go masturbate.
Tonight Jenny comes home with a present for me. There is no special occasion. She beams with a sinister joy.
"I bought you something at the mall!"
"What is it?"
"Open the bag and see!" She practically bounces off the walls with excitement. I open the bag.
All I see inside is what appears to be a bikini.
"I thought that since you want to be like Imogen Bailey, there's no sense in you borrowing my bikini all the time, so you might as well have your own!"
It's another bikini, all right. It's a similar one from another of my pictures. A floral pink. Just my size, too, maybe a little smaller.
"I'm so glad you like it!" she gushes.
I am, of course, ashen and trembling; I can hardly see anything except the sexy, skimpy, ultra-feminine bikini in my hands. Oh my God! I never imagined I'd get to wear this!
"We're gonna have so much fun tonight!" she says, rushing upstairs to get changed. I follow her zombie-like, and tuck my new bikini into a corner of my own underwear drawer.
Dinner is interminable. I can hardly eat a bite. Jenny babbles on as if everything is normal. We wash the dishes. We put away the dishes. We watch a bit of television. I have my very own bikini waiting for me in my underwear drawer. How am I supposed to react? I realize that I haven't spoken a word since I opened the shopping bag.
At length, she cuddles up to me lasciviously and whispers into my ear, "Let's try on your new bikini."
"Okay," I answer, automatically. She leads me up to the bedroom.
She sits on the bed, waiting. I lose no time in stripping down, and reaching into my drawer for my new bikini. I don't think I should be doing this. It truly is a gorgeous piece of work. I can just imagine how erotically it will hug my hips. I can't let her see me enjoying this! It's not right! I'm losing my manhood!
I step into the panties and slide them up to my crotch, savouring the touch of spandex against my cock. I slowly strap on the bra, revelling in the realization that I am putting on a woman's bikini that happens to belong solely to me. I have wantonly abandoned any pretense of hesitation or displeasure. I close my eyes and slide my hand across my chest and cock, imagining myself metamorphosed into Imogen Bailey herself. I'm effeminating myself in front of my girlfriend, and I just don't care! Inspired, I sidle up to Jenny, who sits on the bed watching.
"Thank you so much," I whisper in her ear seductively, "I always wanted my own bikini."
My God! I can't believe I just said that!
"You really like it?"
"Yeah," I reply, coyly. "I love it!"
"That's so cool!"
She drags me onto the bed, where I strip her to her underwear, and we make out, comparing bras and panties and body parts. It is the most sensuous lovemaking I have ever experienced, yet neither of us is fully naked.
Even after last night, I suspect that Jenny believes I'm still just playing the role. I only wish I were. When I woke up this morning, still wearing my bikini, it took every every ounce of my willpower to take it off and put it away. I could think of nothing else all day.
It's one thing to wear it to please Jenny. I can always fall back on the excuse that I'm doing it only for her, even though I know that's not true. It's quite another thing to have an overpowering urge to wear it now, alone, to get off. Am I insane?
It's so easy. I have my very own bikini. It amazes me when I look into my underwear drawer, and see this pink floral bra and panty among my butchy boxers and gitch. I want more! I want my underwear drawer to look much more like Jenny's, when I get in this kind of mood. I want to be able to wear a matching black lace panty and bra. I want to have elaborate silk and satin unmentionables.
I just can't help myself. I pick up where I left off this morning, and slip into my very own bikini. By God, look at me! I'm wearing an unmistakably feminine outfit, and it's turning me on! I did it of my own volition! And I'm fantasizing about doing it again and again, with all sorts of women's fashions! I am a complete pantywaist! I know that wearing this - especially unsupervised - is making me even more of a pantywaist! This is turning me into an outright woman! And I love it!
If only Jenny knew how much I really enjoy this. I can't let her find out I'm doing this on my own. I know she's only playing the game. She doesn't really want me to turn myself into Imogen Bailey Oh my God! Even though I'm fantasizing that my bikini is shaping my ass into a round, tight little girlie ass, and smoothing and sculpting my waist, and swelling my chest into a perfect pair of perky, round titties.
She must not know!
