I think I only do this when I’m lonely. I feel bad about myself, so I give up and turn myself into a girl. It’s a symptom of a more general lack of self-confidence. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
As always, I’m talking about utter feminine abandon. Not even a tiny shred of masculinity remains. More feminine than a real woman.
It’s always the mental part that intrigues me. So many aspects of it turn me on. I like the idea of deception, of being tricked into becoming a girl; or rather, being tricked or forced into making that initial discovery, which makes everything else inevitable. There must be a conscious decision to fully embrace femininity, and do it so gladly that masculinity becomes embarrassing. There must be a moment when a man decides, after pondering for a minute, an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year, or a decade, that he likes the idea of turning into a girl, and pursues it as fully as he can for at least as long as he can keep from coming. While the deception might lead to the birth of the idea, it is this moment of abandon that makes it so exciting.
The hero must realize, no matter how briefly, that yes, it would be very sexy to put on women’s underwear, because it will surely and irrevocably corrupt his manhood and turn him into a beautiful, sexy, gorgeous girl. He must realize that he wants, at that moment, nothing more than to become absolutely female, even if it means casting aside his masculinity forever.
That’s the one flaw in so many of the stories I’ve read. Our man becomes a woman by treachery and deceit. Or by force. Or by hypnosis. Even though it’s exciting, the real beauty of the idea is that of wanting to. I certainly don’t need any hypnosis to want to turn myself into a girl. Why should my hero?
All it takes is the seed of the idea for my man to start that steady ascent to womanhood. Once it crosses his mind, it consumes him, and he becomes female.
Fantasy: Teen Transformation
Wow, has it ever been a long time. I got distracted thinking I could be in love with a girl. Somehow the urge didn’t strike me at all for almost 2 months. But now, I am heavily in its throes. I have discovered teens. They are so young and innocent and lithe. They’re so sexy, especially when they wear heels, because they are just getting used to their sexual potency. They still look awkward. But they’re so incredibly feminine and hot. That is my fantasy now: to be one of these awakening hotties. I want to experience that same discovery, the same way. I want to turn into a teenaged girl.
I had a story once about a woman who seduces a teenaged boy, and turns him into a girl, just for fun. It reminds me of my own sexual awakening. I wasn’t very hairy when I started turning myself into a girl. I dreamed of wearing bikinis. Hell, I actually did wear bikinis. I imagined it turning me irrevocably into a girl. I worried that it would actually work. I prayed that it would actually work.
I just put on my silver bikini. I am alone at home for a week. I can lounge around the house in girlwear the whole time.
The whole idea is happy capitulation. I’m not much of a man, so I might as well work on my womanhood.
The idea of turning a teenaged boy into a girl: it’s not too late, there’s still hope. Puberty hasn’t fully set in yet, so maybe he’s still salvageable. He starts off resisting. He’s encouraged to model like jandmstars.com, with a gaggle of lovely but slightly older teenaged girls. He’s only 13 or 14. They take away all his clothes, and send him to the same wardrobe as the girls. He must either remain naked, or put on something sexy and feminine. He is surrounded by girls who have no qualms about stripping down and getting dressed all sexy in front of him. They laugh and cajole him for being naked, and encourage him to join in the fun. They’ll show him how to be comfortable. He’s horribly embarrassed, very afraid of girls. These are all 16 to 19 and stunningly gorgeous. He’s afraid to stand up to them. He’s skinny and lithe too. His body could go either way yet.
He’s afraid of even touching the girls’ clothes. They’re far too sexy. He’s never seen girlwear so intimate, so close. The clothes themselves are fascinating and innately sexy. The girls make every effort to show him all the prettiest things: bras and panties and garter belts and miniskirts and halter tops and stockings and heels and dresses. He knows he can’t remain naked. He hides himself with his hands. There are no corners, no furniture to hide behind. It’s like a nightmare to him. But it’s very very real.
Eventually, when many of the girls are out of the room being photographed stripping and pouting and being beautiful, the few who remain in the changeroom with him goad him into at least touching a bikini, to get a feel for it. He’s very interested, and unable to hide his interest. He’s still trying to hide his nakedness. He’s nervous about holding it in his hand. “Does this make me gay,” he wonders? I have to admit it’s very pretty, and very sexy. I’d love to see it on each of these girls. It would be so gay for me to wear it, even though they’re practically forcing me to.
Finally, he succumbs, mostly to hide his nakedness, but also fully aware that he’s being gay, and that his manhood risks being terribly compromised. He puts on only the panties of a bikini, thinking that these in particular are the most boyish he’s seen, and that they won’t appear particularly feminine. But they feel so different from his old jockeys. They’re soft and smooth and tight and high-cut and elastic, like nothing he’s ever worn before. The girls applaud with glee when he slides them up his hips. “You look so cute and girlish now!” they squeal. He turns livid with shame, but keeps them on. At least now he isn’t showing them his tiny little prick that they so ruthlessly made fun of.
He refuses to put on the matching bra.
Eventually, they all get to see him. They all make comments about him coming to his senses and becoming one of the girls. They congratulate him and compliment him on his little black bikini panties, but question him about why he’s running around topless. Still, he steadfastly refuses to wear the bra.
Then his turn comes up for shooting. The photographer angrily asks him where his top is, and complains that he could get in trouble for taking nude photos of teenaged girls. Our boy protests that he’s not a girl, and the photographer compromises. He insists that he cover his nipples on all the shots, and mostly concentrates on his backside. As humiliating as it was to put on bikini panties in front of girls, posing like one for model photos was infinitely worse. He was terrible at posing. The poor photographer was getting terribly frustrated with him. “If you’re gonna pretend to be a girl, at least move like one! Come on, swing those hips! Pout! Show me what you’ve got!”
After the shoot, humiliated and broken, having given in and posed like a girl in bikini panties, our boy returns to the dressing room. The girls all give him tips on how to be sexy like them, and how to pose and be pretty. They’re all getting dressed to go home, and they ask him why he’s not. He says he has no clothes, and they tell him to pick something from the wardrobe. There is nothing but ultra-feminine girlwear to choose from, and he wisely, prudently, declines. He remains in the changeroom to sleep all night, afraid to go out. He keeps his bikini panties on, just in case. He cries all night, terribly upset about how gay this makes him.
The next day, the girls insist on him trying on something else. Another bikini, at least, because they can’t allow him to wear the same thing on consecutive days. Since he feels dirty, he reluctantly agrees. He again tries to choose something at least a little bit boyish. He sticks to solid colours and low-cut leg, but everything is so unquestionably feminine that he ends up in no better position than the day before. The shoot goes much the same way. He cries a lot.
That night he explores the wardrobe in great detail. He tries to identify anything at all that he could wear and not give up his gender completely. He fails utterly. Instead he spends more time ogling the sexy outfits and masturbating about how pretty they are.
The next day, he chooses yet another boyish panty. He’s running out of options. He’s getting along pretty well with the girls. They feel for him, but are clearly trying to get him to give up his manhood. He lets them talk him into putting on the matching bra this time. He feels better for it, because the girls are very proud of him. He knows he’s taken a huge step in the wrong direction, but he is happier for it. He poses with enthusiasm.
