It’s such a release to wear your clothes, to turn myself into a sexy, gorgeous girl, like you. It makes me feel so unbearably sexy when I pretend to be a girl. It feels so naughty. I should definitely not be doing it. But it’s so much fun! I love the way silk and satin feel on my skin. More than that, I love the way your clothes are themselves innately feminine. I love the way my wearing them obliterates any pretense I ever had of being masculine.
I long to wipe my manhood away, and reveal myself for the woman that I am. I long to transform myself into a girl, and do everything that real girls do with complete impunity.
It starts when I make fun of homosexuals. I laugh at them and denigrate them. But my girl, she takes offence. She says that my making fun of them is proof that I’m not comfortable with my own sexuality, and that the fact that I laugh at gays only betrays the fact that I am secretly like them, or at the very least that I secretly want to be gay. She goes on with this ad nauseum. I joke with her that she’s a lesbian, and would love to have pussy. When she objects, I call her a hypocrite for being afraid of her own homosexuality. So we make a bet: she says she’ll see me take a cock in the ass and in the mouth voluntarily in no more than 90 days; I say she won’t, but I’ll have her eating carpet by that time. If I win, I get to have a threesome with her and another girl of my choice; if she wins, she gets to have a threesome with me and another guy. In either case, the more numerous gender must perform lewd homosexual acts for the entertainment of the lone member of the opposite sex.
90 days is a very short time to completely transform any man, and especially me. I ask her how she expects to do it (we stipulated at the time of the bet that there would be no force allowed, nor any psychological shanghaiing such as hypnosis, nor any surreptitious feeding of hormones or mind control drugs; it would all have to be done through conscious actions; she would have to win me over with convincing arguments) and she tells me that all she has to do is plant a seed in my head, and I’ll begin my slow but inevitable transformation immediately. She also mentions that I won’t even know what the seed is until it starts to eat away at my façade of manhood.
She tells me that the only way I can avoid becoming a flaming faggot in 90 days is by wearing her underwear.
I laugh at this blatant contradiction. More likely I would begin my hopeless spiral into gayness only if I did as she said.
"So then," she says triumphantly, "you admit that it’s possible that you’re going to become a total raging cocksucker."
"Never," I reply.
"Then why are you afraid of wearing panties and a bra?"
"That would be gay. Besides, that’s just your trick to get me to fall into your trap. I will not make myself the least bit feminine for any reason."
With that the seed is planted. I try to imagine how wearing women’s underwear could possibly save me from becoming a fag, but I just don’t see it. Confident in my manhood, I start to imagine the ways I could convince girlie to develop a taste for pussy. Visions of girls making out together dance in my head.
I am pretty confident at this point. I am so confident that I laugh some more about the idea that my wearing women’s underwear could somehow undermine my manhood. I figure that I could probably do it and come out unscathed. Nothing can change what I am.
She starts to taunt me when we make love. She tells me to imagine what it’s like for a girl when she gets to have a big fat dick slide inside her. She tells me to picture what a girl tastes when she has a mouthful of cock. Meanwhile, I proselytize about the wonders of femininity, about how incredibly sexy women are, and how she knows it. I convince her that she looks at fashion magazines because she knows how pretty girls are, and she wants to taste one. This gets me hotter than hell. I love thinking about her fucking another girl. Girls everywhere. Nothing but girl. Girrrrrl girl girl woman girl girl girl girlie girl.
Somehow, my appreciation of girls becomes tainted with the graphic detail my girlie gave when describing how it feels to have cock inside her. I begin to imagine being a girl. Not fucking or anything, just being. Being sexy and girlish and curvy and effeminate. I know what makes girls sexy, and I can feel it all over myself. By day 30 I’m worried sick about losing the bet. I can’t stop thinking about how sexy it must feel to be a girl. Every time becomes more intense. Soon I start fantasizing about actually wearing her panties. The idea makes me incredibly horny. I figure, it’s gotta be worth a shot. Maybe she wasn’t kidding, and wearing her panties will save me from these nasty thoughts.
The moment I put them on, as my knees quiver and buckle while I collapse in a sexual heap of girl-mad femininity, I realize that it was a trick, that I had now lost all hope of ever winning the bet. Worse, this realization filled me with unbridled ecstasy. While I wore those panties and that bra, I rejoiced in the fantasy that they would turn me momentarily into a complete perfect female, and that I could start fucking and sucking dicks forthwith. I pictured myself as a girl, with a big fat cock in my pussy, in my mouth, and luxuriating in every second of it. I could feel the bra shaping my chest into a pair of full, perky tits; I felt the panties mould my butt into a cute little round girlie’s ass, and suck in my waist, and wither away my precious cock into a delicate, delicious cunt. And when I came I turned livid with shame and put it all away never to be spoken of or thought about again.
That’s when I knew that she wasn’t kidding after all. The experience of wearing her panties showed me just how close I am to becoming a flaming homosexual. I could never even think of doing it again for as long as I live.
Just to be sure, I repeated the experience with all kinds of lingerie, swimwear, and anything else I could think of. That ought to teach me.
By day 60, I could no longer pretend that I could win. This is when I realized that my pride wasn’t worth giving up the intense pleasure of being feminine. I couldn’t help but celebrate by buying my own lingerie and electrolyzing off all my unsightly body hair. I still kept up appearances for girlie’s sake, because I wanted to surprise her. I sucked my first dick on day 75. I got fucked in the ass the very next day.
I manage to surprise girlie on day 89 by contriving to have her walk in on me sucking and fucking dick simultaneously while wearing my own babydoll and fishnet stockings. From then on, we become like sisters, except we have a threesome with this gorgeous hunk of a guy to seal the bet.
Diary: Hollywood
I spent this evening in Hollywood, enthralled by the multitudes of gorgeous, sexy women. Now I’m wearing the outfit I bought a few weeks ago: my vinyl mini-dress, matching lace garter belt and thong, and fishnet stockings. I didn’t see anyone wearing anything like this, but I desperately need some femininity.
I did come across one of the most exquisitely beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She was slightly oriental, young, and wearing a form-fitting backless red formal dress. Her body was perfect, and she carried herself like a model. The slit in her skirt only came up just above her knee, but it revealed a stunning pair of legs. Exquisite. I should hang around there more often. There are many sleazy lingerie shops along Hollywood Boulevard that I might thoroughly enjoy.
I wish I could describe exactly what it is that femininity does to me. I can’t even describe what it is. The way women move, the way they carry themselves, has so much to it, and yet I can’t even put my finger on how it differs from men. And why do I love it so much? Maybe it’s a certain innate delicacy to their every gesture. Their limp-wristed, butt-wiggling walk. The way their feminine features, from their soft, smooth, hairless skin; their slender arms, shoulders, necks; their soft, rounded bottoms; the exquisitely slim curves of their waists; their round perfect breasts; all billowing out from them without their even knowing it.
And here I am, wearing a fucking dress.
The appeal is so ridiculously strong. I want to be even more feminine right now. I want to make myself utterly female. It’s not good enough that I’m wearing sexy lingerie and sex wear; no, I am fantasizing about wearing my corset bra. I need that extra layer of womanhood. I need something to accentuate my breasts, and taper down my soft, soft, slim, sexy waist. I want to abandon myself to it.
There, that’s much better.
I love brassieres. I love the way the part under the arms looks. I love the way the straps (I’ve removed them from my corset bra because this outfit looks much better without them) accentuate the delicacy of female shoulders. And of course, the titties.
Considering how much I worship women, is it really any wonder that I can’t resist the urge to pretend to be one? Given the chance to dress up like a girl, I can’t imagine how a normal man wouldn’t be overwhelmed with temptation. I love how lingerie makes me feel so sexy. I imagine myself as a girl. I imagine myself recklessly, remorselessly, unhesitatingly abandoning my manhood.
The fantasy is this: I love a girl. I want to be her. I tell her as much when I make love to her. Finally, I beg to wear her clothes. I know she disapproves, but I beg her, and promise to do anything at all for her if only she lets me wear her panties. And so she does, but I must serve her every whim. She allows me the privilege of wearing her panties. I become her slave bitch. She insists that I forsake any pretense of manhood if I want to wear her clothes. I have to get my own wardrobe, and dispose of all my male clothes. I am no longer allowed to wear anything the least bit masculine. Only lingerie, dresses and skirts, and high-heeled shoes. I must completely abandon my manhood. But I already want this, even though I’m afraid to go out in public that way. Eventually my desires prove far stronger than my humility. So she insists that I bring her men to replace me. And I do. And I get men of my own, too. I become a complete transsexual. And I love every second of it.
I did come across one of the most exquisitely beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She was slightly oriental, young, and wearing a form-fitting backless red formal dress. Her body was perfect, and she carried herself like a model. The slit in her skirt only came up just above her knee, but it revealed a stunning pair of legs. Exquisite. I should hang around there more often. There are many sleazy lingerie shops along Hollywood Boulevard that I might thoroughly enjoy.
I wish I could describe exactly what it is that femininity does to me. I can’t even describe what it is. The way women move, the way they carry themselves, has so much to it, and yet I can’t even put my finger on how it differs from men. And why do I love it so much? Maybe it’s a certain innate delicacy to their every gesture. Their limp-wristed, butt-wiggling walk. The way their feminine features, from their soft, smooth, hairless skin; their slender arms, shoulders, necks; their soft, rounded bottoms; the exquisitely slim curves of their waists; their round perfect breasts; all billowing out from them without their even knowing it.
And here I am, wearing a fucking dress.
The appeal is so ridiculously strong. I want to be even more feminine right now. I want to make myself utterly female. It’s not good enough that I’m wearing sexy lingerie and sex wear; no, I am fantasizing about wearing my corset bra. I need that extra layer of womanhood. I need something to accentuate my breasts, and taper down my soft, soft, slim, sexy waist. I want to abandon myself to it.
There, that’s much better.
I love brassieres. I love the way the part under the arms looks. I love the way the straps (I’ve removed them from my corset bra because this outfit looks much better without them) accentuate the delicacy of female shoulders. And of course, the titties.
Considering how much I worship women, is it really any wonder that I can’t resist the urge to pretend to be one? Given the chance to dress up like a girl, I can’t imagine how a normal man wouldn’t be overwhelmed with temptation. I love how lingerie makes me feel so sexy. I imagine myself as a girl. I imagine myself recklessly, remorselessly, unhesitatingly abandoning my manhood.
The fantasy is this: I love a girl. I want to be her. I tell her as much when I make love to her. Finally, I beg to wear her clothes. I know she disapproves, but I beg her, and promise to do anything at all for her if only she lets me wear her panties. And so she does, but I must serve her every whim. She allows me the privilege of wearing her panties. I become her slave bitch. She insists that I forsake any pretense of manhood if I want to wear her clothes. I have to get my own wardrobe, and dispose of all my male clothes. I am no longer allowed to wear anything the least bit masculine. Only lingerie, dresses and skirts, and high-heeled shoes. I must completely abandon my manhood. But I already want this, even though I’m afraid to go out in public that way. Eventually my desires prove far stronger than my humility. So she insists that I bring her men to replace me. And I do. And I get men of my own, too. I become a complete transsexual. And I love every second of it.
Fiction: Devotion
Heidi was my goddess. I worshipped the ground she walked on. I collected and catalogued every one of the 594,391 photos of her I could find. I humbly deferred to her every whim. She was sometimes difficult to please, but I did everything in my meager power to satisfy her in every way possible.
I stumbled upon her when she had a photo shoot in the desert hills in Southern California. I knew instantly who she was, from all the swimsuit issues and lingerie catalogues and calendars and so on. Somehow, I caught her eye, and she had me getting her water. Her photographic entourage waited on her hand and foot, and I got caught up in it, too.
We became very close. She was so vulnerable. She wouldn’t let me touch her much at first. She was afraid I would just fuck her and leave her, bragging about it to my friends for the rest of my life. I assured her that wasn’t so. Still, she resisted. Who was I to argue? If I had to be patient for this one, the woman of every man’s dreams, I would wait forever.
Nonetheless I struggled to get her to become intimate. She always questioned my dedication, even after a few months. I had only kissed her a few times, and gotten to rub lotion all over her body for some photo shoots. I had seen her naked many, many times, as she was perfectly comfortable changing in front of me. I even got to gather her discarded bikinis whenever she needed to change into a different one for the next series of shots.
She got to trust me quite a bit. We started spending some intimate time together. She made me do all sorts of things to prove to her that I truly did love her. But she never fully bought into them. They usually involved me making a fool of myself publicly. Every time, I acquiesced without hesitation. If I could convince her without a doubt that I worship her, she would surely relent. When I thought of my ultimate goal of winning her heart, it was easy to agree to do anything.
At first, I simply waited on her. I got her absolutely anything she wanted. But that was easy. She then made me kneel and bow my head when I brought things to her, and I did. Happily. I so desperately wanted to be worthy of her! She had me singing love ballads to her at the top of my lungs on the spur of a moment. She only had to look at me a certain way, and I would stand on my head for her amusement. The more she got me to humiliate myself, the more readily I would do it, just to prove my deep, passionate lasting affection for her.
She must have thought I would have been horribly humiliated about wearing her bikini at one of her beach shoots, with hundreds of bystanders gawking at her. It was one of the biggest crowds I had ever seen. Usually, they keep these shoots private, because it makes everyone involved more comfortable, and more open. This time the photographer wanted to capture the crowded beach as a counterpoint to his shockingly beautiful subject. Even in a sea of people, she would stand out. And so, feeling shy about the mob around her, she asked me, very publicly, if I would try on her swimsuits first, not only so she could see what they looked like on others, but to deflect some of the spotlight from her so she could concentrate on looking beautiful.