This is the third night since Jenny returned from her mother's. We had sex the last two nights. Frankly, it was a bit dull. There was no mention of the new addition to my wardrobe. I am desperate to get into something feminine - and watching Jenny lounge around the bedroom in her frilly little nighty does nothing to assuage my desire.
When she comes to bed, I leave a light on and cuddle up to her, fondling the waist of her panties and the spaghetti straps of her nightie. "You look so incredibly sexy in that nightie," I whisper, imagining it on me instead of her.
"Thanks," she replies coyly.
"I love the way it caresses your tush."
"I kind of figured you'd like it."
"Do I ever!"
The last two nights have not included this kind of sexy pillow talk. We tore our clothes off and fucked our brains out. In fact, I never used to remember to compliment her on her lingerie. I was more interested in what was underneath it. The last time I said things like that, she repeated similar compliments to me.
We are making out. I am not even attempting to remove her nighty. I am imagining wearing it as I rub my naked chest against it. What would it feel like to wear satin?
"Do you mind if I slip into something more comfortable?" I ask.
Jenny grins. "Please do, Imogen." Busted.
I sheepishly get my bikini and put it on for her, in a reverse strip-tease. I am openly staring at her nightie. There's no hiding my desire. I am wearing a bikini in front of my girlfriend, and fantasizing about wearing her sexy nightgown. What is happening to me?
She pulls me into bed, and we fondle each other in sheer bliss for what seems like eternity.
"So, you really like wearing bikinis, do you?"
"Uh-huh."
"Are you doing it just to please me?"
"Uh-unh."
"Why, then?"
"Because," I reply shyly, luxuriating in my femininity, "it makes me feel so sexy."
"Mmmmmm, and you are sexy!"
I can no longer even pretend to deny it to her anymore. I feel somehow relieved. Free at last!
(I dare to throw away the bikini in a moment of shame)
(When the ritual occurs, and the bikini is gone, she is furious. I am eager to please, so I volunteer to wear some of her underwear, and to buy her (me) a replacement)
(I practically lose my mind in a swimwear store)
(I parade an inexact replica for her, without prompting)
(I experiment with all her clothes when she's not there)
(I experiment with all her clothes when she is there)
(I surprise her by wearing her panties all day)
(We shop together for my new under-wardrobe)
(We sleep in matching nightgowns)
(I shave away my body hair)
(I perfect a convincing feminine look with Jenny)
(I begin to take estrogen)
(I suck her new boyfriend's cock)
(I publicly take on a female identity)
(My new boyfriend fucks me)
(I become a real girl)
Diary: Dilemma Story Idea
Been there, done that.
It never ends. There are only so many permutations of this fantasy, and they all end up with the male protagonist enthusiastically and irrevocably abandoning his manhood.
It always gets to me.
I have a couple of quick ideas:
My chart of possible reactions. The experiment starts off each man with a choice of two incredibly sexy feminine outfits. Eventually, as the experiment progresses, one of the choices becomes less and less sexy. When the man is finally presented with something masculine vs. something feminine, he chooses the feminine.
Second, a story about how a man comes to discover that he loves women because he wants to be one, and he begins discovering his feminine side.
It never ends. There are only so many permutations of this fantasy, and they all end up with the male protagonist enthusiastically and irrevocably abandoning his manhood.
It always gets to me.
I have a couple of quick ideas:
My chart of possible reactions. The experiment starts off each man with a choice of two incredibly sexy feminine outfits. Eventually, as the experiment progresses, one of the choices becomes less and less sexy. When the man is finally presented with something masculine vs. something feminine, he chooses the feminine.
Second, a story about how a man comes to discover that he loves women because he wants to be one, and he begins discovering his feminine side.
Diary: A Better Twist to Stories
I want to figure out the most extreme transformation story possible, in both the physical and the psychological sense. I liked the story about how the guy and his buddy made a bet with their wives that they couldn't become girls, and then were hypnotized and surgically transformed into gorgeous she-men. The one problem with it is the lack of decision. These men did not decide on their own to become women, they were manipulated into accepting it and enjoying it. I want to explore what happens to somebody who succumbs without coercion. Someone who succumbs completely and enthusiastically.