Over the next few days, he becomes expert in putting on brassieres. He still sticks to bikinis, because he doesn’t want to be too adventurous. He knows that he’s getting used to wearing bikinis, and it frightens him. He feels sexy when he poses. It shows in the photos.
Now he becomes aware that he wants to try on sexier, more feminine clothes. He gets horny thinking about wearing a bikini with a floral print on it. He suppresses the idea with shame. He thinks he must continue to resist, but knows that he can’t continue to fight when he’s modeling a different swimsuit every day. Most importantly, he doesn’t want any of the girls knowing that he’s getting used to it. He steadfastly believes that his ordeal will soon end, and he will be back wearing his own boy clothes in no time.
At night, he begins trying on everything he can think of. He can’t help it. It’s so incredibly gay of him, but he loves it. He realizes that every second he spends wearing a bikini makes him gayer and gayer. But it feels so cool. He does this secretly for weeks. He allows himself to wear more an more feminine bikinis during the day, when people are around. They can tell that he’s giving in, but he won’t admit it. He sometimes reverts to boyshorts when overcome by shame at his nightly explorations. He still cries at night.
Then he gets caught. Nobody is angry. They are happy and proud. He is humiliated. They showed up an hour earlier, because of the shift to standard time, which he was unaware of cloistered in the women’s change room for so long. They catch him in a cute and sexy little minidress, over top of a matching lingerie outfit and heels. They make him wear it all day. Busted.
From then on, they become much more insistent about what he models. Lingerie, swimwear, club wear. He is always reluctant, insisting that it was a mistake. But he looks better and better as a girl. He knows it, too. And he blushes when he becomes aware of it. He likes it.
At last, he has a heart-to-heart with the prettiest of the models, on whom he’s developed a crush. She convinces him to admit that he’s incredibly flaming gay, that he adores dressing up like her and her friends, and that he desperately wants to be a girl. “It’s not too late, you know. At your age, you can start taking hormones and you’ll hit puberty just like we did – that is, as a girl. By the time you’re our age, you’ll have your own boobs, all natural, and your waist will be perfectly proportional. You’ll look so killer in all these outfits!”
“But I’ll have to commit myself to being gay. I don’t want to be gay! I can’t just give up my manhood!” He blushes at the thought of it, because it excites him enormously.
She offers him his clothes, and a chance to leave as he came: a teenaged boy.
“Can I take a couple of panties with me, at least? Nobody has to know that I’m wearing them.”
“Will you wear girls’ panties all the time?” she asks, pointedly.
He smiles coyly and blushes. “Why not?”
“Wouldn’t you rather just go all the way, and wear all girl clothes all the time?”
“I’m still a boy.”
“Not anymore.”
He thinks about it for 48 hours, and decides to return to his boyhood. The girls refuse to let him take any souvenirs. He must leave dressed completely as a boy.
He finds himself looking at girls differently. He wants to wear their clothes. It drives him mad that he has no panties, no bikinis, no dresses, no stockings, no heels. After a couple of weeks, he can take no more. He spends some of his modeling income on some lingerie. He makes a fool of himself in a lingerie store buying it. Who ever heard of a 14-year-old boy buying lingerie for his girlfriend? He wears it that night and every other day, but wants more. He similarly buys swimwear, and wears it in secret. He gets more underwear, too. He proudly wears it as often as he can, as proof to himself that he can get away with it.
As much as he tries to hide his femininity, it somehow exudes from him. Other boys call him a faggot, and question his manhood. He blushes when they accuse him, lending them more ammunition. He can’t fight back knowing that he’s wearing lace under his jeans. How gay of me, he thinks. He finds himself attracted to boys.
He begins to notice signs of puberty. He’s getting hairier, ever so slightly. It clashes horribly with his underwear. He longs to wear a skirt again, and to make up his face.
Finally, after a few weeks of this, he snaps. He goes to the mall as a boy, and goes shopping. He doesn’t care who sees him. He buys a pretty little outfit at Le Chateau, and happily explains that it’s not for his girlfriend, it’s for himself. He can’t wait to put it on, so he wears it home. He feels so girlish in it that he actually looks like a girl. He shops around and buys himself an entire wardrobe of girl clothes.
The very next day, he returns to the modeling agency to get his job back. He becomes one of the girls like never before. He begins his hormone treatment and watches over the months as his body becomes more and more femininely proportioned.
By the time he’s 18, he is a girl. He’s been effeminating for four years. His birthday present is surgery. He then helps take on another young teenaged boy, and turns him into a girl, too, just like one of the original pretty models did for him.
I had a story once about a woman who seduces a teenaged boy, and turns him into a girl, just for fun. It reminds me of my own sexual awakening. I wasn’t very hairy when I started turning myself into a girl. I dreamed of wearing bikinis. Hell, I actually did wear bikinis. I imagined it turning me irrevocably into a girl. I worried that it would actually work. I prayed that it would actually work.
I just put on my silver bikini. I am alone at home for a week. I can lounge around the house in girlwear the whole time.
The whole idea is happy capitulation. I’m not much of a man, so I might as well work on my womanhood.
The idea of turning a teenaged boy into a girl: it’s not too late, there’s still hope. Puberty hasn’t fully set in yet, so maybe he’s still salvageable. He starts off resisting. He’s encouraged to model like jandmstars.com, with a gaggle of lovely but slightly older teenaged girls. He’s only 13 or 14. They take away all his clothes, and send him to the same wardrobe as the girls. He must either remain naked, or put on something sexy and feminine. He is surrounded by girls who have no qualms about stripping down and getting dressed all sexy in front of him. They laugh and cajole him for being naked, and encourage him to join in the fun. They’ll show him how to be comfortable. He’s horribly embarrassed, very afraid of girls. These are all 16 to 19 and stunningly gorgeous. He’s afraid to stand up to them. He’s skinny and lithe too. His body could go either way yet.
He’s afraid of even touching the girls’ clothes. They’re far too sexy. He’s never seen girlwear so intimate, so close. The clothes themselves are fascinating and innately sexy. The girls make every effort to show him all the prettiest things: bras and panties and garter belts and miniskirts and halter tops and stockings and heels and dresses. He knows he can’t remain naked. He hides himself with his hands. There are no corners, no furniture to hide behind. It’s like a nightmare to him. But it’s very very real.
Eventually, when many of the girls are out of the room being photographed stripping and pouting and being beautiful, the few who remain in the changeroom with him goad him into at least touching a bikini, to get a feel for it. He’s very interested, and unable to hide his interest. He’s still trying to hide his nakedness. He’s nervous about holding it in his hand. “Does this make me gay,” he wonders? I have to admit it’s very pretty, and very sexy. I’d love to see it on each of these girls. It would be so gay for me to wear it, even though they’re practically forcing me to.
Finally, he succumbs, mostly to hide his nakedness, but also fully aware that he’s being gay, and that his manhood risks being terribly compromised. He puts on only the panties of a bikini, thinking that these in particular are the most boyish he’s seen, and that they won’t appear particularly feminine. But they feel so different from his old jockeys. They’re soft and smooth and tight and high-cut and elastic, like nothing he’s ever worn before. The girls applaud with glee when he slides them up his hips. “You look so cute and girlish now!” they squeal. He turns livid with shame, but keeps them on. At least now he isn’t showing them his tiny little prick that they so ruthlessly made fun of.