I had some difficulty putting them on at first, but she had some of her aides help me. By the end of the shoot, I had no trouble putting on a brassiere. It felt funny at first, wearing her sexy bikinis. I always thought of women’s underwear as being innately sexy. She said I blushed when she told me how cute I looked. I liked the snugness of the panties on my crotch, and the delicate way they caressed my butt and my hips. I knew I looked ridiculous, and that the entire crowd was laughing at me, but I didn’t care. I was pleasing Heidi Klum! I was the focus of her attention, after the photographer. I was publicly humiliated, just for her, and I didn’t care. I even made several of the local papers, and some worldwide news wires. The world would henceforth forever question my virility, but I honestly did not care. It was a worthwhile sacrifice for my Heidi.
Still, she questioned my commitment. She was convinced that I would want to get back into my clothes the instant the shoot was over, so I could reclaim some of my dignity. I proved her wrong. I dared to beg her to allow me to continue wearing her bikini if it pleased her, and pledged my continued subservience, not in spite of, but because of her grace in allowing me to wear her sexiest clothes. She frowned and thought about it for a while, then commanded me to wear my regular clothes.
Unfortunately, my readiness to humiliate myself at her every whim enticed a suspicion in her that I was only trying to get her to relent. She began openly flirting with other men to test my resolve in the face of jealousy. I steadfastly stayed by her side. She rewarded me by continuing to allow me into her most intimate circles. She had me bring her men, whom she would fuck right before my eyes; but when she kicked them out of her bed, she snuggled up to me and slept. She told only me what was on her mind. But she still didn't believe that I loved her enough. She made it quite clear that if I objected to her sleeping with other men who she barely knew, it was proof that I only wanted her for sex.
It was one thing when she made me wear her bikinis in public. It was quite another when I wore her lingerie in private with her. To wear it in public is a public gesture, and can be seen as jest. In private, alone with her, it has an entirely different connotation. In her inner sanctum, I wear her panties and bras and corsets and stockings not as an easily dismissible joke, but as a sincere, intimate preference. She could tell that I honestly adored wearing her clothes. It felt like such a privilege to me to even touch garments that she wore, much less her skin-tight undies, least of all wear them! To wear them was almost bliss. I felt so much closer to her when I wore them. I even felt sexy, in a dirty, feminine way that I kept secret from her. Eventually, I thought it wise to throw away my own underwear and wore only her hand-me-downs, to show my devotion.
Still, Heidi, my precious Goddess, was not satisfied with me. She wanted nothing less than complete uninhibited surrender. I was more than happy to comply. The hormones I had started to take to better shape my body into her lingerie were beginning to kick in around this time. My brassieres began to become fuller, and I became quite adept at arousing her boyfriends with my skill at fellatio. It had become quite clear that I could only do one thing to prove to her that I am not doing this just for sex. They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; I naturally began abandoning my inhibitions and devoting myself to her worship. I proudly began to eradicate any vestige of myself, and dedicated myself to becoming her. I changed all my makeup and began to style my hair like hers.
The plastic surgery molded my face into hers. I walked and talked and moved just like her. If not for the little nub of my pathetic little dick, which she wouldn’t allow me to remove, we are practically twins now. She has sent me to stand in for her in some of her shoots, and nobody knew the difference.
Only after they replaced my genitals did she trust me enough to fuck me.
I stumbled upon her when she had a photo shoot in the desert hills in Southern California. I knew instantly who she was, from all the swimsuit issues and lingerie catalogues and calendars and so on. Somehow, I caught her eye, and she had me getting her water. Her photographic entourage waited on her hand and foot, and I got caught up in it, too.
We became very close. She was so vulnerable. She wouldn’t let me touch her much at first. She was afraid I would just fuck her and leave her, bragging about it to my friends for the rest of my life. I assured her that wasn’t so. Still, she resisted. Who was I to argue? If I had to be patient for this one, the woman of every man’s dreams, I would wait forever.
Nonetheless I struggled to get her to become intimate. She always questioned my dedication, even after a few months. I had only kissed her a few times, and gotten to rub lotion all over her body for some photo shoots. I had seen her naked many, many times, as she was perfectly comfortable changing in front of me. I even got to gather her discarded bikinis whenever she needed to change into a different one for the next series of shots.
She got to trust me quite a bit. We started spending some intimate time together. She made me do all sorts of things to prove to her that I truly did love her. But she never fully bought into them. They usually involved me making a fool of myself publicly. Every time, I acquiesced without hesitation. If I could convince her without a doubt that I worship her, she would surely relent. When I thought of my ultimate goal of winning her heart, it was easy to agree to do anything.
At first, I simply waited on her. I got her absolutely anything she wanted. But that was easy. She then made me kneel and bow my head when I brought things to her, and I did. Happily. I so desperately wanted to be worthy of her! She had me singing love ballads to her at the top of my lungs on the spur of a moment. She only had to look at me a certain way, and I would stand on my head for her amusement. The more she got me to humiliate myself, the more readily I would do it, just to prove my deep, passionate lasting affection for her.
She must have thought I would have been horribly humiliated about wearing her bikini at one of her beach shoots, with hundreds of bystanders gawking at her. It was one of the biggest crowds I had ever seen. Usually, they keep these shoots private, because it makes everyone involved more comfortable, and more open. This time the photographer wanted to capture the crowded beach as a counterpoint to his shockingly beautiful subject. Even in a sea of people, she would stand out. And so, feeling shy about the mob around her, she asked me, very publicly, if I would try on her swimsuits first, not only so she could see what they looked like on others, but to deflect some of the spotlight from her so she could concentrate on looking beautiful.
I had some difficulty putting them on at first, but she had some of her aides help me. By the end of the shoot, I had no trouble putting on a brassiere. It felt funny at first, wearing her sexy bikinis. I always thought of women’s underwear as being innately sexy. She said I blushed when she told me how cute I looked. I liked the snugness of the panties on my crotch, and the delicate way they caressed my butt and my hips. I knew I looked ridiculous, and that the entire crowd was laughing at me, but I didn’t care. I was pleasing Heidi Klum! I was the focus of her attention, after the photographer. I was publicly humiliated, just for her, and I didn’t care. I even made several of the local papers, and some worldwide news wires. The world would henceforth forever question my virility, but I honestly did not care. It was a worthwhile sacrifice for my Heidi.
Still, she questioned my commitment. She was convinced that I would want to get back into my clothes the instant the shoot was over, so I could reclaim some of my dignity. I proved her wrong. I dared to beg her to allow me to continue wearing her bikini if it pleased her, and pledged my continued subservience, not in spite of, but because of her grace in allowing me to wear her sexiest clothes. She frowned and thought about it for a while, then commanded me to wear my regular clothes.
Unfortunately, my readiness to humiliate myself at her every whim enticed a suspicion in her that I was only trying to get her to relent. She began openly flirting with other men to test my resolve in the face of jealousy. I steadfastly stayed by her side. She rewarded me by continuing to allow me into her most intimate circles. She had me bring her men, whom she would fuck right before my eyes; but when she kicked them out of her bed, she snuggled up to me and slept. She told only me what was on her mind. But she still didn't believe that I loved her enough. She made it quite clear that if I objected to her sleeping with other men who she barely knew, it was proof that I only wanted her for sex.
It was one thing when she made me wear her bikinis in public. It was quite another when I wore her lingerie in private with her. To wear it in public is a public gesture, and can be seen as jest. In private, alone with her, it has an entirely different connotation. In her inner sanctum, I wear her panties and bras and corsets and stockings not as an easily dismissible joke, but as a sincere, intimate preference. She could tell that I honestly adored wearing her clothes. It felt like such a privilege to me to even touch garments that she wore, much less her skin-tight undies, least of all wear them! To wear them was almost bliss. I felt so much closer to her when I wore them. I even felt sexy, in a dirty, feminine way that I kept secret from her. Eventually, I thought it wise to throw away my own underwear and wore only her hand-me-downs, to show my devotion.
Still, Heidi, my precious Goddess, was not satisfied with me. She wanted nothing less than complete uninhibited surrender. I was more than happy to comply. The hormones I had started to take to better shape my body into her lingerie were beginning to kick in around this time. My brassieres began to become fuller, and I became quite adept at arousing her boyfriends with my skill at fellatio. It had become quite clear that I could only do one thing to prove to her that I am not doing this just for sex. They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; I naturally began abandoning my inhibitions and devoting myself to her worship. I proudly began to eradicate any vestige of myself, and dedicated myself to becoming her. I changed all my makeup and began to style my hair like hers.
The plastic surgery molded my face into hers. I walked and talked and moved just like her. If not for the little nub of my pathetic little dick, which she wouldn’t allow me to remove, we are practically twins now. She has sent me to stand in for her in some of her shoots, and nobody knew the difference.
Only after they replaced my genitals did she trust me enough to fuck me.
Diary: Getting Religion
I haven’t written a word about my fetish in weeks. I have stopped recording my use patterns in my database. I have even slowed down quite a bit with my masturbatory tendencies. I briefly became deeply infatuated with a girl, and dreamed about fucking her – something that rarely happens to me. Even still, I couldn’t think of anything to masturbate over except wearing something. I was crazier about her than I’ve ever been about anyone else, and it made me forget about any other fantasy.
My reticence stretches even further back than that. Actually, it started weeks before I even bought my vinyl minidress. I haven’t turned my back on turning myself into a girl. I’ve simply been distracted by a new perspective.
I’m not sure what triggered my epiphany, but I now know precisely where my fetish comes from. Even the word ‘fetish’ itself proves to be phenomenally accurate: “An object that is believed to have magical or spiritual powers, especially such an object associated with animistic or shamanistic religious practices.” That’s exactly how I look at women’s clothes. They possess magical properties bestowed upon them by their owners. By wearing a bikini, I indulge in the fantasy that it somehow is imbued with femininity, and that I soak in some of that femininity. None of this, however, explains why I want to become a girl in the first place.
It has taken me my entire life to figure this out. I have been writing in this journal for nearly ten years now. I have floated all sorts of theories about it, yet none of them have ever come to the heart of the matter. All of my fantasies, and all the fantasies I have read have included this one constant, this single underlying premise that has gone unnoticed in spite of its blatancy. I can’t believe that it never occurred to me before.
I know now that femininity is religion. God is a woman, one who sweeps me away in uncontrollable passions. I can do nothing but succumb to her whims. Female sexuality overwhelms my senses, destroys my reason, brings me to my knees. Not only is God female, but God is feminine sexuality. God is the lovely hourglass shape, the delicate, soft, lean lines at the very core of womanhood. Goddess has such sublime power over me, at such a base, primordial level that no amount of intellectualization can suppress or even comprehend it. Femininity is a force that I am completely enslaved to, even before any considerations of fetish or even normal sexual desires. In the deepest recesses of my mind, I worship Woman as an infinitely potent force of nature. There is nothing I will not do for Woman.
None of this is particularly groundbreaking. The key to my epiphany is my obliviousness to the simple fact that I, a man who does not believe in magic, superstition, or even any pantheon of gods, behave exactly like some primitive savage when it comes to the phenomenal power of Girl. In spite of my scientific world view, I have still humbled myself before this strange, otherworldly power for my entire life. She is a Goddess that I truly can perceive – a Goddess who makes her existence crystal clear to me every time I salivate over one of her gorgeous avatars.
Still, why the underwear?
I have already shown the definition of ‘fetish.’ To me, women’s clothes are the fetishes of my sexual Deity. They are material items imbued with the infinite power of my Goddess. I know that, as a man, I am not like my omnipotent Mistress. As her humble pawn, I worship her with the greatest deference. Naturally, as I prize her as the Ultimate in Perfection, I humbly pray that She will grant me the power She grants her avatars. I want to follow Her ways. I want to be like Her. I want Her power. If only I could be like her, then I could not only wield Her power, but in so doing also soak in Her Divine influence. I would cast away, in a heartbeat, the very thing she controls me through, so that I could join her in complete blissful abandon. I would betray all the men in the world, eradicate masculinity altogether, in my worship of Femininity.
In all my fantasies, I (or my surrogate hero) invariably give in to the awesome, irresistible influence of Girlishness. I cannot escape the power it has over me. I inevitably strive to join my Goddess, and become her perfect avatar, to the point where I would be in every way one of Her girls. I gain Her favour by making myself more and more like her. I will wear women’s underwear because that way I put myself in Her power, and she rewards me with a small but intensely delicious taste of Her essence. The more I do it, the more I gain her favour, and the closer I become to Her. This is the essential plot of every single fantasy I have.
So you see, it’s all based on a primitive sort of worship.
My reticence stretches even further back than that. Actually, it started weeks before I even bought my vinyl minidress. I haven’t turned my back on turning myself into a girl. I’ve simply been distracted by a new perspective.
I’m not sure what triggered my epiphany, but I now know precisely where my fetish comes from. Even the word ‘fetish’ itself proves to be phenomenally accurate: “An object that is believed to have magical or spiritual powers, especially such an object associated with animistic or shamanistic religious practices.” That’s exactly how I look at women’s clothes. They possess magical properties bestowed upon them by their owners. By wearing a bikini, I indulge in the fantasy that it somehow is imbued with femininity, and that I soak in some of that femininity. None of this, however, explains why I want to become a girl in the first place.
It has taken me my entire life to figure this out. I have been writing in this journal for nearly ten years now. I have floated all sorts of theories about it, yet none of them have ever come to the heart of the matter. All of my fantasies, and all the fantasies I have read have included this one constant, this single underlying premise that has gone unnoticed in spite of its blatancy. I can’t believe that it never occurred to me before.
I know now that femininity is religion. God is a woman, one who sweeps me away in uncontrollable passions. I can do nothing but succumb to her whims. Female sexuality overwhelms my senses, destroys my reason, brings me to my knees. Not only is God female, but God is feminine sexuality. God is the lovely hourglass shape, the delicate, soft, lean lines at the very core of womanhood. Goddess has such sublime power over me, at such a base, primordial level that no amount of intellectualization can suppress or even comprehend it. Femininity is a force that I am completely enslaved to, even before any considerations of fetish or even normal sexual desires. In the deepest recesses of my mind, I worship Woman as an infinitely potent force of nature. There is nothing I will not do for Woman.