Someone who accidentally discovers, say, his girl's panties, and finds himself pining for them, and for other articles of her clothing. And this slowly transforms him until he becomes completely female.
Someone who accidentally discovers, say, his girl's panties, and finds himself pining for them, and for other articles of her clothing. And this slowly transforms him until he becomes completely female.
Fiction: Predator
I picked him up at the beach. I love the sun, the lake, the boys. I wanted to experiment. I remember how awkward it was for me in high school, when everybody struggled with their newly discovered sexuality. I, myself, was unsure of myself, and therefore vulnerable. The boys I knew then, I now realized, must have gone through the same feelings of uncertainty. I wanted to test a hypothesis.
It was far more difficult than I thought. Tyler was completely intimidated by me. He had been staring at me in my string bikini all day long. I was a goddess to him. He had no idea how to handle my approaching him. Normally, I would have simply basked in the attention of all the gawky teenage boys, but I needed my test subject. He was perfect, the typical male 18 year-old: skinny, pale, falsely confident, fairly good-looking, easily seduced. His friends (especially Sarah, his little girlfriend) were incredulous when I approached him with a blunt proposition: to ditch them and come with me for a good time. He stammered like an idiot, his insecurity exposed, before he accepted. When he did, I kissed him full on the lips, and pretended to fawn all over him.
I gave him the rules in my car on the way home: I would entertain him all summer for free, as long as he would break contact with everyone he knew, and stay at my place. I allowed him to call his parents to tell them he'd be at a friend's house for the rest of the summer. They protested, but could do nothing about it. It was only hours later that the horny little bugger thought of clothes. I told him I'd take care of that.
The first night, I let him explore my body to his heart's delight. I first commanded him to feel me all over, as much as he wanted, but without removing my bikini. I didn't let him touch his erection. I wanted him to get hornier than he'd ever been in his life. I'm quite confident that I succeeded. That made the coup de grace easy.
I stripped out of my bikini, and ordered him to pick it up, and put it on. I made it quite clear to him that he could only go further with me if he complied. He had an awful lot of trouble with the bra, so I helped him get it on. I snapped his panties playfully after I hooked it on. He was livid with humiliation, so I deliberately grazed his cock as I stepped away to get a better look at him.
As expected, his gawky skinniness and youth made him look fairly androgynous in my bikini. If not for the slight hairiness, the shallow chest, and the huge erection, he could have passed as a scrawny 13-year-old girl with a butch haircut. He was just about my size, if not a little smaller. He would make a fine student.
I caressed him and fondled his nipples, and told him how adorable he looked. He ejaculated almost the instant I touched the front of his panties. I asked him if he felt sexy when he wore my bikini. He was even unsure of this, but he did agree. I worked him up again, still in my bikini. I had him do a little dance for me, and encouraged him to do it as femininely as possible. Boy, did he ever respond! He was slinking around like Britney Spears!
After allowing him a few more orgasms, I got him ready for bed. I had him slip into one of my nighties. He was still unprepared for this. Nonetheless, he tentatively caressed his silk-clad body, exploring this strange new garment against him, and looked incredibly feminine as he did so.
He quickly made a connection between wearing my clothes, and "feeling sexy," as he described it. I allowed him to think that he could continue being a boy, but at the same time allowed him to experience his feminine side as often as possible. I got him to start taking hormones because it would increase his sexiness.
I took pictures of him in my nightgown, and threatened to show all his friends, to post it at his school. That scared him into obeying my every command.
The second day, after I had him all shaved and pulling on a pair of panties, he asked me, "This isn't going to turn me into a girl or anything, is it?" I remember his exact words because they were so innocent, so trusting. I rubbed my body up against his, and assured him, "Yes, Tyler, it will turn you into a girl. The more you like it, the more girlish you become. And I can tell how much you love it! You'll be a girl in no time!"
The boy practically panicked. He struggled to escape my caresses, and to tear off his panties, but I persisted enough for him to give in. There's no telling what went through his mind as he came. When he came for the third time, still wearing my panties, he cried. But he never took them off.
After only a few days, I didn't even have to encourage him. He was already starting to act more like a girl, taking on female mannerisms, and even asking me, sheepishly, to wear certain items of clothing. He couldn't contain himself when he wore my clothes. It seemed to make him even hornier now when I reminded him how his enjoyment is directly proportional to the rate at which he would become female. I would swear he would act more femininely then, too.