He refuses to put on the matching bra.
Eventually, they all get to see him. They all make comments about him coming to his senses and becoming one of the girls. They congratulate him and compliment him on his little black bikini panties, but question him about why he’s running around topless. Still, he steadfastly refuses to wear the bra.
Then his turn comes up for shooting. The photographer angrily asks him where his top is, and complains that he could get in trouble for taking nude photos of teenaged girls. Our boy protests that he’s not a girl, and the photographer compromises. He insists that he cover his nipples on all the shots, and mostly concentrates on his backside. As humiliating as it was to put on bikini panties in front of girls, posing like one for model photos was infinitely worse. He was terrible at posing. The poor photographer was getting terribly frustrated with him. “If you’re gonna pretend to be a girl, at least move like one! Come on, swing those hips! Pout! Show me what you’ve got!”
After the shoot, humiliated and broken, having given in and posed like a girl in bikini panties, our boy returns to the dressing room. The girls all give him tips on how to be sexy like them, and how to pose and be pretty. They’re all getting dressed to go home, and they ask him why he’s not. He says he has no clothes, and they tell him to pick something from the wardrobe. There is nothing but ultra-feminine girlwear to choose from, and he wisely, prudently, declines. He remains in the changeroom to sleep all night, afraid to go out. He keeps his bikini panties on, just in case. He cries all night, terribly upset about how gay this makes him.
The next day, the girls insist on him trying on something else. Another bikini, at least, because they can’t allow him to wear the same thing on consecutive days. Since he feels dirty, he reluctantly agrees. He again tries to choose something at least a little bit boyish. He sticks to solid colours and low-cut leg, but everything is so unquestionably feminine that he ends up in no better position than the day before. The shoot goes much the same way. He cries a lot.
That night he explores the wardrobe in great detail. He tries to identify anything at all that he could wear and not give up his gender completely. He fails utterly. Instead he spends more time ogling the sexy outfits and masturbating about how pretty they are.
The next day, he chooses yet another boyish panty. He’s running out of options. He’s getting along pretty well with the girls. They feel for him, but are clearly trying to get him to give up his manhood. He lets them talk him into putting on the matching bra this time. He feels better for it, because the girls are very proud of him. He knows he’s taken a huge step in the wrong direction, but he is happier for it. He poses with enthusiasm.
Over the next few days, he becomes expert in putting on brassieres. He still sticks to bikinis, because he doesn’t want to be too adventurous. He knows that he’s getting used to wearing bikinis, and it frightens him. He feels sexy when he poses. It shows in the photos.
Now he becomes aware that he wants to try on sexier, more feminine clothes. He gets horny thinking about wearing a bikini with a floral print on it. He suppresses the idea with shame. He thinks he must continue to resist, but knows that he can’t continue to fight when he’s modeling a different swimsuit every day. Most importantly, he doesn’t want any of the girls knowing that he’s getting used to it. He steadfastly believes that his ordeal will soon end, and he will be back wearing his own boy clothes in no time.
At night, he begins trying on everything he can think of. He can’t help it. It’s so incredibly gay of him, but he loves it. He realizes that every second he spends wearing a bikini makes him gayer and gayer. But it feels so cool. He does this secretly for weeks. He allows himself to wear more an more feminine bikinis during the day, when people are around. They can tell that he’s giving in, but he won’t admit it. He sometimes reverts to boyshorts when overcome by shame at his nightly explorations. He still cries at night.
Then he gets caught. Nobody is angry. They are happy and proud. He is humiliated. They showed up an hour earlier, because of the shift to standard time, which he was unaware of cloistered in the women’s change room for so long. They catch him in a cute and sexy little minidress, over top of a matching lingerie outfit and heels. They make him wear it all day. Busted.
From then on, they become much more insistent about what he models. Lingerie, swimwear, club wear. He is always reluctant, insisting that it was a mistake. But he looks better and better as a girl. He knows it, too. And he blushes when he becomes aware of it. He likes it.
At last, he has a heart-to-heart with the prettiest of the models, on whom he’s developed a crush. She convinces him to admit that he’s incredibly flaming gay, that he adores dressing up like her and her friends, and that he desperately wants to be a girl. “It’s not too late, you know. At your age, you can start taking hormones and you’ll hit puberty just like we did – that is, as a girl. By the time you’re our age, you’ll have your own boobs, all natural, and your waist will be perfectly proportional. You’ll look so killer in all these outfits!”
“But I’ll have to commit myself to being gay. I don’t want to be gay! I can’t just give up my manhood!” He blushes at the thought of it, because it excites him enormously.
She offers him his clothes, and a chance to leave as he came: a teenaged boy.
“Can I take a couple of panties with me, at least? Nobody has to know that I’m wearing them.”
“Will you wear girls’ panties all the time?” she asks, pointedly.
He smiles coyly and blushes. “Why not?”
“Wouldn’t you rather just go all the way, and wear all girl clothes all the time?”
“I’m still a boy.”
“Not anymore.”
He thinks about it for 48 hours, and decides to return to his boyhood. The girls refuse to let him take any souvenirs. He must leave dressed completely as a boy.
He finds himself looking at girls differently. He wants to wear their clothes. It drives him mad that he has no panties, no bikinis, no dresses, no stockings, no heels. After a couple of weeks, he can take no more. He spends some of his modeling income on some lingerie. He makes a fool of himself in a lingerie store buying it. Who ever heard of a 14-year-old boy buying lingerie for his girlfriend? He wears it that night and every other day, but wants more. He similarly buys swimwear, and wears it in secret. He gets more underwear, too. He proudly wears it as often as he can, as proof to himself that he can get away with it.
As much as he tries to hide his femininity, it somehow exudes from him. Other boys call him a faggot, and question his manhood. He blushes when they accuse him, lending them more ammunition. He can’t fight back knowing that he’s wearing lace under his jeans. How gay of me, he thinks. He finds himself attracted to boys.
He begins to notice signs of puberty. He’s getting hairier, ever so slightly. It clashes horribly with his underwear. He longs to wear a skirt again, and to make up his face.
Finally, after a few weeks of this, he snaps. He goes to the mall as a boy, and goes shopping. He doesn’t care who sees him. He buys a pretty little outfit at Le Chateau, and happily explains that it’s not for his girlfriend, it’s for himself. He can’t wait to put it on, so he wears it home. He feels so girlish in it that he actually looks like a girl. He shops around and buys himself an entire wardrobe of girl clothes.
The very next day, he returns to the modeling agency to get his job back. He becomes one of the girls like never before. He begins his hormone treatment and watches over the months as his body becomes more and more femininely proportioned.
By the time he’s 18, he is a girl. He’s been effeminating for four years. His birthday present is surgery. He then helps take on another young teenaged boy, and turns him into a girl, too, just like one of the original pretty models did for him.
Fiction: Getting Started Early
Young boy, five years old. A school play requires all the boys and girls to wear white tights. The teacher recommends girls' pantyhose. The boys shouldn't mind, since they're still too young to have much of a sexual identity. So the boy's mother buys him the tights, and he wears them the night of the school play. All the parents love the show, and our little boy goes home happy and appreciated. He likes the feel of the stockings, and the adulation he got while wearing them. He is aware that they are meant only for girls. He asks before his parents tuck him in if he can wear them as pajamas. They tell him absolutely not, because they have to return them to the store, and besides, they're for girls, not boys.