None of this is particularly groundbreaking. The key to my epiphany is my obliviousness to the simple fact that I, a man who does not believe in magic, superstition, or even any pantheon of gods, behave exactly like some primitive savage when it comes to the phenomenal power of Girl. In spite of my scientific world view, I have still humbled myself before this strange, otherworldly power for my entire life. She is a Goddess that I truly can perceive – a Goddess who makes her existence crystal clear to me every time I salivate over one of her gorgeous avatars.
Still, why the underwear?
I have already shown the definition of ‘fetish.’ To me, women’s clothes are the fetishes of my sexual Deity. They are material items imbued with the infinite power of my Goddess. I know that, as a man, I am not like my omnipotent Mistress. As her humble pawn, I worship her with the greatest deference. Naturally, as I prize her as the Ultimate in Perfection, I humbly pray that She will grant me the power She grants her avatars. I want to follow Her ways. I want to be like Her. I want Her power. If only I could be like her, then I could not only wield Her power, but in so doing also soak in Her Divine influence. I would cast away, in a heartbeat, the very thing she controls me through, so that I could join her in complete blissful abandon. I would betray all the men in the world, eradicate masculinity altogether, in my worship of Femininity.
In all my fantasies, I (or my surrogate hero) invariably give in to the awesome, irresistible influence of Girlishness. I cannot escape the power it has over me. I inevitably strive to join my Goddess, and become her perfect avatar, to the point where I would be in every way one of Her girls. I gain Her favour by making myself more and more like her. I will wear women’s underwear because that way I put myself in Her power, and she rewards me with a small but intensely delicious taste of Her essence. The more I do it, the more I gain her favour, and the closer I become to Her. This is the essential plot of every single fantasy I have.
So you see, it’s all based on a primitive sort of worship.
Fiction: Massive Forced Feminization, Part 3
[Some candidate learns about women’s clothes, and becomes unbearably curious]
I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. I’m not supposed to touch any of her things without her permission. But damn it, I didn’t get to explore her bathing suit enough. It’s so fascinating, and I need to know more about it. I just want to look at it, admire it, marvel at how beautiful it is, and how beautiful it makes her. Imagine the grades I’ll get if I check it out! Nobody has to know.
He snuck to her dresser, hunched over as if to avoid being seen, even though he was alone in a room without windows. His heart raced as he carefully and quietly opened each drawer, and pawed through the incredible variety of lingerie and swimwear. So many possibilities! A particularly sexy pair of black panties caught his eye. He had never had a chance to explore lingerie before. His hands shook as he took them out of the drawer and admired them. He quickly folded them up again as close to their original format as he considered the consequences of his actions. He was not ready for panties yet. He would also have to skip past her phenomenal bikinis. He finally found what he was looking for in the third drawer, among plenty of other utterly feminine unmentionables.
He drew the white and red swimsuit out of the drawer and held it in front of himself. He could see where the fabric was built to emphasize waist, hips, crotch, and breasts. The material was so soft to the touch that he longed to feel it on Susan’s body again, as he had in class. He touched his face with it and luxuriated in the texture. How wonderful she looks in it, he thought. How wonderfully it caresses her perfect female body. He felt keenly privileged to be in such close proximity to something so powerfully feminine. Then with a sudden pang of guilt, he blushed and stuffed it back into Susan’s dresser.
[The next day, he took it out again and couldn’t help but masturbate while looking at it, the whole time imagining the power of femininity.]
[Soon thereafter, he began to look ahead to the topics of other lessons. He masturbated – guiltily – to bikinis, then lingerie. But it still wasn’t enough. There was something much more sinister, and not altogether consciously acknowledged.]
His grades increased as his extra-curricular activities increased. He made sure to not give away his cheating habits in class, at the risk of being punished, or worse, ostracized by the other men, who didn’t share his interest in the subject matter. He could never admit to being as fascinated with women’s clothes as he was. Still, they all suspected because of his grades, and his uninhibited enthusiasm.
He understood more than anyone, he knew, the power of women’s clothes. They enhance to terrible levels the beauty, and therefore power, of women, which the entire class had necessarily accepted as paramount. To understand women’s clothes is to understand their power; and with understanding of that power comes the possibility of wielding it.
He had begun to rub his penis against her lingerie when he examined it, and thoroughly trembled in its phenomenal potency. He began to imagine it on himself, and blushed with a happy guilt. He knew that its power was such that he could not ever jeopardize his manhood by willingly wearing it. But he also desperately yearned to feel the power throughout his body. He tingled with excitement when he imagined himself daring to put it on. He could not dare. The stakes were too high.
One day, after months of developing his taste for his tutor’s clothes, and becoming aware of everything in her closet, he took the plunge. He mitigated his risk by experimenting first with something innocuous, barely sexy, but still unquestionably feminine, and he kept on his own underwear. When he slid the pantyhose up his legs, he could feel its girlishness overpower his body and his mind. Even this mildly enticing garment made him completely aware of its incongruity with his own body. I am wearing women’s clothes, he thought, as he luxuriated in the tight stretchiness of the fabric on his legs and over top of his underwear. Thank God I’m wearing my own underwear, or else I’d completely lose my manhood! He couldn’t believe how good it felt to be wielding even this most harmless of female weapons. It radically enhanced his own femininity, and he reveled in it.
He shed Susan’s pantyhose rapidly as soon as he felt himself ejaculating, and turned livid with shame. It was one thing to fondle her underwear when she wasn’t around, but quite another to actually wear it. Having learned the properties of pantyhose, he also knew that they would not retake their clean shape after having been worn and stretched out. He would have to hide them, and pray that somehow Susan wouldn’t notice their absence. Boy, he vowed, I’m never doing that again!
After the fifth or sixth time that he succumbed to the temptation of his secret pantyhose, and overcome with desire to further explore the rapturous rush of femininity he had been enjoying, he threw caution to the wind and wore them without underwear. For the first time, women’s clothing that he had dressed himself in touched his genitals directly. He danced and pranced in his geometrically augmented girlishness, breathlessly thanking God that he was at least still wearing his masculine t-shirt to at least anchor part of himself in manhood. Below the waist, he was a girl as far as he was concerned, and milked the thrill of wearing girls’ clothes for all its worth. I’m wearing girls’ clothes, he thought to himself, and I love it! At that moment he longed to eradicate his manhood, and allow the sublime power of femininity transform him inexorably into a girl. Every swing of his hips felt like a feminine movement that titillated him much more than sex ever had. He could almost feel the pantyhose forcing his body into a more feminine shape.
When he was done, he rolled them off his hips with disgust. What was he becoming? He swore never to even touch Susan’s clothes again, except in class, when he had to.
[He continues to experiment, being drawn towards more serious stuff. He follows the same pattern with the bathing suit, starting by keeping on his underwear, and gradually abandoning everything but his watch, which he firmly believes is the only thing keeping him male.]
Now that he had established that he could wear a swimsuit and nothing else, and without Susan finding out, he began to rationalize his growing habit. This is the way to wield feminine power without being female! The sense of power it gave him to wear that swimsuit was unequalled by anything he had ever imagined. He couldn’t even just enjoy wearing the swimsuit alone: he began fantasizing about how much more extreme it would be to wear a bikini, or lingerie, a garter belt, stockings. He knew when he wore it that it made him undeniably feminine, and he realized as he reveled in his girlishness that he wanted to be completely female. However, every time he stopped, he felt shame and disgust, knowing that he was destroying his manhood. He blushed frequently in class now as he studied different aspects of Susan’s womanhood, remembering suddenly that he had imagined himself in the bikini she was wearing. Then his shame would work itself up to a fever pitch again.
When he finally tried it on – just the panty – he did not attempt to protect himself with his own underwear. He tingled with excitement as he recognized the recklessness of his newest experiment. But he did not dare wear the matching bra, even though he had fantasized about it so many times. Now he knew that wearing the panty was just an expression of his desire to touch something feminine with his cock. He was not becoming dangerously effeminate, as he had feared. It was all just about comfort. When he succumbed to wearing the bra as well only the third time, he knew he could never wear a bikini without both pieces, and let the girlishness overwhelm him as he had always wanted.
Throughout all of this, he steadfastly kept on at least one article of male clothing, even if it were as insignificant as a wristwatch. In fact, his wristwatch had become the only thing he bothered to keep on as he began unabashedly borrowing Susan’s underwear.
[He eventually admits to his male friends that his secret to success in class is his wearing his tutor’s clothes. The gasp in horror, as he explains to them that it’s the best way to keep ahead, because they had all heard rumors by now that the whole plan was to turn them all into girls. He argued that his extra-curricular activities would prepare him for any such feminization, and that he would come out more manly than all of them – all while secretly knowing and loving the fact that he knew he would be the first to become a girl. They dare him to prove his daring, and he agrees gives them a glimpse of the string bikini under his prison jumpsuit, which he wore in honour of the day’s bikini class.]
His experiments increase in elaborateness to the point where he tries on garter belts and teddies and corsets with only the slight concern for his manhood that he keeps on his wrist. He prances around the bedroom wearing Susan’s fishnet stockings, a garter belt and matching thong underneath a tight little black vinyl dress when suddenly she walks into the room, without a word, and looks at him casually as if she knew all along.
“You know there are cameras in here, don’t you? I’ve known about your secret since the first day you put on my pantyhose over your gitch.” X is speechless. He feels ridiculous and ashamed in her clothes, and wishes he could cover himself up.
“It’s not what you think,” he offers feebly.
“X, you’re wearing a dress and lingerie! You’re turning yourself into a girl! What do you think is going on here?”
“It’s not making me feminine or anything. See, I’m still wearing my watch!”
But he knows that he’s done for. He realizes how weak his position is. He can feel his penis becoming flaccid in Susan’s lacy panties. His cause is hopeless.
“Give me the watch. It’s time for you to give in completely, and admit that you want to be a girl.” She beckons for the watch.
“What happens to me when I take it off,” he asks.
“Nothing. You’ll just finally be dressed completely 100% like a girl. You’ll be admitting that nothing can help you now. You will be completely abandoning any claim to manhood forever. Now give it to me.”
X looks stupidly at his wrist. A surge of emotion rushes up to his head, and he can feel his face swelling with blush. His crotch tingles as he lets Susan’s words sink in. He had always been terribly tempted to abandon himself that completely to womanhood, but steadfastly maintained his rule. Now it was about to be broken, and he felt nothing but excited exhilaration about it. He could not allow his manhood to disintegrate so totally. It would be treason against all men.
“Just think of how pretty you’ll look in your own wardrobe when you get to wear dresses all day long in public. Give me the watch!”
X’s hands trembled as he unbuckled the watch and let it slide off his wrist and into his hand. He sashayed playfully to Susan, and dropped the watch in her hand.
I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. I’m not supposed to touch any of her things without her permission. But damn it, I didn’t get to explore her bathing suit enough. It’s so fascinating, and I need to know more about it. I just want to look at it, admire it, marvel at how beautiful it is, and how beautiful it makes her. Imagine the grades I’ll get if I check it out! Nobody has to know.
He snuck to her dresser, hunched over as if to avoid being seen, even though he was alone in a room without windows. His heart raced as he carefully and quietly opened each drawer, and pawed through the incredible variety of lingerie and swimwear. So many possibilities! A particularly sexy pair of black panties caught his eye. He had never had a chance to explore lingerie before. His hands shook as he took them out of the drawer and admired them. He quickly folded them up again as close to their original format as he considered the consequences of his actions. He was not ready for panties yet. He would also have to skip past her phenomenal bikinis. He finally found what he was looking for in the third drawer, among plenty of other utterly feminine unmentionables.
He drew the white and red swimsuit out of the drawer and held it in front of himself. He could see where the fabric was built to emphasize waist, hips, crotch, and breasts. The material was so soft to the touch that he longed to feel it on Susan’s body again, as he had in class. He touched his face with it and luxuriated in the texture. How wonderful she looks in it, he thought. How wonderfully it caresses her perfect female body. He felt keenly privileged to be in such close proximity to something so powerfully feminine. Then with a sudden pang of guilt, he blushed and stuffed it back into Susan’s dresser.
[The next day, he took it out again and couldn’t help but masturbate while looking at it, the whole time imagining the power of femininity.]
[Soon thereafter, he began to look ahead to the topics of other lessons. He masturbated – guiltily – to bikinis, then lingerie. But it still wasn’t enough. There was something much more sinister, and not altogether consciously acknowledged.]
His grades increased as his extra-curricular activities increased. He made sure to not give away his cheating habits in class, at the risk of being punished, or worse, ostracized by the other men, who didn’t share his interest in the subject matter. He could never admit to being as fascinated with women’s clothes as he was. Still, they all suspected because of his grades, and his uninhibited enthusiasm.
He understood more than anyone, he knew, the power of women’s clothes. They enhance to terrible levels the beauty, and therefore power, of women, which the entire class had necessarily accepted as paramount. To understand women’s clothes is to understand their power; and with understanding of that power comes the possibility of wielding it.
He had begun to rub his penis against her lingerie when he examined it, and thoroughly trembled in its phenomenal potency. He began to imagine it on himself, and blushed with a happy guilt. He knew that its power was such that he could not ever jeopardize his manhood by willingly wearing it. But he also desperately yearned to feel the power throughout his body. He tingled with excitement when he imagined himself daring to put it on. He could not dare. The stakes were too high.