After a month, the hormones were already starting to have an effect. His nipples were growing, and his body hair wasn't growing back. He was blossoming into a woman before my eyes.
It was far more difficult than I thought. Tyler was completely intimidated by me. He had been staring at me in my string bikini all day long. I was a goddess to him. He had no idea how to handle my approaching him. Normally, I would have simply basked in the attention of all the gawky teenage boys, but I needed my test subject. He was perfect, the typical male 18 year-old: skinny, pale, falsely confident, fairly good-looking, easily seduced. His friends (especially Sarah, his little girlfriend) were incredulous when I approached him with a blunt proposition: to ditch them and come with me for a good time. He stammered like an idiot, his insecurity exposed, before he accepted. When he did, I kissed him full on the lips, and pretended to fawn all over him.
I gave him the rules in my car on the way home: I would entertain him all summer for free, as long as he would break contact with everyone he knew, and stay at my place. I allowed him to call his parents to tell them he'd be at a friend's house for the rest of the summer. They protested, but could do nothing about it. It was only hours later that the horny little bugger thought of clothes. I told him I'd take care of that.
The first night, I let him explore my body to his heart's delight. I first commanded him to feel me all over, as much as he wanted, but without removing my bikini. I didn't let him touch his erection. I wanted him to get hornier than he'd ever been in his life. I'm quite confident that I succeeded. That made the coup de grace easy.
I stripped out of my bikini, and ordered him to pick it up, and put it on. I made it quite clear to him that he could only go further with me if he complied. He had an awful lot of trouble with the bra, so I helped him get it on. I snapped his panties playfully after I hooked it on. He was livid with humiliation, so I deliberately grazed his cock as I stepped away to get a better look at him.
As expected, his gawky skinniness and youth made him look fairly androgynous in my bikini. If not for the slight hairiness, the shallow chest, and the huge erection, he could have passed as a scrawny 13-year-old girl with a butch haircut. He was just about my size, if not a little smaller. He would make a fine student.
I caressed him and fondled his nipples, and told him how adorable he looked. He ejaculated almost the instant I touched the front of his panties. I asked him if he felt sexy when he wore my bikini. He was even unsure of this, but he did agree. I worked him up again, still in my bikini. I had him do a little dance for me, and encouraged him to do it as femininely as possible. Boy, did he ever respond! He was slinking around like Britney Spears!
After allowing him a few more orgasms, I got him ready for bed. I had him slip into one of my nighties. He was still unprepared for this. Nonetheless, he tentatively caressed his silk-clad body, exploring this strange new garment against him, and looked incredibly feminine as he did so.
He quickly made a connection between wearing my clothes, and "feeling sexy," as he described it. I allowed him to think that he could continue being a boy, but at the same time allowed him to experience his feminine side as often as possible. I got him to start taking hormones because it would increase his sexiness.
I took pictures of him in my nightgown, and threatened to show all his friends, to post it at his school. That scared him into obeying my every command.
The second day, after I had him all shaved and pulling on a pair of panties, he asked me, "This isn't going to turn me into a girl or anything, is it?" I remember his exact words because they were so innocent, so trusting. I rubbed my body up against his, and assured him, "Yes, Tyler, it will turn you into a girl. The more you like it, the more girlish you become. And I can tell how much you love it! You'll be a girl in no time!"
The boy practically panicked. He struggled to escape my caresses, and to tear off his panties, but I persisted enough for him to give in. There's no telling what went through his mind as he came. When he came for the third time, still wearing my panties, he cried. But he never took them off.
After only a few days, I didn't even have to encourage him. He was already starting to act more like a girl, taking on female mannerisms, and even asking me, sheepishly, to wear certain items of clothing. He couldn't contain himself when he wore my clothes. It seemed to make him even hornier now when I reminded him how his enjoyment is directly proportional to the rate at which he would become female. I would swear he would act more femininely then, too.
After a month, the hormones were already starting to have an effect. His nipples were growing, and his body hair wasn't growing back. He was blossoming into a woman before my eyes.
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