Our boy has an older sister. He has taken an interest that he cannot understand in her clothes. He knows that he is not allowed to wear them, so he lets it rest for a few years.
By the time he is nine, he feels intense urges to put on stockings again. He has felt them for many years, but never dared. Now he gets the idea to plunder the laundry basket, steal some stockings, and try them on in private at night. He loves the silkiness of them. But he's afraid to put them on. He's afraid that they'll turn him into a girl. Under no circumstances are they to touch his penis. The first few thefts, he doesn't even have the courage to wear them. Finally, he dares, and puts them on over his underwear.
They're just like socks, he thinks, only so thin and soft, and they go all the way up my thigh, all the way over my crotch, to my waist. This is what it feels like to wear girl socks. It feels so very nice. Now my legs look like those of the pin-up girls in daddy's magazines, and those pretty girls I can't bear to look at on TV. They make me feel so good. But they're girl clothes, and I'm not supposed to wear them. They're probably going to turn me into a girl. I'd better take them off before it's too late.
He takes them off carefully and rubs his little dick to thoughts of older girls in stockings like these, and the short ones that come up to the thighs, and panties and bikinis…
Weeks later, he does it again. And again a week later. He does it twice the week after that.
Pretty soon, he's not taking them off anymore. Then he's not wearing his own underwear to protect himself from them. He knows he's turning into a girl, and that's what he loves about it: he imagines himself one day able to wear lingerie.
But his sister finds out. She sees him taking her stockings, but hides, and notes what he's doing. She can tell immediately what's going on. She waits for the opportune moment, and then she blackmails him. He fearfully obliges.
For her viewing pleasure, she has him put on her pretty little panties and her training bra. Then her bathing suit. He can't take it. He's not ready for this much girlhood, even though he's been fantasizing about it for months. She makes him primp in the mirror. At his age, he looks just like a girl, except for the hard lump at his crotch.
Now he knows he's ruined. And he loves it. He borrows her panties every day. He masturbates in her bathing suit. He can't wait till she gets old enough for lingerie. He wants to wear a garter belt and fishnet stockings and a corset.
So his sister puts her foot down. No way, she says, you're going to have to get your own. I can't have you wearing my panties all the time.
He begins to use his allowance money to buy girls' clothes instead of toys. He gets her to buy it for him, at first. Then she refuses even this. So he must buy it all himself. So he does, with great embarrassment. Until he gets used to it. Now he buys bikinis, which even his sister hasn't dared to wear. He buys cheap lingerie. He wears his own panties when he goes on shopping excursions. He is turning into a girl. He can't help himself.
So finally, he reveals his secret to his parents. He has decided to become a girl. He has chosen the right time in his life, since he still hasn't reached puberty. So he gets hormone replacement, and develops in his teens as a girl.
The end.
Diary: Addictions vs. Fetishes
The author of The Artist’s Way talks about letting all your thoughts flow freely. Suppressing thoughts is anathema. It further adds that artists should pursue luxuries. Artists should not deny themselves the things they enjoy. On the other hand, it also mentions destructive habits – mostly addictions – as something to be avoided. She cites watching TV, hanging out with leeching friends, and anything that gets in the way of creative impulses.
This leads me to wonder about addictions. Many artists use substances or behaviour to fuel their creativity. They come to depend on their addictions for their creative output. Cameron would look at it the other way, and say that the withdrawal pangs inhibit creativity that would otherwise flow as freely as at any other time.
The whole process seems geared towards removing inhibitions, to discover the true self, and allow it to thrive.
But what about fetishes? Are they addictions or expressions of self?
On one hand, a fetish is very much like an addiction: it is an urgent physical need that requires fulfillment. It is an affliction that can get in the way of clear thinking, and distract the artist from his duties. It can possess him to the point where it is all he can think about. On the other hand, it is an expression of the deepest, most secret inner desires. What is a fetish but the fulfillment of repressed, hidden tastes? Is it not therefore a clear manifestation of the inner child?
I remember the moment I came to terms with my own fetish, which I had been fighting unsuccessfully since childhood. I must have been almost twenty. I had spent the last several months trying desperately to purge myself of what I considered my unfortunate and deplorable habit. I had disposed of all the objects of my fetish. While it felt at the time like I was taking charge of an addiction, and working towards conquering it, I had become desperate to fulfill my fantasies again. I had just barely started trying to write, to unblock myself. The computer I used was in the family room, where everyone watched television. I tried to concentrate, but realized that there was something I needed to release.
My mother had recently returned from a trip to somewhere sunny. She had had to buy a new bathing suit there to replace the ones that I had stolen to fulfill my fetish. She left it hanging in the laundry room for a few days, where it tempted me like a carrot on a stick. I glared at it every time I passed by the laundry room, eager to steal away with it, but resisting with every ounce of my willpower. How I tortured myself!
I found myself slogging away at the computer, trying hopelessly to describe the general despair that I felt in those days, trying to make some sense of it in some creative, poetic way. I had no idea what was bothering me so much, so I tried my hand at writing something – anything – to clear my head. Only a sheet of drywall separated me from the object of my desire. I couldn’t think of anything else. I realized that I was completely alone: everyone else had gone to bed. I could easily sneak into the laundry room, snag the bathing suit, and scurry off to my bedroom where I could enjoy it in private. Again, I found myself fighting my intense desire to wear women’s clothing. Something had to break.
So I did. I had made up my mind. Possessed by desire, I couldn’t contain the words anymore. At first I let myself write it as a dare, just to see how it would feel. It wasn’t even a sentence of its own: I finished an abortive sentence about my own poor state of mind with the words: “because I love to wear women’s clothes.” I read it back to myself and immediately deleted it, looking over my shoulder and peeking out the door to reassure myself that no one was around. It was exhilarating. I tried it again, this time in its own sentence: “I love wearing girls’ swimsuits.” I left it there for a while longer, blushing with excitement.
I had discovered what was blocking my creativity. I found a story to write, and I couldn’t stop myself. I wrote about how I had been tortured with this affliction since I was very young, and how I had tried so many times to stop myself from acting out my fantasies of dressing up in girls’ clothes, but always returned. No matter what I did, I could never stop fantasizing about being turned into a girl by wearing sexy bathing suits and lingerie. I frequently stole things from my mother or my friend’s sister to satisfy my cravings. I always experimented with great trepidation, both frightened and eager to take my fantasy to the next level. I started when I was five years old. Every time I pleasured myself over my fantasy – particularly when I enacted it with real clothes – I felt the deepest shame, and vowed to never do it again. My story told of all the incidents I could think of when something significant happened in the development of my fantasy. This would be the most significant moment of all.
As I wrote, I recognized, accepted, and celebrated my fantasies. I could no longer deny my feminine impulses. From that moment on, I promised myself that I would never feel shame again about my dirty little secret. I would not admit it to anyone but myself; but I swore to run off to my room with that pink and purple flowery one-piece swimsuit, make myself as feminine as possible with it, and feel not a whit of shame about it. I swore that I would wear it again and again, as often as I saw fit, because it felt so incredibly good. There would no longer be any point in berating myself over something that is an intrinsic part of me. Instead, I would congratulate myself for having discovered something so intensely fun. Over the last ten years, I have added hundreds of pages of transsexual fantasy to that same document.