One day, after months of developing his taste for his tutor’s clothes, and becoming aware of everything in her closet, he took the plunge. He mitigated his risk by experimenting first with something innocuous, barely sexy, but still unquestionably feminine, and he kept on his own underwear. When he slid the pantyhose up his legs, he could feel its girlishness overpower his body and his mind. Even this mildly enticing garment made him completely aware of its incongruity with his own body. I am wearing women’s clothes, he thought, as he luxuriated in the tight stretchiness of the fabric on his legs and over top of his underwear. Thank God I’m wearing my own underwear, or else I’d completely lose my manhood! He couldn’t believe how good it felt to be wielding even this most harmless of female weapons. It radically enhanced his own femininity, and he reveled in it.
He shed Susan’s pantyhose rapidly as soon as he felt himself ejaculating, and turned livid with shame. It was one thing to fondle her underwear when she wasn’t around, but quite another to actually wear it. Having learned the properties of pantyhose, he also knew that they would not retake their clean shape after having been worn and stretched out. He would have to hide them, and pray that somehow Susan wouldn’t notice their absence. Boy, he vowed, I’m never doing that again!
After the fifth or sixth time that he succumbed to the temptation of his secret pantyhose, and overcome with desire to further explore the rapturous rush of femininity he had been enjoying, he threw caution to the wind and wore them without underwear. For the first time, women’s clothing that he had dressed himself in touched his genitals directly. He danced and pranced in his geometrically augmented girlishness, breathlessly thanking God that he was at least still wearing his masculine t-shirt to at least anchor part of himself in manhood. Below the waist, he was a girl as far as he was concerned, and milked the thrill of wearing girls’ clothes for all its worth. I’m wearing girls’ clothes, he thought to himself, and I love it! At that moment he longed to eradicate his manhood, and allow the sublime power of femininity transform him inexorably into a girl. Every swing of his hips felt like a feminine movement that titillated him much more than sex ever had. He could almost feel the pantyhose forcing his body into a more feminine shape.
When he was done, he rolled them off his hips with disgust. What was he becoming? He swore never to even touch Susan’s clothes again, except in class, when he had to.
[He continues to experiment, being drawn towards more serious stuff. He follows the same pattern with the bathing suit, starting by keeping on his underwear, and gradually abandoning everything but his watch, which he firmly believes is the only thing keeping him male.]
Now that he had established that he could wear a swimsuit and nothing else, and without Susan finding out, he began to rationalize his growing habit. This is the way to wield feminine power without being female! The sense of power it gave him to wear that swimsuit was unequalled by anything he had ever imagined. He couldn’t even just enjoy wearing the swimsuit alone: he began fantasizing about how much more extreme it would be to wear a bikini, or lingerie, a garter belt, stockings. He knew when he wore it that it made him undeniably feminine, and he realized as he reveled in his girlishness that he wanted to be completely female. However, every time he stopped, he felt shame and disgust, knowing that he was destroying his manhood. He blushed frequently in class now as he studied different aspects of Susan’s womanhood, remembering suddenly that he had imagined himself in the bikini she was wearing. Then his shame would work itself up to a fever pitch again.
When he finally tried it on – just the panty – he did not attempt to protect himself with his own underwear. He tingled with excitement as he recognized the recklessness of his newest experiment. But he did not dare wear the matching bra, even though he had fantasized about it so many times. Now he knew that wearing the panty was just an expression of his desire to touch something feminine with his cock. He was not becoming dangerously effeminate, as he had feared. It was all just about comfort. When he succumbed to wearing the bra as well only the third time, he knew he could never wear a bikini without both pieces, and let the girlishness overwhelm him as he had always wanted.
Throughout all of this, he steadfastly kept on at least one article of male clothing, even if it were as insignificant as a wristwatch. In fact, his wristwatch had become the only thing he bothered to keep on as he began unabashedly borrowing Susan’s underwear.
[He eventually admits to his male friends that his secret to success in class is his wearing his tutor’s clothes. The gasp in horror, as he explains to them that it’s the best way to keep ahead, because they had all heard rumors by now that the whole plan was to turn them all into girls. He argued that his extra-curricular activities would prepare him for any such feminization, and that he would come out more manly than all of them – all while secretly knowing and loving the fact that he knew he would be the first to become a girl. They dare him to prove his daring, and he agrees gives them a glimpse of the string bikini under his prison jumpsuit, which he wore in honour of the day’s bikini class.]
His experiments increase in elaborateness to the point where he tries on garter belts and teddies and corsets with only the slight concern for his manhood that he keeps on his wrist. He prances around the bedroom wearing Susan’s fishnet stockings, a garter belt and matching thong underneath a tight little black vinyl dress when suddenly she walks into the room, without a word, and looks at him casually as if she knew all along.
“You know there are cameras in here, don’t you? I’ve known about your secret since the first day you put on my pantyhose over your gitch.” X is speechless. He feels ridiculous and ashamed in her clothes, and wishes he could cover himself up.
“It’s not what you think,” he offers feebly.
“X, you’re wearing a dress and lingerie! You’re turning yourself into a girl! What do you think is going on here?”
“It’s not making me feminine or anything. See, I’m still wearing my watch!”
But he knows that he’s done for. He realizes how weak his position is. He can feel his penis becoming flaccid in Susan’s lacy panties. His cause is hopeless.
“Give me the watch. It’s time for you to give in completely, and admit that you want to be a girl.” She beckons for the watch.
“What happens to me when I take it off,” he asks.
“Nothing. You’ll just finally be dressed completely 100% like a girl. You’ll be admitting that nothing can help you now. You will be completely abandoning any claim to manhood forever. Now give it to me.”
X looks stupidly at his wrist. A surge of emotion rushes up to his head, and he can feel his face swelling with blush. His crotch tingles as he lets Susan’s words sink in. He had always been terribly tempted to abandon himself that completely to womanhood, but steadfastly maintained his rule. Now it was about to be broken, and he felt nothing but excited exhilaration about it. He could not allow his manhood to disintegrate so totally. It would be treason against all men.
“Just think of how pretty you’ll look in your own wardrobe when you get to wear dresses all day long in public. Give me the watch!”
X’s hands trembled as he unbuckled the watch and let it slide off his wrist and into his hand. He sashayed playfully to Susan, and dropped the watch in her hand.
Diary: New Dress!
I now own a little black dress.
On a whim, and needing some fishnet stockings, I ended up getting this slinky black vinyl minidress. It’s ludicrously feminine. It’s so fabulously tight, and short. It makes me feel ridiculously sexy. It’s also strangely mundane. I wore it outside on the patio, bathed in its stark, inescapable light, exposed for all to see.
I still long to be with a girl. But this is almost as good. I get such a big kick out of being around sexy girl stuff. And fantasizing about wearing it and becoming a girl in it.
Oh my God! I can’t believe I’m actually wearing a dress! It’s so astoundingly sexy! I’m sashaying around the house in it, loving the way it clings to my skin. I am experiencing a sensation that no man should ever be allowed. I’m wearing a lace thong and matching garter belt, holding up my new fishnet stockings. All I need now is shoes.
On a whim, and needing some fishnet stockings, I ended up getting this slinky black vinyl minidress. It’s ludicrously feminine. It’s so fabulously tight, and short. It makes me feel ridiculously sexy. It’s also strangely mundane. I wore it outside on the patio, bathed in its stark, inescapable light, exposed for all to see.
I still long to be with a girl. But this is almost as good. I get such a big kick out of being around sexy girl stuff. And fantasizing about wearing it and becoming a girl in it.
Oh my God! I can’t believe I’m actually wearing a dress! It’s so astoundingly sexy! I’m sashaying around the house in it, loving the way it clings to my skin. I am experiencing a sensation that no man should ever be allowed. I’m wearing a lace thong and matching garter belt, holding up my new fishnet stockings. All I need now is shoes.
Diary: Shopping List and Epiphany
I am contemplating some new purchases and experiences, while simultaneously struggling with a recent epiphany.
I have recently discovered that girls find me attractive, especially since I slightly modified my appearance when I moved to California. This realization, and my quick little tryst with N__, have clarified something for me which I have never been able to reconcile before: I wear women’s clothes because I need something feminine in my life. It’s really as simple as that. I desperately want there to be a girl in my house, who surrounds herself with girlish things, and who displays all the physical and behavioural aspects of womanhood. I would probably settle for having a girl in my presence as often as possible. I have found myself talking to girls in airports, and hanging around with them at parties, not because I feel any pressure to be with them, but because I crave their proximity. Of course, in the absence of girls, I must make do with what’s available. Being a solitary type of person, this more often than not means that I must rely on women’s clothes if I can’t have women themselves; and I might as well make myself my own feminine company if I can’t find any genuine women.
It all makes sense now. I am obsessed with femininity, as I should be. It is only my shyness and loneliness that make me want to be feminine myself. I routinely imagine how much fun it would be to have a girl around, in all her pretty girlie things. I wouldn’t have to wear them myself (although I know I’d be tempted) but it would be so much fun to be around such absolute girlhood. Girl girl girl girl girl girl girrrrrrl. I love them! I worship them!
So now I struggle again with my impulse to make myself more feminine. I love making myself feminine. I love pretending to be a girl. I love being as girlish as I can be. I love striving to become a girl. I love abandoning my manhood completely so I can enjoy girlishness in all its glory. It’s so much more controllable. There is no complexity in being alone. I don’t need to worry about satisfying anyone but myself. But I can’t ever have real actual genuine girlishness by myself: I can only simulate it at best, even if I go as far as taking hormones and getting a sex change. There is a charm to me in going that far, just because it shows a true dedication, an utter capitulation, to femininity. Meanwhile, I am still too chickenshit to ever publicly reveal my own feminine side, much less make myself feminine in any way that might be noticeable to anyone.
This is where I start pondering some of the things I’d like to do in the near future. For starters, I need to improve my wardrobe. I need a few key items to make myself truly a closet sissy. Namely, I need some black fishnet stockings, off-white silk or satin bikini panties with a matching bra, a pair of two-inch sandals, and tight silk or satin nightgown, and a mini-dress of some sort. However, I am constantly fantasizing about more swimsuits, much more than lingerie. For some reason, even though I own three bikinis and two one-piece swimsuits, I want more. I can’t get enough! There’s something about swimwear that makes me crazy. As much as I’d love being in public dressed like a girl, there’d be nothing more electrifying than doing so at the beach, in swimwear! The thought fills me with sexual energy. But I must resist the urge to get more swimsuits until I satisfy my need for the garments named above. I could always use more panties and bras, too.
Another thing that I need is a dildo. This dildo must be unmistakably penis-shaped. I don’t care about the colour or whether or not it vibrates; I just want to have something as similar to a real cock inside me at times. I want to feel it wiggling inside me, pumping in and out. I’ve even been fantasizing about the real thing! I’d love to secretly slip away into the night, make myself into a girl, and seduce some homo pervert who likes she-males. I want to know what it’s like to suck cock, and to have a guy pumping me in the ass like I’m a girl. I fantasize about somehow meeting somebody at the lingerie store when I go buy my things, and experimenting with some casual faggot sex. Yes, I want to get fucked like a girl! I want to have sex with men!
Now I wonder if I’ll ever have the nerve to try it. I doubt I’ll ever even show anybody my fetish in action, much less suck cock.
I have recently discovered that girls find me attractive, especially since I slightly modified my appearance when I moved to California. This realization, and my quick little tryst with N__, have clarified something for me which I have never been able to reconcile before: I wear women’s clothes because I need something feminine in my life. It’s really as simple as that. I desperately want there to be a girl in my house, who surrounds herself with girlish things, and who displays all the physical and behavioural aspects of womanhood. I would probably settle for having a girl in my presence as often as possible. I have found myself talking to girls in airports, and hanging around with them at parties, not because I feel any pressure to be with them, but because I crave their proximity. Of course, in the absence of girls, I must make do with what’s available. Being a solitary type of person, this more often than not means that I must rely on women’s clothes if I can’t have women themselves; and I might as well make myself my own feminine company if I can’t find any genuine women.
It all makes sense now. I am obsessed with femininity, as I should be. It is only my shyness and loneliness that make me want to be feminine myself. I routinely imagine how much fun it would be to have a girl around, in all her pretty girlie things. I wouldn’t have to wear them myself (although I know I’d be tempted) but it would be so much fun to be around such absolute girlhood. Girl girl girl girl girl girl girrrrrrl. I love them! I worship them!
So now I struggle again with my impulse to make myself more feminine. I love making myself feminine. I love pretending to be a girl. I love being as girlish as I can be. I love striving to become a girl. I love abandoning my manhood completely so I can enjoy girlishness in all its glory. It’s so much more controllable. There is no complexity in being alone. I don’t need to worry about satisfying anyone but myself. But I can’t ever have real actual genuine girlishness by myself: I can only simulate it at best, even if I go as far as taking hormones and getting a sex change. There is a charm to me in going that far, just because it shows a true dedication, an utter capitulation, to femininity. Meanwhile, I am still too chickenshit to ever publicly reveal my own feminine side, much less make myself feminine in any way that might be noticeable to anyone.
This is where I start pondering some of the things I’d like to do in the near future. For starters, I need to improve my wardrobe. I need a few key items to make myself truly a closet sissy. Namely, I need some black fishnet stockings, off-white silk or satin bikini panties with a matching bra, a pair of two-inch sandals, and tight silk or satin nightgown, and a mini-dress of some sort. However, I am constantly fantasizing about more swimsuits, much more than lingerie. For some reason, even though I own three bikinis and two one-piece swimsuits, I want more. I can’t get enough! There’s something about swimwear that makes me crazy. As much as I’d love being in public dressed like a girl, there’d be nothing more electrifying than doing so at the beach, in swimwear! The thought fills me with sexual energy. But I must resist the urge to get more swimsuits until I satisfy my need for the garments named above. I could always use more panties and bras, too.