Now, the problem: admitting this to myself was a giant step in becoming comfortable with myself. However, every time I write, it degenerates into a masturbatory fantasy that I never reread or edit. It serves to send me to bed with some distinct fantasy in mind, and that’s all. It’s an addiction that I have immense trouble overcoming, and that seems to get in the way of my more serious literary ambitions.
Now that I write this, I see the answer (or at least I think I do): That’s what I should be writing about. I shouldn't be ashamed of my masturbatory fantasies. I should develop them instead of relegating them to some notion that they’re not good enough. There are plenty of places to submit them to. I know that I can write better than many of the hacks who submit stories to fantasy sites. So this is where my muse is leading me.
Fiction: Captured in the Battle of the Sexes
This time, an image of a perfect specimen of femininity in a little off-white sequined dress, standing with hands on a rail. The dress is not extremely tight, but enough to lovingly caress the hips, gently holding tight, curvaceous buttocks. It drapes the thighs down to the tops of the knees; long, smooth, bronze legs, firm and sinuous, yet sensuously curvy, support that perfectly round little tush. How did you learn so quickly to carry yourself that way?
Another image, relating back to the last story about the literal battle of the sexes: the men are crucified, still wearing their camouflage fatigues. They are surrounded by their female captors. They stoically resist, as they have been trained. They will not succumb to femininity. They are men of stone, steadfast and determined. They are masculine to the unshakeable core, the mightiest, most virile men. They all face a huge stage, backed by a massive screen. Each of them watches the podium with trepidatious composure. Their resolve rests upon the sanctity and purity of each man’s individual machismo, backed by confidence in each other’s strength, and ultimately held together by their illustrious godlike leader: a man so strong-willed, and so unquestionably virile that no woman can but fall to her knees and beg for his affections. This man commands their hearts, their minds, their lives. He is their foundation. Together, they are the last of the army of men. They know that they are incorruptible, because of his leadership. He is the last hope; they are his elite guard. The situation is grim, but they all suspect that their leader will somehow pull them out, perhaps by seducing and overpowering his would-be captors and bending them to his will. One hundred men depend on it.
(Here the fantasy splits into two scenarios)
One: The video screen behind the stage shows a man on a cross near the front of the forest of men. A bevy of gorgeous half-naked women begin to slink around him seductively, mussing up his hair and feeling his powerful chest. They fiddle with the buttons of his uniform, slowly undoing them. They begin to unbutton his shirt. He squirms with discomfort. Some of the men envy his luck, but wonder why he cringes. Soon the women tug at his undershirt. What is that beneath his white tank top? A wide tuft of black chest hair? Not surprising on such a man. But no, it shimmers. A thin black band rises from his pectoral to his shoulder. His chest appears covered with something, but he’s shifting his body away from the camera. Good God, it can’t be! The women have now pulled back the camouflage shirt, and torn away one half of Johnson’s tank top, revealing a lace-trimmed brassiere. The men gasp in horror. One of their number was a traitor all along. How could they have trusted him? He has stopped resisting, and his femininely adorned chest becomes fully exposed. He bows his head in shame. The women who stripped him laugh at him cruelly as they undo his pants and pull down his boxers. His panties match the bra. He endures the hateful glares of his companions.
Now the camera cuts to Terwilligger, at the opposite end of the crowd. He pleads for them to stop. Him too, wonder the others, as another gaggle of lithe young hotties slowly strips him to an unmistakably feminine panty and bra set. He weeps with embarrassment as the other men begin to mutter in disbelief.
Next went Smith, who wore a string bikini. Then Parish in just panties. Wang in his one piece swimsuit came after that. Then Dalton. Then Lee. Then Patel, Schmidt, Torres, Garcia, Hakkannen, Visniewski, Dekembe, Miller, Groulx, and Santini. One by one, the men were exposed in women’s skivvies. By the time they had lost 20 men, those remaining began to question each other’s virility. If so many could be traitors, how could anyone tell if the man he shared a tent with was another traitorous fairy? Bolton harshly accused Silverman, who shook visibly with apprehension. They came for Bolton first, revealing him in his frilly white silks to Silverman, who turned out to only have been hiding a garter.
After exactly half of them had been exposed, the women asked for volunteers. Any man who spoke up now would be spared the humiliation of being stripped before his peers. MacPherson, Moore, Cadieux, and Vandenburgh all screamed like the sissies they were, and were untied and sent to the stage. Seeing that they weren’t being molested, seven more piped up. All told, 23 men were too cowardly to get stripped down. When it became evident that no others would give up, these men were made to strip anyway, one by one, to burlesque music. Most were happy to have found asylum, and strutted like supermodels in their various lingerie outfits. It was easy for them, since they knew that the traitors outnumbered the loyalists. Once they had each proclaimed their abject femininity, they lined up on the stage holding hands.
There now remained 28 men. Fifteen more were exposed. Every one of the first 87 men exposed had something girlish to hide. At last, Maartens turned out to be clean. So did Franks, Julien, Chung, and the leader, Meyer. All the others were sissies.
All told, 95 of the hundred last men were already corrupted. Only five had remained true to their gender.
Now the women asked the 5 remaining naked men if they wanted to convert now to avoid the shame of being effeminated aggressively, publicly, and ruthlessly. Chung begged for mercy, and he was given a French maid’s uniform, which he put on greedily and expertly. Franks caved in, too, and was given a tight little bikini, which he struggled getting into, but appeared to enjoy when he got it on. Then they let go all the crucified sissies, since it was no longer possible to shame them since they were all transsexual anyway.
That left Maartens and Julien flanking their beloved leader Meyer. Maartens and Julien relied on their captain to lead them out of their predicament. They needed Meyer’s strength to pull them through. Meyer defiantly refused to co-operate, and his henchmen followed his lead.
The women decked out Maartens like a whore. He wore lingerie fancier and more feminine than any of the other men had ever even imagined themselves in in their wildest dreams. He whimpered in distress, but Meyer encouraged him to remain manly, to be strong, to not let the feminine accoutrements destroy him. Maartens held fast, although he struggled visibly to restrain himself from expressing his long-repressed feminine side. Julien did not fare much better.
Meyer, however, was released from his cross, and made to dress himself. He had to wear the whole deal. He looked like a whore. When they marched him to the stage, he quickly learned to wiggle his butt in those 3-inch heels. The lace and silk were too much for him. He crumpled at the feet of the queen and came all over himself. Maartens and Julien wept with relief, and came too.
Scenario Two: Much the same as One, except only 25 or so men prove to be traitors. The other 75 are stripped naked one by one, proudly showing up the women by being well-endowed and manly to the very skin. The last man is the leader. He is more defiant than any of the others. It appears that the women, in spite of having won the final battle, will not be able to add insult to injury. The women are truly in awe of Meyer as they apprehensively go about their task. They know that they have lost, but they crave to see the manliest of men in all his naked glory. They long to ride him. The other men feel their strength returning. They could break their bonds and overpower their captors, and make a desperate escape...