Another thing that I need is a dildo. This dildo must be unmistakably penis-shaped. I don’t care about the colour or whether or not it vibrates; I just want to have something as similar to a real cock inside me at times. I want to feel it wiggling inside me, pumping in and out. I’ve even been fantasizing about the real thing! I’d love to secretly slip away into the night, make myself into a girl, and seduce some homo pervert who likes she-males. I want to know what it’s like to suck cock, and to have a guy pumping me in the ass like I’m a girl. I fantasize about somehow meeting somebody at the lingerie store when I go buy my things, and experimenting with some casual faggot sex. Yes, I want to get fucked like a girl! I want to have sex with men!
Now I wonder if I’ll ever have the nerve to try it. I doubt I’ll ever even show anybody my fetish in action, much less suck cock.
Diary: Re-Over-Thinking the Massive Forced Feminization Saga
I think I’ve got the right spin on the mega-story now.
Clearly, it’s too cold now as it stands. I am missing the accusatory aspect, and I am also missing the element of decision. It seems that far too many of my candidates are much too willing, and have very little surprise in store. Also, the first grade courses are far too general. I think now that all our candidates must begin in Grade 1, and move through the ranks accordingly.
Most importantly, I have isolated what I think is the key turning point in a man’s thought on his way to becoming a woman. The programme must therefore change its focus slightly, and become more covert about its ultimate goal. The only thing left is finding a reason for all these men to be in this situation. All I can think of is prison, and a psycho-social experiment that they each volunteer to participate in to reduce their jail time – or perhaps an alternative sentence. They can have no idea what the end goal is, but they are all carefully screened and enlisted in the scientific way I have described above.
Thus the course begins as an exercise in defining female beauty. All of the men are asked to scour girlie magazines, the internet, or anything at all to find materials upon which to base their study. They all participate with great enthusiasm to this initial exercise, without knowing the ulterior motive: each man will be subtly encouraged to emulate his paragon of femininity. It’s a twist on the story of the man who so admired Elle MacPherson’s beauty that he moulded himself in her image. Here we will have 125 men all choosing an ideal, and finally becoming it.
Grade 1’s goal therefore changes, although the rating system remains intact. Rather than embarking on some poorly defined, vaguely feminist quest for sympathy for women, first graders will establish their own explicit model of femininity, and begin to worship it. When they exhibit evidence of having grasped the idea that their servility to it proves its potency as a controlling influence on not only them, but all men, they graduate to Grade 2. In other words, when they admit that girls rule, they move on.
This becomes the seed for the rest of the course. They will go on to learn the same things originally scheduled for Grade 2, but in the same ulterior context as Grade 1. This time, they will focus heavily on all the aspects of their ideals that make them so powerful. They will not necessarily explore any reason to explain how it affects them so much, but will focus only on identifying and admiring in close detail the exact characteristics of femininity that drive them so crazy. Inevitably, this will lead to curves, textures, and clothing.
Grade 2 will also be far more maddening, as each participant will be teamed up with an outrageously gorgeous woman who closely matches his ideal. This woman will actually live in the same cell, and will possess an entire wardrobe of insanely sexy undergarments and evening wear. The men will continue to wear their prison jumpsuits, but must watch helpless as a living paragon of womanhood dresses and undresses before them, and provides flesh and blood work materials with which to enrich classroom discussions.
The beauty of this approach is the new method for grading. No longer will each participant be required to use his newly acquired knowledge of women’s wear to somehow plan a shopping trip for his own feminine wardrobe – an impossible event to justify both in terms of character development and plausibility – but he will now be monitored closely for any signs that he wants to wield the power that he worships. To graduate to Grade 3, each man must voluntarily put on an article of his cellmate’s clothing for the purpose of making himself feminine. It is entirely up to each man to show when he wants to graduate. Of course, he will invariably do it in secret, so he will be monitored without his knowledge. The moment of graduation will be his first willing and independent foray into his cellmate’s wardrobe, secret or not. This will signify that he has chosen to at least experiment with becoming feminine. He will be allowed, in some cases, to experiment for some time before his cellmate confronts him. That moment will be his graduation.
Imagine the many scenarios: Cellmate barges in on him while he preens in her garter belt and stockings; Cellmate confronts him about stains on belly of her bathing suit, and browbeats him into admitting his crime in a Cinderella-like scenario where he must try it on to prove the innocence he proclaims; he is forced to wear Cellmate’s clothes against his will, because he just doesn’t get it, and he resists bitterly until he realizes how kinky it is and how desperately he looks forward to it, at which point he begins experimenting on his own; man shamelessly asks cellmate to borrow her clothes, and parades around in front of her in them. The best part is that it varies wildly depending on the rating of each man! There’s a different story for each one, and each one must ultimately show how a participant chooses to effeminate himself.
The cellmate must cajole her candidate after catching him flagrantly in the act. She can be angry, supportive, indifferent, embarrassed, or any combination thereof, as long as she understands that the goal is to grant him some portion of her wardrobe for his secret pleasure. She must promise him to keep his secret, yet allow him to continue his exploration of femininity. This can go on for an extended period of time. The candidate only graduates when he deliberately and without coercion reveals his femininity in public.
Public femininity must, of course, have severe consequences. Grade 4 students will have their entire wardrobes permanently replaced with those of their female cellmates. Whether they are comfortable in their new clothes or not makes no difference. They have already chosen, and must now actively pursue feminine roles, in public. Since the original plot had participants either buying their own wardrobes or somehow being granted them, it missed the opportunity to expound on the discovery of new ways to become feminine. Now, each man makes the choice, on his own, to pursue womanhood. Because his choice involves the clothes of his avatar cellmate goddess, who wears only the things that drive him most crazy, she relinquishes her wardrobe to him at the moment of his graduation. From then on, the only clothes he can wear are hers. He has her entire collection at his disposal, but nothing the least bit masculine to fall back on. Best of all, her entire collection was chosen by him to highlight her femininity in Grade 2. This must be presented to him as both reward and punishment: his indiscretion must bring him acute humiliation; but the punishment also satisfies his wildest desire for feminine power. He can take this in as many ways as there are participants. He can either take full advantage of his luck and make himself as pretty and girlish as he can, or he can resist and go naked until he succumbs again and gradually gives in.
Having admitted that girls rule, and that femininity is the most powerful force on earth, each man gradually learns how to wield that power. This is a finishing school for sissies. Graduation occurs when our participant actually uses his feminine powers to seduce a real man, and suck his cock and get fucked in the ass by him.
The fifth and final grade consists of a reminder of one’s innate masculinity, and how far removed each candidate is now that he wears nothing but lingerie and miniskirts, and sucks cock for fun. He is reminded of his subservience to womanhood, and that the power of girls is such that he has attempted to transform himself wholly into one. He is mocked and humiliated. But it’s only a test. He is hereby led to becoming ultimately female, by exploring options in plastic surgery and hormone therapy. Again, he must choose his lot. I can mostly imagine the reluctant ones unable to resist using their feminine powers, even as they refuse to take the extreme measures required to become completely female, until they finally give in. Again, 125 candidates, 125 scenarios.
This new scenario has far fewer holes in it. Now each man must make four excruciating choices before becoming a woman. Each moment of choice should be enough to make it exciting. Also, the whole story becomes more plausible, and therefore more sexy.
Clearly, it’s too cold now as it stands. I am missing the accusatory aspect, and I am also missing the element of decision. It seems that far too many of my candidates are much too willing, and have very little surprise in store. Also, the first grade courses are far too general. I think now that all our candidates must begin in Grade 1, and move through the ranks accordingly.
Most importantly, I have isolated what I think is the key turning point in a man’s thought on his way to becoming a woman. The programme must therefore change its focus slightly, and become more covert about its ultimate goal. The only thing left is finding a reason for all these men to be in this situation. All I can think of is prison, and a psycho-social experiment that they each volunteer to participate in to reduce their jail time – or perhaps an alternative sentence. They can have no idea what the end goal is, but they are all carefully screened and enlisted in the scientific way I have described above.
Thus the course begins as an exercise in defining female beauty. All of the men are asked to scour girlie magazines, the internet, or anything at all to find materials upon which to base their study. They all participate with great enthusiasm to this initial exercise, without knowing the ulterior motive: each man will be subtly encouraged to emulate his paragon of femininity. It’s a twist on the story of the man who so admired Elle MacPherson’s beauty that he moulded himself in her image. Here we will have 125 men all choosing an ideal, and finally becoming it.
Grade 1’s goal therefore changes, although the rating system remains intact. Rather than embarking on some poorly defined, vaguely feminist quest for sympathy for women, first graders will establish their own explicit model of femininity, and begin to worship it. When they exhibit evidence of having grasped the idea that their servility to it proves its potency as a controlling influence on not only them, but all men, they graduate to Grade 2. In other words, when they admit that girls rule, they move on.
This becomes the seed for the rest of the course. They will go on to learn the same things originally scheduled for Grade 2, but in the same ulterior context as Grade 1. This time, they will focus heavily on all the aspects of their ideals that make them so powerful. They will not necessarily explore any reason to explain how it affects them so much, but will focus only on identifying and admiring in close detail the exact characteristics of femininity that drive them so crazy. Inevitably, this will lead to curves, textures, and clothing.
Grade 2 will also be far more maddening, as each participant will be teamed up with an outrageously gorgeous woman who closely matches his ideal. This woman will actually live in the same cell, and will possess an entire wardrobe of insanely sexy undergarments and evening wear. The men will continue to wear their prison jumpsuits, but must watch helpless as a living paragon of womanhood dresses and undresses before them, and provides flesh and blood work materials with which to enrich classroom discussions.
The beauty of this approach is the new method for grading. No longer will each participant be required to use his newly acquired knowledge of women’s wear to somehow plan a shopping trip for his own feminine wardrobe – an impossible event to justify both in terms of character development and plausibility – but he will now be monitored closely for any signs that he wants to wield the power that he worships. To graduate to Grade 3, each man must voluntarily put on an article of his cellmate’s clothing for the purpose of making himself feminine. It is entirely up to each man to show when he wants to graduate. Of course, he will invariably do it in secret, so he will be monitored without his knowledge. The moment of graduation will be his first willing and independent foray into his cellmate’s wardrobe, secret or not. This will signify that he has chosen to at least experiment with becoming feminine. He will be allowed, in some cases, to experiment for some time before his cellmate confronts him. That moment will be his graduation.
Imagine the many scenarios: Cellmate barges in on him while he preens in her garter belt and stockings; Cellmate confronts him about stains on belly of her bathing suit, and browbeats him into admitting his crime in a Cinderella-like scenario where he must try it on to prove the innocence he proclaims; he is forced to wear Cellmate’s clothes against his will, because he just doesn’t get it, and he resists bitterly until he realizes how kinky it is and how desperately he looks forward to it, at which point he begins experimenting on his own; man shamelessly asks cellmate to borrow her clothes, and parades around in front of her in them. The best part is that it varies wildly depending on the rating of each man! There’s a different story for each one, and each one must ultimately show how a participant chooses to effeminate himself.
The cellmate must cajole her candidate after catching him flagrantly in the act. She can be angry, supportive, indifferent, embarrassed, or any combination thereof, as long as she understands that the goal is to grant him some portion of her wardrobe for his secret pleasure. She must promise him to keep his secret, yet allow him to continue his exploration of femininity. This can go on for an extended period of time. The candidate only graduates when he deliberately and without coercion reveals his femininity in public.
Public femininity must, of course, have severe consequences. Grade 4 students will have their entire wardrobes permanently replaced with those of their female cellmates. Whether they are comfortable in their new clothes or not makes no difference. They have already chosen, and must now actively pursue feminine roles, in public. Since the original plot had participants either buying their own wardrobes or somehow being granted them, it missed the opportunity to expound on the discovery of new ways to become feminine. Now, each man makes the choice, on his own, to pursue womanhood. Because his choice involves the clothes of his avatar cellmate goddess, who wears only the things that drive him most crazy, she relinquishes her wardrobe to him at the moment of his graduation. From then on, the only clothes he can wear are hers. He has her entire collection at his disposal, but nothing the least bit masculine to fall back on. Best of all, her entire collection was chosen by him to highlight her femininity in Grade 2. This must be presented to him as both reward and punishment: his indiscretion must bring him acute humiliation; but the punishment also satisfies his wildest desire for feminine power. He can take this in as many ways as there are participants. He can either take full advantage of his luck and make himself as pretty and girlish as he can, or he can resist and go naked until he succumbs again and gradually gives in.
Having admitted that girls rule, and that femininity is the most powerful force on earth, each man gradually learns how to wield that power. This is a finishing school for sissies. Graduation occurs when our participant actually uses his feminine powers to seduce a real man, and suck his cock and get fucked in the ass by him.
The fifth and final grade consists of a reminder of one’s innate masculinity, and how far removed each candidate is now that he wears nothing but lingerie and miniskirts, and sucks cock for fun. He is reminded of his subservience to womanhood, and that the power of girls is such that he has attempted to transform himself wholly into one. He is mocked and humiliated. But it’s only a test. He is hereby led to becoming ultimately female, by exploring options in plastic surgery and hormone therapy. Again, he must choose his lot. I can mostly imagine the reluctant ones unable to resist using their feminine powers, even as they refuse to take the extreme measures required to become completely female, until they finally give in. Again, 125 candidates, 125 scenarios.
This new scenario has far fewer holes in it. Now each man must make four excruciating choices before becoming a woman. Each moment of choice should be enough to make it exciting. Also, the whole story becomes more plausible, and therefore more sexy.
Diary: Forced to Choose
Once more, I explore.
I have been thinking about my slow evolution, and it doesn’t come across at all in my previous entry. I’m trying to remember when and how I first gave in to temptation and willfully put on a pair of pantyhose, but it’s too distant. I know for sure that I had no idea what the consequences were. Well, I did, and they fed my fantasies, but I could never bear to think of it for too long.