But wait: There is something under Meyer’s fatigues. It’s a black silk corset with pink bows! And a matching silk thong, garter belt, and stockings! His skin is shaven smooth like a girl’s! He’s laughing! He’s shaking his girlish hips at his men in a seductive way. He’s the most effeminate of them all!
The men’s spirits sink, free-fall, splatter. The women fall away from Meyer with mirth, and he breaks his bonds. He then goes to each man in turn and sucks his cock, snowballing into the next man’s mouth. Then each man is given a panty and bra set, and brutally effeminated.
Scenario Three: 99 men on crosses. Then someone vaguely familiar appears on the stage. She’s absolutely gorgeous in her sequined white dress. What a gorgeous ass. Is she a movie star? Some kind of celebrity? She steps up to the microphone and speaks. In Meyer’s voice: “You’re all going to be girlies now.”
Of course, with scenario three, there are two further options: Meyer is either totally converted in a matter of seconds, much to his embarrassment, or he is already longing to become a girl, and has been leading his men to doom all along.
The conversion:
Meyer is led into a dark room with a spotlight in the middle and a mirror. He is stripped naked and made to stand in the spotlight. Someone tosses him a pink satin panty and bra set. He reticently refuses to wear it. The panty is a thong with snaps. His arms are strapped to cables from the ceiling, and his ankles shackled to long chains on the ground. Slowly the ceiling cables start moving apart, lifting him from the ground, and spreading his arms. The chains also tighten from opposite ends of the room, leaving him suspended in air and spread eagled. He is stretched so tightly that he cannot move. A woman gingerly snaps the panties on, then the brassiere. Meyer is made to face the mirror and contemplate how he looks in women’s underwear for 12 hours.
He remains mentally strong, and resists. He tries uselessly to squirm out of his new underwear, but in the mirror he appears to be enjoying himself. He stops struggling, and realizes that he can’t remain passive either, so he squirms some more. He vacillates all night, determined to not betray his gender in spite of the circumstances. He refuses to accept that he is doomed. He convinces himself that no matter how feminine he looks as he tries hopelessly to squirm out of his panties and bra, it will not change him. He convinces himself that if he can withstand this, he can withstand anything.
When they finally release him, they laugh when he does not immediately tear off his feminine underwear. He instead massages his strained arms and legs. When they laugh, he moves to undo the snaps on his panties, when he realizes how feminine this is. His hand lingers on his hip. Finally after a moment’s hesitation, he slides them down his legs and kicks them across the room. He fumbles with the brassiere for five minutes before he can unclasp it, slide it off his shoulders, and fling it away.
They then hand him a different panty and bra set. He puts it on himself since they’re going to force him anyway. They tie him up a bit more loosely this time. He is horrified by what he sees in the mirror. Every squirming movement of his hips only reinforces the feminizing effect of the panties. He cannot abide it. He must resist more! He squirms harder and harder. In the mirror he stares at a go-go dancer oozing sexuality. With every movement, his defiance grows stronger. Nothing can shake his manhood. If these panties are the epitome of femininity, they cannot break him. He squirms in defiant celebration.
When he awakens, his bonds have been released. He does not know how long he has been sleeping in women’s underwear, unbound. He feels humiliated and cheated, enough to slowly roll off his panties and snap off his bra.
Now they present him with a choice: a one-piece swimsuit, a string bikini, or black panty and bra set embroidered with red lace.
Even though the swimsuit is less revealing, it is still unmistakably feminine. It clings so tightly to his skin that he must squirm even harder to shake it loose. His restraints are loose enough now that he can touch the straps of his bathing suit and rub his thighs together.
The next time, he chooses the bikini. It’s a test of his determination. This time, the restraints are loose enough for him to squeeze his nipples as he withstands another onslaught of femininity.
The next time, restraints are not necessary. He dresses himself up in lingerie. There is no longer any pretense of maintaining manhood. Nothing is feminine enough. He is given access to an entire inventory of women’s clothes. He removes his body hair. Not feminine enough. He begins to take hormones. Can’t get feminine fast enough. He wears everything in the store to make himself more feminine.
Finally after only a week of feminization – all of it broadcast to his captured troops – he finds the little white sequined dress. He is the girl in my imagination. He goes out to his crucified men, and rubs his panties against their cocks. They think he’s a girl until he speaks. “You wouldn’t believe how good this feels,” he says between mouthfuls of cock. “I can’t believe I resisted this at all!”
Fiction: Caught on the Front of the Battle of the Sexes
So many fantasies tonight…
It all started with a picture in my head of Milla Jovovich half naked crouched down with a frilly black garter on her thigh. I have never seen such an image in my entire life, but I can imagine it. That’s what I want to look like right now. I’m imagining that I’m wearing that frilly black garter, and it’s the last straw: I can no longer pretend that I can go back to wearing men’s clothes ever again. My thigh is bald and totally effeminate now. I feel relieved about slipping into a little black dress, and going out as a woman in public for all to see, and being indistinguishable from any other hot young tart. Plus I look like Milla Jovovich. My transformation is complete.
Another thought: girl says, “What made you think no-one would know?” She has caught me and confronted me, caught me wearing black panties, a bra, and – you guessed it – a frilly black garter on one of my thighs. Or maybe she caught me rifling through her things, and is showing me what it’s like to wear them. And I’m going along because it makes me feel like Milla Jovovich.
Finally, it’s the fantasy of the worldwide battle of the sexes. I am the commander of the last bastion of masculinity on the front. Female civilization is destroying manhood. I have been instructed about the horrendous dangers of coming into contact with any feminine undergarment, unless it is being worn by a sexy female. It is perfectly ok to fuck girls, as long as you don’t get tricked into wearing their clothes. I have seen ultra-virile men turned into flaming transsexuals in a matter of weeks after they got cajoled into putting on a bra or some panties by a hunnie they just laid.
I get seduced by a girl who looks just like Milla Jovovich. I fuck her brains out one night – I fuck lots of girls here on the front. I don’t know if they’re all trying to seduce the fighting men to turn them into girls, or if they’re just horny and want dicks inside them. Anyway, I wake up alone in my barracks with a frilly black garter on my left thigh. I groan in disbelief, knowing that I am corrupted, and that I will soon become a flaming transsexual. I vow to fight it harder than any man ever fought.
I remember the worst case. Johnson came to my barracks in the middle of the night, bawling his eyes out. He said that he was sorry, and that he wasn’t a traitor, that he just wanted to fuck her. But he had somehow found himself in a moment of playful passion, in spite of his training, wearing the girl’s bra for a laugh. I told him to be strong, and to fight every instinct of girlhood he had. For the next four or five days, his spirits were pretty high. Just in case, we got him some whores and had him do the nastiest most degrading sex acts on them, as according to our training, it should get him back in the spirit of manhood. But he started to fade somehow. He began to look more and more nervous with each passing day. By the end of twelve days, he was quaking like a leaf. On day fourteen, he was seen running out of his quarters with a whore. She was buck naked. He was wearing her sleazy tarty lingerie and miniskirt and tight tube top and had his face all made up. They had him parading on the front lines prancing around like a total sissy the next morning. They made sure that we wouldn’t be able to get a decent shot at him to take him out.