I need to evolve my story better. But I just don’t know how. How can I present my innocent young mind’s train of thought when I know so much more than I did then? I need to involve other characters to keep it sensible, to keep track of my differing opinions.
One other thing: I’ve been thinking of the point of accusation, the point of decision. I have never totally been there myself yet, but it approaches more and more with every incident. Imagine being forced to decide, on the spot, which gender to be? Imagine being offered the perfect opportunity to explore femininity to its fullest, that is, to its most final form. All you have to do is accept; after that, there’s no turning back. You must immediately abandon all masculine possessions, or feminize them; you must tell your family in person, en femme, about your decision; you must tell your friends as well. But none of that needs to be immediate: you are allowed to ease into it, in private, under an expert’s supervision.
Or, in a different scenario, imagine the mega-story candidates. Each is asked, at various points, just how committed he is to becoming a girl. At some point, he must tell his prudish friends, “sorry guys, but I really do want to be a girl now.” They’ll chastise him, call him a fag traitor homo bitch. But he will confidently respond that they’re absolutely right, and that he’s proud of it. They will remind him that it means losing his balls, losing his manhood; to which he will respond that he’s looking forward to it.
I have been thinking about my slow evolution, and it doesn’t come across at all in my previous entry. I’m trying to remember when and how I first gave in to temptation and willfully put on a pair of pantyhose, but it’s too distant. I know for sure that I had no idea what the consequences were. Well, I did, and they fed my fantasies, but I could never bear to think of it for too long.
I need to evolve my story better. But I just don’t know how. How can I present my innocent young mind’s train of thought when I know so much more than I did then? I need to involve other characters to keep it sensible, to keep track of my differing opinions.
One other thing: I’ve been thinking of the point of accusation, the point of decision. I have never totally been there myself yet, but it approaches more and more with every incident. Imagine being forced to decide, on the spot, which gender to be? Imagine being offered the perfect opportunity to explore femininity to its fullest, that is, to its most final form. All you have to do is accept; after that, there’s no turning back. You must immediately abandon all masculine possessions, or feminize them; you must tell your family in person, en femme, about your decision; you must tell your friends as well. But none of that needs to be immediate: you are allowed to ease into it, in private, under an expert’s supervision.
Or, in a different scenario, imagine the mega-story candidates. Each is asked, at various points, just how committed he is to becoming a girl. At some point, he must tell his prudish friends, “sorry guys, but I really do want to be a girl now.” They’ll chastise him, call him a fag traitor homo bitch. But he will confidently respond that they’re absolutely right, and that he’s proud of it. They will remind him that it means losing his balls, losing his manhood; to which he will respond that he’s looking forward to it.
Fiction: Feminization School, Part 2
I was fascinated by everything the incredibly sexy teacher was saying. My tutor has a perfect body to explore women’s clothes in. She’s like a store mannequin, only living, and moving, and warm, and soft. I am fascinated by her clothes, and how they accentuate her figure, draw attention to feminine traits that drive me apoplectic with desire. I never knew how complicated it was for women to shave their legs.
They say they’re turning me, and all my classmates, into girls. I’ve never thought about being a girl before. I guess it can’t be all bad. I mean, look at them! It must be a blast to be so feminine, so sexy. I’ve been told that I’m very masculine, but I never really understood it. I suppose I just take it for granted. If I were a girl, I definitely would take every advantage of it. I don’t know how they expect us to turn into girls. I am so completely turned on by the women here that I can’t imagine ever being one of them. I think it’s all a scare tactic to make us better men, but we’ll see.
They have started us all out with a pair of lacy panties. We’re supposed to know enough from our lessons to buy ourselves a complete female wardrobe. They’re generous enough to start us off with some complimentary underwear.
I am fascinated by the shape of these panties, and how they contour the most delicious curves of a woman’s body. They are so pretty, and so damn cool. I can’t believe that I get to wear them myself. Some of the guys are objecting pretty strenuously, but I don’t mind. I’m very curious about them. I’d love to know what it feels like to wear them.
I look ridiculous in them, but it’s quite a different sensation. I can feel how different the crotch is, how it wants to caress only the very bottom of my crotch. I like how they’re so delicate. I love the daintiness of them. They feel so cool. But I don’t want to get too used to them. No matter what they do to me, I’ll always be a man.
I can only imagine what it must feel like to wear a garter belt and stockings. And a bra. How about a one-piece swimsuit? That must feel so weird, so unlike anything I’ve ever worn. And it’s so unmistakably feminine.
I am beginning to imagine how these panties of mine are molding my body into a female shape. I kinda like the idea. A lot. I’m a bit shy about it right now. I never expected to enjoy this so much. I can’t wait to buy my wardrobe.
I have bought the sexiest clothes I could imagine. The whole time I thought about how hot my tutor would look in them, and how cool it would be to find out what it’s like to wear them myself. I’m really looking forward to wearing my string bikini. I love the ties on the side. It’s just so damn sexy. I can’t imagine how wearing it will affect me.
I can’t believe how much fun it is to dress like a girl. At first, I wanted to keep it experimental. I wanted to maintain, at the outset at least, some article of masculinity throughout to keep me from going too deep. But I can’t help myself! When I put on my panties, I want to go further and further. I get so aroused just thinking about how much fun it all is, and how completely wrong it is. There’s no way I should be enjoying this. I know that it’s turning me into less of a man, but for some reason, I don’t care! At the time that I wear it, I want to be a girl. I love the idea that every time I wear something feminine, it makes me more and more feminine myself. All I can think of is how becoming a girl would make me that much sexier in my panties. Or do I love wearing them because they make me sexier and more feminine? I don’t know what comes first. All I know is that it’s incredibly cool, and it makes me feel so amazing.
A lot of the other guys are grumbling about me because I seem to be enjoying this so much. They’re calling me a faggot, and a traitor, and all sorts of nasty things. I hate when they say that, because I’m not any of those things. I tell them that it’s really just harmless fun, and that they’d enjoy it too if they just let go of their inhibitions. Then they show me even less respect. Too bad for them. I’m looking forward now to our first sanctioned swimsuit sessions.
I am really loving my new wardrobe! I feel so sexy now, and so confident! I’m beginning to notice all sorts of changes in me, things that would once have made me incredibly uncomfortable. Things that I would have repressed in utter shame. I was horribly shocked to discover that I look at my tutor differently now. I used to want to fuck her so badly, but now I just want to be her. I look at her cute little ass and think to myself that I want mine to look just like it. I want to share clothes with her, because I think her clothes are far cooler than mine. She looks stunning in everything, and rather than want to strip them off her and have my way with her, I want to trade so I can prance around just like her. Worse, I’ve begun to think about where else this is leading. I have fantasized about doing things with boys. These clothes are also starting to make me walk and talk like a girl. It makes me feel so much sexier when I do that! I’m wearing only girls’ clothes now. I have abandoned all ties to my male clothes. I was giddy with excitement when I threw away my last gitch. I felt so free, and so naughty too. I snickered seductively at the other boys in my class who aren’t doing quite as well.
I have passed on to the next grade now, with flying colors. This means I’m well on my way to becoming a girl, according to the teachers. This put my situation in a little more context. I am so scared now. What have I done? I threw away my male clothes! I’m wearing nothing but silk, satin and lace underwear! I wear makeup and shave all my body hair! I wear little short dresses and miniskirts! Only a couple of months ago, I was a ladies’ man, totally masculine. Now they’re telling me I’m more than halfway to being female! Somehow, I’m ashamed and frightened. I have abandoned my manhood, and betrayed all the men who were convinced that we could hold out and break free of our captors. I have instead collaborated with them, and made myself in their image. But at the same time, I’m mischievously happy, and flattered about my progress; I’m glad I left those louts behind. In fact, sometimes I get horny thinking about how I can contribute to their inevitable feminization. I feel unbelievably sexy.
It’s true. I have gone past the point of no return. I don’t even remember what it’s like to be masculine anymore. I’m going to be a girl! And I love the idea! I can’t wait to start my hormone treatment and get nice and shapely, like a girl should be. But there’s something I need to do first.
To pass on to grade 5, where I can start taking hormones, I need to fuck a boy. That means I have to be feminine and seductive enough to get a boy to fuck me. And I think I can do it. I’m masturbating by shoving a dildo in my ass. It’s shockingly easy to get it up there when I want to. I’m getting hot imagining a real dick inside me, just like a girl. And for good measure, I want to taste his come. I am such a faggot! I love it!
So finally I’ve gotten laid. It was phenomenal, far better than any sex I ever had with a girl. I felt so female, so sexy, so wonderful. It’s so naughty of me to have done that, but that’s why it’s so fun. I’m a boy who dresses like a girl, acts like a girl, and fucks like a girl. And I love it! I can’t wait to be completely female!
I’m so nervous. I’m fucking boys like a little slut now. It’s part of my routine. I love getting laid this way. I love getting a dick inside me. But it’s time for me to start taking hormones. Once I start, there’s no turning back. I’m still physically as much a man as I ever was. All I have to do is say the word, and I can go back to what I was. Or I can remain like this, which really isn’t bad at all. It’s incredibly fun being this feminine, knowing that everyone knows I’m really a man. I love the idea of turning other men into shemales like me. But I want more! I want to have a true female shape. The thought of becoming truly female turns me on even more. I will take the hormones without a moment’s hesitation.
It’s been almost a year, and my breasts have filled in nicely. I don’t need to fill up my bra anymore, and I finally have that gorgeous hourglass figure I’ve craved for so long. All my parts are softening up as they should. I look exactly like a girl now, except for one last feature. It has come to this, and I am ready. Bring on the surgeon.
I am a girl now. No more unsightly useless bulge in my panties. Now I truly look sexy and feminine in my panties. Off to tutor the new recruits.
They say they’re turning me, and all my classmates, into girls. I’ve never thought about being a girl before. I guess it can’t be all bad. I mean, look at them! It must be a blast to be so feminine, so sexy. I’ve been told that I’m very masculine, but I never really understood it. I suppose I just take it for granted. If I were a girl, I definitely would take every advantage of it. I don’t know how they expect us to turn into girls. I am so completely turned on by the women here that I can’t imagine ever being one of them. I think it’s all a scare tactic to make us better men, but we’ll see.
They have started us all out with a pair of lacy panties. We’re supposed to know enough from our lessons to buy ourselves a complete female wardrobe. They’re generous enough to start us off with some complimentary underwear.
I am fascinated by the shape of these panties, and how they contour the most delicious curves of a woman’s body. They are so pretty, and so damn cool. I can’t believe that I get to wear them myself. Some of the guys are objecting pretty strenuously, but I don’t mind. I’m very curious about them. I’d love to know what it feels like to wear them.
I look ridiculous in them, but it’s quite a different sensation. I can feel how different the crotch is, how it wants to caress only the very bottom of my crotch. I like how they’re so delicate. I love the daintiness of them. They feel so cool. But I don’t want to get too used to them. No matter what they do to me, I’ll always be a man.
I can only imagine what it must feel like to wear a garter belt and stockings. And a bra. How about a one-piece swimsuit? That must feel so weird, so unlike anything I’ve ever worn. And it’s so unmistakably feminine.
I am beginning to imagine how these panties of mine are molding my body into a female shape. I kinda like the idea. A lot. I’m a bit shy about it right now. I never expected to enjoy this so much. I can’t wait to buy my wardrobe.
I have bought the sexiest clothes I could imagine. The whole time I thought about how hot my tutor would look in them, and how cool it would be to find out what it’s like to wear them myself. I’m really looking forward to wearing my string bikini. I love the ties on the side. It’s just so damn sexy. I can’t imagine how wearing it will affect me.
I can’t believe how much fun it is to dress like a girl. At first, I wanted to keep it experimental. I wanted to maintain, at the outset at least, some article of masculinity throughout to keep me from going too deep. But I can’t help myself! When I put on my panties, I want to go further and further. I get so aroused just thinking about how much fun it all is, and how completely wrong it is. There’s no way I should be enjoying this. I know that it’s turning me into less of a man, but for some reason, I don’t care! At the time that I wear it, I want to be a girl. I love the idea that every time I wear something feminine, it makes me more and more feminine myself. All I can think of is how becoming a girl would make me that much sexier in my panties. Or do I love wearing them because they make me sexier and more feminine? I don’t know what comes first. All I know is that it’s incredibly cool, and it makes me feel so amazing.
A lot of the other guys are grumbling about me because I seem to be enjoying this so much. They’re calling me a faggot, and a traitor, and all sorts of nasty things. I hate when they say that, because I’m not any of those things. I tell them that it’s really just harmless fun, and that they’d enjoy it too if they just let go of their inhibitions. Then they show me even less respect. Too bad for them. I’m looking forward now to our first sanctioned swimsuit sessions.
I am really loving my new wardrobe! I feel so sexy now, and so confident! I’m beginning to notice all sorts of changes in me, things that would once have made me incredibly uncomfortable. Things that I would have repressed in utter shame. I was horribly shocked to discover that I look at my tutor differently now. I used to want to fuck her so badly, but now I just want to be her. I look at her cute little ass and think to myself that I want mine to look just like it. I want to share clothes with her, because I think her clothes are far cooler than mine. She looks stunning in everything, and rather than want to strip them off her and have my way with her, I want to trade so I can prance around just like her. Worse, I’ve begun to think about where else this is leading. I have fantasized about doing things with boys. These clothes are also starting to make me walk and talk like a girl. It makes me feel so much sexier when I do that! I’m wearing only girls’ clothes now. I have abandoned all ties to my male clothes. I was giddy with excitement when I threw away my last gitch. I felt so free, and so naughty too. I snickered seductively at the other boys in my class who aren’t doing quite as well.
I have passed on to the next grade now, with flying colors. This means I’m well on my way to becoming a girl, according to the teachers. This put my situation in a little more context. I am so scared now. What have I done? I threw away my male clothes! I’m wearing nothing but silk, satin and lace underwear! I wear makeup and shave all my body hair! I wear little short dresses and miniskirts! Only a couple of months ago, I was a ladies’ man, totally masculine. Now they’re telling me I’m more than halfway to being female! Somehow, I’m ashamed and frightened. I have abandoned my manhood, and betrayed all the men who were convinced that we could hold out and break free of our captors. I have instead collaborated with them, and made myself in their image. But at the same time, I’m mischievously happy, and flattered about my progress; I’m glad I left those louts behind. In fact, sometimes I get horny thinking about how I can contribute to their inevitable feminization. I feel unbelievably sexy.
It’s true. I have gone past the point of no return. I don’t even remember what it’s like to be masculine anymore. I’m going to be a girl! And I love the idea! I can’t wait to start my hormone treatment and get nice and shapely, like a girl should be. But there’s something I need to do first.
To pass on to grade 5, where I can start taking hormones, I need to fuck a boy. That means I have to be feminine and seductive enough to get a boy to fuck me. And I think I can do it. I’m masturbating by shoving a dildo in my ass. It’s shockingly easy to get it up there when I want to. I’m getting hot imagining a real dick inside me, just like a girl. And for good measure, I want to taste his come. I am such a faggot! I love it!
So finally I’ve gotten laid. It was phenomenal, far better than any sex I ever had with a girl. I felt so female, so sexy, so wonderful. It’s so naughty of me to have done that, but that’s why it’s so fun. I’m a boy who dresses like a girl, acts like a girl, and fucks like a girl. And I love it! I can’t wait to be completely female!
I’m so nervous. I’m fucking boys like a little slut now. It’s part of my routine. I love getting laid this way. I love getting a dick inside me. But it’s time for me to start taking hormones. Once I start, there’s no turning back. I’m still physically as much a man as I ever was. All I have to do is say the word, and I can go back to what I was. Or I can remain like this, which really isn’t bad at all. It’s incredibly fun being this feminine, knowing that everyone knows I’m really a man. I love the idea of turning other men into shemales like me. But I want more! I want to have a true female shape. The thought of becoming truly female turns me on even more. I will take the hormones without a moment’s hesitation.
It’s been almost a year, and my breasts have filled in nicely. I don’t need to fill up my bra anymore, and I finally have that gorgeous hourglass figure I’ve craved for so long. All my parts are softening up as they should. I look exactly like a girl now, except for one last feature. It has come to this, and I am ready. Bring on the surgeon.
I am a girl now. No more unsightly useless bulge in my panties. Now I truly look sexy and feminine in my panties. Off to tutor the new recruits.
Diary: What's Gotten Into Me?
I have started experimenting with anal penetration. My experiments were so successful that I’m afraid to continue with them. I’m not sure where this fits in with my other fantasies anymore, as it’s the sheer physical sensation that wins out, rather than any fantasy about getting fucked. It’s quite a feminine shock to realize that something has been inside me.
I want to explore this whole idea of being exposed to femininity, and enjoying it, and realizing that enjoyment means enjoying everything that goes with being female. It starts out when you realize that you like girls’ clothes, not even for wearing them yourself, but just because they’re so obviously sexy. Then you realize that it would be fun to wear them, fun to see how pretty they make you feel. Then you realize that wearing them compromises your manhood, and that you’d better stop before you start developing a taste for it. But it’s already far too late. It’s a foregone conclusion from the moment the idea first entered your head. Now you’re picturing yourself in a bikini, and fantasizing about how wonderful girls look in bikinis, and how it would be so cool, so sexy if you could experience that sexiness first hand. You want to be the girl in the bikini. You start off slow, just fondling it, because you know that’s almost normal. But you can’t take it anymore, and you have to touch the panties with your dick. Not even that is enough. You need the full effect. You put them on, and it’s more amazing than you dreamed. You keep some article of manhood on you, just in case, because you know you’re losing your grip on your manhood. You imagine yourself wearing all kinds of women’s clothes, from bikinis to swimsuits to underwear and lingerie and summer dresses and sandals. You want desperately to give yourself up completely to it, but you don’t dare, because you know that it’s too dangerous, that you’ll like it too much. You’ve already gone too far by now, but you don’t care. You want to go further. You can’t help yourself from trying it again and again, with different clothes. You’re wearing the matching bra now, even though it doesn’t touch your cock, just because it makes you feel even more feminine. You know there’s no cheating involved now. You’ve wanted it all along, you realize, and you’re finally doing it. You’re glad you’ve gone too far. Every new experiment, every moment of complete abandon drives home the reality that you’re getting more and more effeminated. Why else would you now be buying your own lingerie? You’ve started shaving your body to get that smooth, female skin, and so you can feel what a woman feels when she wears stockings. You begin to fantasize about fucking men. Eventually you discover just how pleasant it is to shove things in your ass, and pretend it’s a dick. You know you’re teetering on the edge of homosexuality, but you don’t care! You love it! You start to fantasize about taking hormones and growing titties, and above all having an hourglass figure. Pretty soon, you do it, and you’ve finally caved in and begun to make those irreversible physical changes that were inevitable from the moment you first realized that you like girls’ clothes.
I want to explore this whole idea of being exposed to femininity, and enjoying it, and realizing that enjoyment means enjoying everything that goes with being female. It starts out when you realize that you like girls’ clothes, not even for wearing them yourself, but just because they’re so obviously sexy. Then you realize that it would be fun to wear them, fun to see how pretty they make you feel. Then you realize that wearing them compromises your manhood, and that you’d better stop before you start developing a taste for it. But it’s already far too late. It’s a foregone conclusion from the moment the idea first entered your head. Now you’re picturing yourself in a bikini, and fantasizing about how wonderful girls look in bikinis, and how it would be so cool, so sexy if you could experience that sexiness first hand. You want to be the girl in the bikini. You start off slow, just fondling it, because you know that’s almost normal. But you can’t take it anymore, and you have to touch the panties with your dick. Not even that is enough. You need the full effect. You put them on, and it’s more amazing than you dreamed. You keep some article of manhood on you, just in case, because you know you’re losing your grip on your manhood. You imagine yourself wearing all kinds of women’s clothes, from bikinis to swimsuits to underwear and lingerie and summer dresses and sandals. You want desperately to give yourself up completely to it, but you don’t dare, because you know that it’s too dangerous, that you’ll like it too much. You’ve already gone too far by now, but you don’t care. You want to go further. You can’t help yourself from trying it again and again, with different clothes. You’re wearing the matching bra now, even though it doesn’t touch your cock, just because it makes you feel even more feminine. You know there’s no cheating involved now. You’ve wanted it all along, you realize, and you’re finally doing it. You’re glad you’ve gone too far. Every new experiment, every moment of complete abandon drives home the reality that you’re getting more and more effeminated. Why else would you now be buying your own lingerie? You’ve started shaving your body to get that smooth, female skin, and so you can feel what a woman feels when she wears stockings. You begin to fantasize about fucking men. Eventually you discover just how pleasant it is to shove things in your ass, and pretend it’s a dick. You know you’re teetering on the edge of homosexuality, but you don’t care! You love it! You start to fantasize about taking hormones and growing titties, and above all having an hourglass figure. Pretty soon, you do it, and you’ve finally caved in and begun to make those irreversible physical changes that were inevitable from the moment you first realized that you like girls’ clothes.
Fiction: Feminization School, Case 221
Case 221: First Day of School
My sexy little escort leads me through the Institute’s front gates. The place is swarming with gorgeous little sexpots, all of them clad in the scantiest, sexiest outfits. I can’t believe that my girlfriend would willingly have sent me here. It must be a temptation test or something. She wants to test me, to know that I won’t cheat on her again. I’ll make an effort, but I may not be able to resist. Tina here might even be coming on to me. What else could I do? And maybe I’d rather be with her anyway.
She brings me into a classroom, where another 20 guys, all accompanied by equally sexy girls, have taken their seats. Then the teacher walks in, and locks the door. Tina grins at me suggestively. The teacher is incredibly hot, and she knows it. She coolly breezes past all of our wolf gazes to the front of the class, shaking her cute little ass. Her skirt is so short, you can actually see, but just barely, the tops of her stockings. She’s doing it on purpose.
“Welcome to the Feminization Institute, gentlemen,” she says. “I’m your first grade teacher Miss Gardner. Now, I know that most of you have no idea why you’re here. You may even be wondering if I really did say ‘Feminization.’ Suffice it to say that by the end of this 10-week course, you’ll all be eager to be just like me.”
We are all struck with awe at her beauty. It takes a while for it to sink in.
“Uh, feminization?” says one guy. “You mean, you want to turn us into women?”
The class gets a little unruly about this.
“Yes, that’s exactly what we mean to do.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or yell. Most of the others do one or the other. But suddenly, Tina’s got me by the neck, and I can see that all the other guys’ escorts have engaged straps to disable their men. None of us can move.
“The purpose of this course is to get you all thinking like girls. You will learn about the rest of the curriculum, and become familiar with every step of your upcoming womanhood. If you follow the course outlines, and do your homework, you’ll eventually be fortunate enough to be full-fledged women.”
Some of us struggle, but we are too tightly bound. We can’t put up any kind of fight. It’s incredibly pathetic to see 20 burly, aggressive men, easily subdued by delicate, gorgeous girls half their size.
[…]
Miss Gardner looks shocked at the tone of my answer.
“221, you will show me respect at all times. I will not tolerate any kind of rebellion from you, or from anyone else.”
“What are you gonna do about it? Three quarters of this class won’t stand for this bullshit. We’re walking out, and there’s nothing you can do to stop us.”
“The door is locked. You can’t get out without this key.”
“Then give us the key, or we’ll have to take it from you.”
“No.”
I signal to Watson to get the key from her. She stands at the front of the class, one hand on her hip, holding the key up in my direction, taunting me. We’ll kick the shit out of her and take turns raping her ass before we go. She picked a fine day to wear a miniskirt and 3-inch spiked heels.
Suddenly, as Watson gets within 2 feet of her, she sweeps her leg under him and sends him crashing to the ground. She looks right at me, and says, “221, you’re going to call this off, or I’ll have to completely humiliate you.”
Before I can even give the command, we’re rushing her. But she’s far too fast. She’s not even the least bit afraid of us as she punches and kicks every man that comes near her. She has practically subdued the entire class when she gets to me.
Now, I’m no slouch when it comes to fighting. I’m an expert in three martial arts, and I’ve won competitions. I’ve never seen anyone take out 10 men in less than a minute, as she just did. I prepare to face her.
I attack with a flurry of punches and kicks. She blocks and parries everything I’ve got as if I’m a wimpy little child flailing my arms at her. She’s already toying with me. She hasn’t even taken off her spiked shoes. I don’t know how she can walk in them, much less fight.
She catches one of my flying kicks in mid-air, twists my foot, and has me squirming in agony on the floor beneath her. “Have you had enough yet?” she asks.
I ably flip her off of me and throw her across the room, but she lands square on her feet in a fighting stance. She rushes at me and pummels me with a whirlwind of fists and feet. I crumple to the ground in front of her, stunned. I caught a glimpse of her panties as she crushed my jaw with a roundhouse kick.
She crouches down to me, and seductively raises my head with her index finger. “I know you want to be a girl, 221. I can see it in your eyes whenever I mention what we’re going to do to you. Stop fighting, and you might actually enjoy your lessons.”
She takes my hand and runs it along her waist, her hip, her thigh, and up to the top of her stocking. “You know that I wear these stockings just for you, don’t you? I know you like them. You’ll like them even more when you’re wearing your own.”
She pushes me back down to the ground, where I pass out, into a gender-twisting nightmare world.
[…]
Ever since my beating, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Miss Gardner’s stockings. I imagine them clinging to my own legs. I imagine them attached to a lacy black garter belt, concealed by a tight black miniskirt. The thought of becoming her intrigues me to no end. I find myself listening far more attentively than I should to her lectures on feminization theory. I cannot allow this to continue. But part of me wants to test her theories, wants to see the course through to the end and see if it truly is possible for me, of all people, to become female. I want to prove her wrong. But there’s something else that I can’t quite put my finger on, something that I don’t want to think about.
If only I could look at her and not imagine myself wearing her outfits!
My sexy little escort leads me through the Institute’s front gates. The place is swarming with gorgeous little sexpots, all of them clad in the scantiest, sexiest outfits. I can’t believe that my girlfriend would willingly have sent me here. It must be a temptation test or something. She wants to test me, to know that I won’t cheat on her again. I’ll make an effort, but I may not be able to resist. Tina here might even be coming on to me. What else could I do? And maybe I’d rather be with her anyway.
She brings me into a classroom, where another 20 guys, all accompanied by equally sexy girls, have taken their seats. Then the teacher walks in, and locks the door. Tina grins at me suggestively. The teacher is incredibly hot, and she knows it. She coolly breezes past all of our wolf gazes to the front of the class, shaking her cute little ass. Her skirt is so short, you can actually see, but just barely, the tops of her stockings. She’s doing it on purpose.
“Welcome to the Feminization Institute, gentlemen,” she says. “I’m your first grade teacher Miss Gardner. Now, I know that most of you have no idea why you’re here. You may even be wondering if I really did say ‘Feminization.’ Suffice it to say that by the end of this 10-week course, you’ll all be eager to be just like me.”
We are all struck with awe at her beauty. It takes a while for it to sink in.
“Uh, feminization?” says one guy. “You mean, you want to turn us into women?”
The class gets a little unruly about this.
“Yes, that’s exactly what we mean to do.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or yell. Most of the others do one or the other. But suddenly, Tina’s got me by the neck, and I can see that all the other guys’ escorts have engaged straps to disable their men. None of us can move.