Johnson was the worst case by far. He voluntarily put on that girl’s bra, and lasted a quarter of the time that most men with his affliction do. One guy held out for a year before he got caught masturbating in a one-piece women’s swimsuit. He was taken out of his tent and shot as he was. All reports confirm that he couldn’t possibly have gotten that swimsuit but the very same day, when he rode a cheap redheaded bitch like a bronco, and chased her off the camp naked. It was her swimsuit. He had been in remission for so long that we all figured he had long since recovered, and was simply taking advantage of the health benefits by fucking hookers every day. It turns out his diary was filled with anxiety and fear, as he fought tooth and nail with his fantasies of being the girls he fucked every day.
There are some survivors, but they’re not fit for the front. There is not one single case of any cure having worked for anyone who ever wore women’s clothes. I vowed to be the first.
As the commander of the last battalion of men on the front, I had to maintain my manhood at all costs. If I gave in, and if any of the men found out about my potential defeat, then all would be lost. I would have to keep it secret, even as I fight against whatever pernicious mind control had affected so many of my men.
I gripped the garter and just as I moved to tear it off, I hesitated. I would have to find a way to dispose of it completely. Burn it. Bury it. Swallow it. I could not keep it with my gear, because of the mandatory inspections that were meant to weed out any transvestitism among the troops. If I buried it, the upturned earth would be a dead giveaway. If I burnt it, the smoke and flames would surely attract suspicion. I could never swallow it without making myself horribly ill. So how would I dispose of it? I fingered the elastic on my thigh as I considered this.
Suddenly realizing what my hand was doing, I angrily slid it off my leg and flung it down onto the bed in front of me. I stared at it for a long time. I pondered how the lace and satin alone made it incredibly feminine, and how the bunched up satin made it look so frilly and delicate and girlish. How could something so unfathomably feminine gotten onto my muscular, macho, virile leg and not wither against my undeniable masculinity? I pictured it on my thigh again. I didn’t feel the least bit feminine. I was sure that I would survive it.
Then, my thoughts became clouded with a most insidious idea. My problem was that I had to dispose of the garter somehow, as its existence compromised my manhood in the eyes of my troops. If I was unaffected by it, I could hide it on myself, as no-one would ever check my own clothes; if I had been affected by it, I might as well wear it since I would be turning into a flaming faggot sissy eventually anyway. Either way, I had found a solution to my problem: I would wear the garter under my uniform. I liked the idea of putting it on again. I enjoyed the thrill of challenging my manhood.
Of course, that was bullshit, and I knew it. I found myself fantastically excited about the prospect of wearing the garter again. Worse, I was increasingly aroused about the prospect of my capitulation. I giggled at the thought that I could wear a frilly sexy girlish garter all day and no-one would be the wiser. I imagined how sexy it must feel for my leg to be bald, and wearing silk and lace panties and a brassiere to match under a little black cocktail dress. I thought about Johnson’s fourteen-day record, and how I, the most virile of men, would shatter it by 13 days, 23 hours, and 55 minutes.
I jolted myself back to my senses. I had to resist! I could not allow myself to cave in! I reached for the garter and was about to throw it into the fire when the alarm sounded warning of an attack. I got dressed as quickly as I could and rushed out of my quarters to engage the enemy.
We were hopelessly outnumbered, and we were caught totally by surprise. We fought hard for maybe 2 hours before we were overrun and captured.
I saw that all my men were led into semi-private areas where they were being seduced into wearing women’s underwear. They were all trained to resist to the death. I was led to a completely private dressing room filled with lingerie and sexy dresses and swimwear. Milla was there waiting for me.
She stripped off my uniform. “Did you honestly think that we wouldn’t know?” she asked, pointing at the garter on my left leg. I blushed.
“As you know, all our captives are shown the ways of women’s clothes. I’m going to leave you here by yourself for an hour. How you emerge will decide the fate of all masculinity the world over.”
She slunk out of the room, leaving me there alone.
I couldn’t resist my overpowering urge to try on some lingerie. I desperately needed to get some panties on. But then I got distracted by the bikinis. Knowing that I had only an hour, I flung off my panties and got myself into a gorgeous little string bikini, and pranced around for a few minutes in absolute bliss. Then I tried on some one-piece swimsuits just for the experience.
Suddenly I realized what I would be subjecting my men to. Either they were suffering the same glorious discovery as I was, or they were staunchly resisting with every ounce of manhood they had. If I emerged from here in an hour wearing any article of women’s clothing, I would thereby destroy everything I held dear. If I came out naked and proudly masculine, the men back home could take some of my courage and fight on. But I had an entire hour! I could do both! I could make myself as girlish as I could for 59 minutes, and strip down again just in time…
Of course, if all my men are being effeminated anyway, I might as well enjoy myself. Besides, why would I want the fight to continue? I couldn’t consider this a defeat in any way, as I was so overwhelmingly overjoyed to be turned into a girl.
When Milla knocked on the door, I found myself in a slinky black nylon dress, fishnet stockings, pumps, and a lacy little thong. I smiled lewdly at her as she took my hand to lead me out the door. I pulled her out of the way, and sashayed out the door like a supermodel, more confident in myself than ever before. The rustle of the dress against my hips was exquisite. I was completely effeminate. Every last one of my men still wore his uniform. They had all fully resisted.
I was the only one who gave in, and I gave in more than any man in the history of this conflict. I had betrayed my gender. They all looked at me with horror.
I laughed with great gusto at them. “I am a girl now! Fuck all you men!”
Demoralized, they all became playboy bunnies.
The girls had plans for me, though. I had been such a smashing success (I even started taking hormones that very day) that they figured I would be a perfect agent back in my homeland. They sent me back undercover as a man to bring them down from the inside. The only way I could agree to it was if I got to keep an article of women’s clothing on at all times. I couldn’t bear the thought of being away from my flowery dainty girlie things.
I wore a slinky little black garter under my clothes as I seduced the male government into total absolute submission.
It all started with a picture in my head of Milla Jovovich half naked crouched down with a frilly black garter on her thigh. I have never seen such an image in my entire life, but I can imagine it. That’s what I want to look like right now. I’m imagining that I’m wearing that frilly black garter, and it’s the last straw: I can no longer pretend that I can go back to wearing men’s clothes ever again. My thigh is bald and totally effeminate now. I feel relieved about slipping into a little black dress, and going out as a woman in public for all to see, and being indistinguishable from any other hot young tart. Plus I look like Milla Jovovich. My transformation is complete.
Another thought: girl says, “What made you think no-one would know?” She has caught me and confronted me, caught me wearing black panties, a bra, and – you guessed it – a frilly black garter on one of my thighs. Or maybe she caught me rifling through her things, and is showing me what it’s like to wear them. And I’m going along because it makes me feel like Milla Jovovich.
Finally, it’s the fantasy of the worldwide battle of the sexes. I am the commander of the last bastion of masculinity on the front. Female civilization is destroying manhood. I have been instructed about the horrendous dangers of coming into contact with any feminine undergarment, unless it is being worn by a sexy female. It is perfectly ok to fuck girls, as long as you don’t get tricked into wearing their clothes. I have seen ultra-virile men turned into flaming transsexuals in a matter of weeks after they got cajoled into putting on a bra or some panties by a hunnie they just laid.