“The purpose of this course is to get you all thinking like girls. You will learn about the rest of the curriculum, and become familiar with every step of your upcoming womanhood. If you follow the course outlines, and do your homework, you’ll eventually be fortunate enough to be full-fledged women.”
Some of us struggle, but we are too tightly bound. We can’t put up any kind of fight. It’s incredibly pathetic to see 20 burly, aggressive men, easily subdued by delicate, gorgeous girls half their size.
[…]
Miss Gardner looks shocked at the tone of my answer.
“221, you will show me respect at all times. I will not tolerate any kind of rebellion from you, or from anyone else.”
“What are you gonna do about it? Three quarters of this class won’t stand for this bullshit. We’re walking out, and there’s nothing you can do to stop us.”
“The door is locked. You can’t get out without this key.”
“Then give us the key, or we’ll have to take it from you.”
“No.”
I signal to Watson to get the key from her. She stands at the front of the class, one hand on her hip, holding the key up in my direction, taunting me. We’ll kick the shit out of her and take turns raping her ass before we go. She picked a fine day to wear a miniskirt and 3-inch spiked heels.
Suddenly, as Watson gets within 2 feet of her, she sweeps her leg under him and sends him crashing to the ground. She looks right at me, and says, “221, you’re going to call this off, or I’ll have to completely humiliate you.”
Before I can even give the command, we’re rushing her. But she’s far too fast. She’s not even the least bit afraid of us as she punches and kicks every man that comes near her. She has practically subdued the entire class when she gets to me.
Now, I’m no slouch when it comes to fighting. I’m an expert in three martial arts, and I’ve won competitions. I’ve never seen anyone take out 10 men in less than a minute, as she just did. I prepare to face her.
I attack with a flurry of punches and kicks. She blocks and parries everything I’ve got as if I’m a wimpy little child flailing my arms at her. She’s already toying with me. She hasn’t even taken off her spiked shoes. I don’t know how she can walk in them, much less fight.
She catches one of my flying kicks in mid-air, twists my foot, and has me squirming in agony on the floor beneath her. “Have you had enough yet?” she asks.
I ably flip her off of me and throw her across the room, but she lands square on her feet in a fighting stance. She rushes at me and pummels me with a whirlwind of fists and feet. I crumple to the ground in front of her, stunned. I caught a glimpse of her panties as she crushed my jaw with a roundhouse kick.
She crouches down to me, and seductively raises my head with her index finger. “I know you want to be a girl, 221. I can see it in your eyes whenever I mention what we’re going to do to you. Stop fighting, and you might actually enjoy your lessons.”
She takes my hand and runs it along her waist, her hip, her thigh, and up to the top of her stocking. “You know that I wear these stockings just for you, don’t you? I know you like them. You’ll like them even more when you’re wearing your own.”
She pushes me back down to the ground, where I pass out, into a gender-twisting nightmare world.
[…]
Ever since my beating, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Miss Gardner’s stockings. I imagine them clinging to my own legs. I imagine them attached to a lacy black garter belt, concealed by a tight black miniskirt. The thought of becoming her intrigues me to no end. I find myself listening far more attentively than I should to her lectures on feminization theory. I cannot allow this to continue. But part of me wants to test her theories, wants to see the course through to the end and see if it truly is possible for me, of all people, to become female. I want to prove her wrong. But there’s something else that I can’t quite put my finger on, something that I don’t want to think about.
If only I could look at her and not imagine myself wearing her outfits!
Diary: Feminization Syllabus
Now that my list makes more sense, I only need to come up with the exact syllabus.
I already have established that there should be five grades, and that these grades are based on the sum of points in the three categories outlined above (I should add that homosexuality should be included in the experience levels, parallel to the instances of crossdressing; such that a man who has just discovered crossdressing is equivalent to one who has made out with a boy, and a man who has worn women’s clothing the requisite number of times is equivalent to one who has been fucked by a boy). The five grades should follow the progress of the complete rookie all the way to womanhood, following the experience levels. In other words, each grade should lead up to the next experience level by fulfilling all of the requirements.
Grade 1: For complete newbies. Gearing men to imagine what it’s like to be women. Intro to the female way of thinking and behaving. Mannerisms. Thought patterns. Familiarity with articles of clothing. Fashion.
Grade 2: For those who understand female thinking. Leads to either crossdressing or homosexuality. Role playing: acting like a girl. Takes lessons learned in grade 1 and puts them into practice. Learn how to please a man, and the essentials of women’s clothes. Project: a) acquire a wardrobe, starting with underwear; or b) make out with a boy. Must pass this to make it to Grade 3.
Grade 3: For those with boyfriends or those with wardrobes. This grade is practical application of lessons learned in Grade 2. Those who have chosen transvestitism will be introduced to their new wardrobes garment by garment, until they have passed the experience requirement to pass to the next grade. Those who have chosen homosexuality will begin an intensive sex seminar, where they will learn the sexual secrets of women, and will intensify their relationships with their boyfriends, until they have actually been penetrated.
Grade 4: For those with sufficient clothing experience and those who have lost their virginity. In this grade, our men having become expert homosexuals or crossdressers, pick up the other discipline; that is, homosexuals acquire wardrobes and learn to wear it, while continuing to have sex with boys; and transvestites learn to seduce boys. To pass this grade, a man must become officially expert in both disciplines, so that he is wearing strictly women’s clothes and sucking cock and taking it in the ass regularly.
Grade 5: For those who have become female in all but physical characteristics. These men embark on hormone replacement therapy and plastic surgery. They participate in a beauty pageant before being granted the privilege of undergoing the final surgery.
Those whose level of participation amounts to zeal are generally overeager to participate in the lessons of the grades above, and will possibly undermine their own progress because of it. Those who are enthusiastic will be eager, but unwilling to move too fast through the ranks, for fear of missing out on something important. Those who are passive will follow the syllabus exactly, and do only as they are told. Those who are reluctant will protest every step, but perform it when threatened with force. Those who resist will be forced.
The course should last a year. Each grade should take no more than ten weeks.
After thinking about the requirements for some time, I have decided that transvestitism should be ranked on a breadth of experience with different garments, with a focus, of course, on underwear and swimwear. I need to finalize my points system before I can adequately issue official requirements.
I think I’m about ready to start.
Also, I think it would be a good idea, given the syllabus I’m coming up with, to track my own experience, and see how many points I get over time. Should be a fun little project.
I already have established that there should be five grades, and that these grades are based on the sum of points in the three categories outlined above (I should add that homosexuality should be included in the experience levels, parallel to the instances of crossdressing; such that a man who has just discovered crossdressing is equivalent to one who has made out with a boy, and a man who has worn women’s clothing the requisite number of times is equivalent to one who has been fucked by a boy). The five grades should follow the progress of the complete rookie all the way to womanhood, following the experience levels. In other words, each grade should lead up to the next experience level by fulfilling all of the requirements.
Grade 1: For complete newbies. Gearing men to imagine what it’s like to be women. Intro to the female way of thinking and behaving. Mannerisms. Thought patterns. Familiarity with articles of clothing. Fashion.
Grade 2: For those who understand female thinking. Leads to either crossdressing or homosexuality. Role playing: acting like a girl. Takes lessons learned in grade 1 and puts them into practice. Learn how to please a man, and the essentials of women’s clothes. Project: a) acquire a wardrobe, starting with underwear; or b) make out with a boy. Must pass this to make it to Grade 3.
Grade 3: For those with boyfriends or those with wardrobes. This grade is practical application of lessons learned in Grade 2. Those who have chosen transvestitism will be introduced to their new wardrobes garment by garment, until they have passed the experience requirement to pass to the next grade. Those who have chosen homosexuality will begin an intensive sex seminar, where they will learn the sexual secrets of women, and will intensify their relationships with their boyfriends, until they have actually been penetrated.
Grade 4: For those with sufficient clothing experience and those who have lost their virginity. In this grade, our men having become expert homosexuals or crossdressers, pick up the other discipline; that is, homosexuals acquire wardrobes and learn to wear it, while continuing to have sex with boys; and transvestites learn to seduce boys. To pass this grade, a man must become officially expert in both disciplines, so that he is wearing strictly women’s clothes and sucking cock and taking it in the ass regularly.
Grade 5: For those who have become female in all but physical characteristics. These men embark on hormone replacement therapy and plastic surgery. They participate in a beauty pageant before being granted the privilege of undergoing the final surgery.
Those whose level of participation amounts to zeal are generally overeager to participate in the lessons of the grades above, and will possibly undermine their own progress because of it. Those who are enthusiastic will be eager, but unwilling to move too fast through the ranks, for fear of missing out on something important. Those who are passive will follow the syllabus exactly, and do only as they are told. Those who are reluctant will protest every step, but perform it when threatened with force. Those who resist will be forced.
The course should last a year. Each grade should take no more than ten weeks.
After thinking about the requirements for some time, I have decided that transvestitism should be ranked on a breadth of experience with different garments, with a focus, of course, on underwear and swimwear. I need to finalize my points system before I can adequately issue official requirements.
I think I’m about ready to start.
Also, I think it would be a good idea, given the syllabus I’m coming up with, to track my own experience, and see how many points I get over time. Should be a fun little project.
Diary: Off the Deep End Overthinking
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Diary: Overthinking the Massive Forced Feminization Story
I have been thinking about this an awful lot. I have it all figured out now. It’s very similar to the above, with a few changes. The three categories remain, but the levels differ slightly. I arrive at these levels by basing them on responses to questions from a survey. Here they are first in summary, then each explained in detail:
Experience
Co-operation
1. What is your sexual orientation?
a) heterosexual
b) homosexual
c) bisexual
2. How often have you imagined what it would be like to be a member of the opposite gender?
a) Never
b) Once or twice
c) Sometimes
d) Frequently
e) Always
3. How frequently do you take on the role of the opposite gender, be it for play, for sexual gratification, or any other reason? This includes transvestitism, playacting, and cajolery.
a) Never
b) Once or twice
c) Sometimes
d) Frequently
e) Always
4. Describe your reaction to the idea of becoming a member of the opposite gender:
a) Repulsed
b) Curious, but unwilling
c) Indifferent
d) Willing
e) Desperate
5. How would you like to join the opposite gender?
a) Would rather die
b) Would like to know what it’s like, but revert to original gender
c) Indifferent
d) Would like to know what it’s like, even if the change is permanent
e) Long to join opposite gender
6. How would you react if someone attempted to change your gender?
a) Resist at all costs
b) Resist until threatened with death
c) Remain passive
d) Assist in these attempts
e) You requested it
These questions are then processed and the participants sorted into classes. Of course, there are two sets of answers to the survey: those submitted by the users, and their honest beliefs.
We will have a set of 125 men (5 x 5 x5) who will each have a different set of honest responses. Each of these men will then discover that he is in a one year feminization camp, and that he will compete for the honour of becoming a girl.
- Experience (Have you ever wanted to be female?): Introduce, Beginner, Intermediate, Advanced, Expert
- Desire (Would you like to be female?): Repulsed, Curious, Indifferent, Willing, Desperate
- Co-operation (If someone were to attempt to make you female, how would you react?): Rebellious, Reluctant, Passive, Enthusiastic, Zealous
Experience
- Introduce: Has never wanted to be a girl. Sees women as sex objects, therefore cannot even want to get inside a woman’s head.
- Beginner: Has imagined being a girl, but stops short when it gets hot.
- Intermediate: Has fantasized about being female, perhaps even engaging in some transvestitism once or twice, but still primarily thinks from male perspective.
- Advanced: Has a persistent fetish for feminization; loves to wear women’s clothes, and does it regularly, but is content being a man
- Expert: A woman trapped in a man’s body. Fantasizes daily about being a girl, wears some article of women’s clothing at all times.
- Repulsed: Would rather die than become a girl.
- Curious: Would like to know what it’s like to be a girl, but would definitely want to revert to manhood immediately afterwards.
- Indifferent: Has no gender preference. Would be happy either way.
- Willing: Would happily experience womanhood, and never revert.
- Desperate: Longs to be a girl. Would actively seek to become a girl.
Co-operation
- Rebellious: Refuses to co-operate; force required.
- Reluctant: Refuse to co-operate until threatened with violence.
- Passive: Will do exactly as told, without question, but will not volunteer for anything or participate beyond what is required.
- Enthusiastic: Participates actively, studies, looks ahead. Willing to learn.
- Zealous: Participates aggressively, seeking to be the best in the class.
1. What is your sexual orientation?
a) heterosexual
b) homosexual
c) bisexual
2. How often have you imagined what it would be like to be a member of the opposite gender?
a) Never
b) Once or twice
c) Sometimes
d) Frequently
e) Always
3. How frequently do you take on the role of the opposite gender, be it for play, for sexual gratification, or any other reason? This includes transvestitism, playacting, and cajolery.
a) Never
b) Once or twice
c) Sometimes
d) Frequently
e) Always
4. Describe your reaction to the idea of becoming a member of the opposite gender:
a) Repulsed
b) Curious, but unwilling
c) Indifferent
d) Willing
e) Desperate
5. How would you like to join the opposite gender?
a) Would rather die
b) Would like to know what it’s like, but revert to original gender
c) Indifferent
d) Would like to know what it’s like, even if the change is permanent
e) Long to join opposite gender
6. How would you react if someone attempted to change your gender?
a) Resist at all costs
b) Resist until threatened with death
c) Remain passive
d) Assist in these attempts
e) You requested it
These questions are then processed and the participants sorted into classes. Of course, there are two sets of answers to the survey: those submitted by the users, and their honest beliefs.
We will have a set of 125 men (5 x 5 x5) who will each have a different set of honest responses. Each of these men will then discover that he is in a one year feminization camp, and that he will compete for the honour of becoming a girl.
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