I get seduced by a girl who looks just like Milla Jovovich. I fuck her brains out one night – I fuck lots of girls here on the front. I don’t know if they’re all trying to seduce the fighting men to turn them into girls, or if they’re just horny and want dicks inside them. Anyway, I wake up alone in my barracks with a frilly black garter on my left thigh. I groan in disbelief, knowing that I am corrupted, and that I will soon become a flaming transsexual. I vow to fight it harder than any man ever fought.
I remember the worst case. Johnson came to my barracks in the middle of the night, bawling his eyes out. He said that he was sorry, and that he wasn’t a traitor, that he just wanted to fuck her. But he had somehow found himself in a moment of playful passion, in spite of his training, wearing the girl’s bra for a laugh. I told him to be strong, and to fight every instinct of girlhood he had. For the next four or five days, his spirits were pretty high. Just in case, we got him some whores and had him do the nastiest most degrading sex acts on them, as according to our training, it should get him back in the spirit of manhood. But he started to fade somehow. He began to look more and more nervous with each passing day. By the end of twelve days, he was quaking like a leaf. On day fourteen, he was seen running out of his quarters with a whore. She was buck naked. He was wearing her sleazy tarty lingerie and miniskirt and tight tube top and had his face all made up. They had him parading on the front lines prancing around like a total sissy the next morning. They made sure that we wouldn’t be able to get a decent shot at him to take him out.
Johnson was the worst case by far. He voluntarily put on that girl’s bra, and lasted a quarter of the time that most men with his affliction do. One guy held out for a year before he got caught masturbating in a one-piece women’s swimsuit. He was taken out of his tent and shot as he was. All reports confirm that he couldn’t possibly have gotten that swimsuit but the very same day, when he rode a cheap redheaded bitch like a bronco, and chased her off the camp naked. It was her swimsuit. He had been in remission for so long that we all figured he had long since recovered, and was simply taking advantage of the health benefits by fucking hookers every day. It turns out his diary was filled with anxiety and fear, as he fought tooth and nail with his fantasies of being the girls he fucked every day.
There are some survivors, but they’re not fit for the front. There is not one single case of any cure having worked for anyone who ever wore women’s clothes. I vowed to be the first.
As the commander of the last battalion of men on the front, I had to maintain my manhood at all costs. If I gave in, and if any of the men found out about my potential defeat, then all would be lost. I would have to keep it secret, even as I fight against whatever pernicious mind control had affected so many of my men.
I gripped the garter and just as I moved to tear it off, I hesitated. I would have to find a way to dispose of it completely. Burn it. Bury it. Swallow it. I could not keep it with my gear, because of the mandatory inspections that were meant to weed out any transvestitism among the troops. If I buried it, the upturned earth would be a dead giveaway. If I burnt it, the smoke and flames would surely attract suspicion. I could never swallow it without making myself horribly ill. So how would I dispose of it? I fingered the elastic on my thigh as I considered this.
Suddenly realizing what my hand was doing, I angrily slid it off my leg and flung it down onto the bed in front of me. I stared at it for a long time. I pondered how the lace and satin alone made it incredibly feminine, and how the bunched up satin made it look so frilly and delicate and girlish. How could something so unfathomably feminine gotten onto my muscular, macho, virile leg and not wither against my undeniable masculinity? I pictured it on my thigh again. I didn’t feel the least bit feminine. I was sure that I would survive it.
Then, my thoughts became clouded with a most insidious idea. My problem was that I had to dispose of the garter somehow, as its existence compromised my manhood in the eyes of my troops. If I was unaffected by it, I could hide it on myself, as no-one would ever check my own clothes; if I had been affected by it, I might as well wear it since I would be turning into a flaming faggot sissy eventually anyway. Either way, I had found a solution to my problem: I would wear the garter under my uniform. I liked the idea of putting it on again. I enjoyed the thrill of challenging my manhood.
Of course, that was bullshit, and I knew it. I found myself fantastically excited about the prospect of wearing the garter again. Worse, I was increasingly aroused about the prospect of my capitulation. I giggled at the thought that I could wear a frilly sexy girlish garter all day and no-one would be the wiser. I imagined how sexy it must feel for my leg to be bald, and wearing silk and lace panties and a brassiere to match under a little black cocktail dress. I thought about Johnson’s fourteen-day record, and how I, the most virile of men, would shatter it by 13 days, 23 hours, and 55 minutes.
I jolted myself back to my senses. I had to resist! I could not allow myself to cave in! I reached for the garter and was about to throw it into the fire when the alarm sounded warning of an attack. I got dressed as quickly as I could and rushed out of my quarters to engage the enemy.
We were hopelessly outnumbered, and we were caught totally by surprise. We fought hard for maybe 2 hours before we were overrun and captured.
I saw that all my men were led into semi-private areas where they were being seduced into wearing women’s underwear. They were all trained to resist to the death. I was led to a completely private dressing room filled with lingerie and sexy dresses and swimwear. Milla was there waiting for me.
She stripped off my uniform. “Did you honestly think that we wouldn’t know?” she asked, pointing at the garter on my left leg. I blushed.
“As you know, all our captives are shown the ways of women’s clothes. I’m going to leave you here by yourself for an hour. How you emerge will decide the fate of all masculinity the world over.”
She slunk out of the room, leaving me there alone.
I couldn’t resist my overpowering urge to try on some lingerie. I desperately needed to get some panties on. But then I got distracted by the bikinis. Knowing that I had only an hour, I flung off my panties and got myself into a gorgeous little string bikini, and pranced around for a few minutes in absolute bliss. Then I tried on some one-piece swimsuits just for the experience.
Suddenly I realized what I would be subjecting my men to. Either they were suffering the same glorious discovery as I was, or they were staunchly resisting with every ounce of manhood they had. If I emerged from here in an hour wearing any article of women’s clothing, I would thereby destroy everything I held dear. If I came out naked and proudly masculine, the men back home could take some of my courage and fight on. But I had an entire hour! I could do both! I could make myself as girlish as I could for 59 minutes, and strip down again just in time…
Of course, if all my men are being effeminated anyway, I might as well enjoy myself. Besides, why would I want the fight to continue? I couldn’t consider this a defeat in any way, as I was so overwhelmingly overjoyed to be turned into a girl.
When Milla knocked on the door, I found myself in a slinky black nylon dress, fishnet stockings, pumps, and a lacy little thong. I smiled lewdly at her as she took my hand to lead me out the door. I pulled her out of the way, and sashayed out the door like a supermodel, more confident in myself than ever before. The rustle of the dress against my hips was exquisite. I was completely effeminate. Every last one of my men still wore his uniform. They had all fully resisted.
I was the only one who gave in, and I gave in more than any man in the history of this conflict. I had betrayed my gender. They all looked at me with horror.
I laughed with great gusto at them. “I am a girl now! Fuck all you men!”
Demoralized, they all became playboy bunnies.
The girls had plans for me, though. I had been such a smashing success (I even started taking hormones that very day) that they figured I would be a perfect agent back in my homeland. They sent me back undercover as a man to bring them down from the inside. The only way I could agree to it was if I got to keep an article of women’s clothing on at all times. I couldn’t bear the thought of being away from my flowery dainty girlie things.
I wore a slinky little black garter under my clothes as I seduced the male government into total absolute submission.
Fiction: Losing In Style
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.
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.
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