Fantasy: Litérature Vérité

The fantasy had taken hold, and wouldn't let go.  It was the usual scenarios, all mixed together.  I was refining the back story over and over again, getting more and more excited as I circled around the denouement, coming closer and closer each time, from different angles. 

I was captured by a bunch of evil girls who were forcing me to wear a bikini... or a one-piece swimsuit... or they had captured me long ago, and forced me to wear all kinds of other things, trying to feminize me, but I was resisting... Yes... but by now, I knew that I was close to my breaking point... No, I was well past my breaking point, and they had me right where they wanted: begging them to wear a one-piece bathing suit... Yes, I beg them, but they refuse... I've worn so much other stuff by now, over the course of my captivity, that I've even begun to turn girlish, but they never let me wear a bathing suit... Yes, and I absolutely must wear it, I'm obsessed with it... They know that I'm not ready for it, that it will utterly destroy what's left of my manhood, and they want to drag this on forever... Or maybe they know that it will set back my feminization, while I want desperately, but secretly, to accelerate it... yes, it's a trick: they want me to prove just how badly I want to be a girl, so they contrive to have me steal it...

My fantasy settles on the one-piece swimsuit.  I shake loose of my reverie just enough to consciously reach my secret spot, between my bed and the wall, for my stash of girlie things.  I rummage around, and pause after touching each item, trying to guess in the dark what I'm fondling, each time considering for a moment whether or not I'd rather wear that instead, and alter my fantasy accordingly.

Hmmm, my black bustier... lingerie is always fun, but I really can't get that image of Heidi Klum in her swimsuit out of my mind.  I want to feel like that... How about my pink string bikini?  That's pretty fun.  But not as fun, oddly enough, as my silver bikini... oh, how I love the bra on that one... but no, the fantasy is about a one-piece.  Yeah, that's right... I don't like these little cotton panties... ah, here it is!

I pull it out as quietly as possible, and put it down under the sheets beside me.  I strip out of my shorts, thinking for a moment of keeping my shirt on.  There's always something sexy about having girlie stuff on under my boy clothes, like it's an admission that I might look like a man on the outside, but on the inside, I'm utterly feminine.  But even stronger is the idea of abandoning all connection to male attire, and succumbing completely to women's.  I pull off my shirt, and remain naked for no longer than it takes to figure out where the front of my bathing suit is.  I'm such a sissy that I can expertly get dressed in women's underthings in the dark.  The suit slides into place, and I slip my arms into the straps.  I adjust the suit so that it sits right on my body.  I tweak my nipple briefly, fantasizing about the cups of my swimsuit being properly filled.  I let the mist of my imagination thicken back around me, and delve headlong back into my fantasy.

I'm still reworking the back story, although now I'm at the climax.  I'm wearing a one-piece suit, and it's outrageously feminine, and I'm resisting letting it overtake me too fast.  I'm on my stomach now, gently humping my balled-up shorts, savouring every long stroke.  As I fondle my hips and my waist, I imagine myself standing up, in my fantasy scenario, wearing a swimsuit, looking every bit as feminine as Heidi Klum, fondling myself exactly as I am in my bed.  The soft, tight, feminine fabric rubs and stretches on my enormous cock.  In my mind, my cock shrinks away to nothingness, as I fully and wilfully succumb to irresistible womanhood.  My captors catch me red-handed, and I show them how proud I am of defying them.  No, wait... the fantasy shifts again... I am not caught, but I am secretly far more effeminated than they know.  I am in a store full of women's swimwear and lingerie, and I strut around in my new body, scouting out what I'm going to wear next.  What could I possibly wear that could top this in feminine sexiness?  My mind drifts to lingerie, and I imagine myself selecting a nice pair of lacy bikini panties and a matching bra, trying them on...

My cock rubs vigorously against my balled-up shorts.  It's ecstasy.  I'm wearing a women's one-piece swimsuit, very high-cut and tight, and I become conscious that I'm already looking forward to wearing something even sexier.  I'm such a fucking sissy!  I love it!  This realization amplifies my pleasure tenfold.  I'm longing for sexy lingerie that I don't even possess!  My massive erect penis, awash in extraordinary pleasure, is somehow blotted out in my mind, replaced by a soft, fleshy cunt.  Flashes of fucking cross my mind, and I am the girl!  I rub harder and harder, treading dangerously close to the point of no return.  I don't want to come!  I want this to go on forever!  I imagine myself a slutty little bitch, fucking and sucking cock, and loving every second of it!  Every time I come close to coming, I slow down, break the rhythm just enough, and continue.

At last, I can no longer resist the lure of such massive pleasure, and I pass the point of no return.  I do this consciously, and my fantasy dissolves a bit as I prepare for the imminent mess.  The pleasure is phenomenal.  It takes my breath away.  My hand darts into the suit through one of the leg holes, and I cup it next to my dick's head, and pump a huge quantity of semen into it, to the point of overflowing.  My legs shake with the intensity of it.  The remaining mist of fantasy quickly disperses, and I find myself short of breath on my stomach, wearing a smelly blue girlie swimsuit, with a huge mess of giz in my hand, afraid to move for fear of spilling it all over my bedsheets.  I have to be careful as I roll onto my back, and keep the swimsuit from touching the goo on my belly.

I reach for the nearby box of kleenex with my left hand.  This is very tricky.  Over time, it's inevitable: a growing yellowish stain grows on the belly of my swimsuit.  I used to come right into it, heedless of the mess I made.  But now I realize that I need to be more discreet, and more respectful of these wonderful items of clothing.  They are like magical relics, which I must be careful to avoid defiling with my disgusting manhood.  They are pristine vessels of femininity.  Meanwhile, I carefully slide out of my swimsuit, after wiping as much away as I could from my right hand and belly.  At some point I have no choice but to allow the swimsuit to touch a bit of semen.  I clean the rest of the mess, put my shorts back on, and tuck the object of my sin back into its hiding place, a little bit ashamed and disgusted with myself, yet luxuriating in afterglow, the fantasy fulfilled as best as I can.

If I really spent some time developing my fantasy, I sometimes find myself fantasizing about how girlish and sissy I've been, and find myself doing it all over again, usually with some other article of clothing, only with not nearly as much pleasure.  Then I fall asleep exhausted.

Diary: Contemplating Coming Clean

Lately I've been fantasizing about ordering some swimwear, lingerie and shoes online and having it delivered in a plain FedEx box to my office.  I would then hide my new fetish items somewhere and indulge in them whenever my wife isn't around.

At times, I feel ridiculous about it.  Will I be able to hide it properly from her?  Will anyone notice where the packages are coming from when they arrive at the office?  How often will I even be able to use it?  Is it worth the risk?  Other times, I am overwhelmed with longing for self-feminization.  Last night, I masturbated in the dining room while browsing for such toys, imagining myself sneaking into the garage and slipping into that glorious silver one-piece swimsuit from Ujena, while T__ sleeps upstairs, none the wiser.  I felt shame when I ejaculated, but I was aroused all night. 

Even now, having made raucous love with her only an hour and a half ago, I gravitate here to ponder my secret feminization.  I have finally developped the setting for my story: the fictional world and characters that I've sought all my life just happen to be centered around my perversion.  I want to write about it, develop a web site around it, possibly make some money from it.  How can I possibly do this in secret?  I love my wife, but I have never had the guts to even hint at my secret desires.  How can we be complete together when she doesn't know this most essential truth about me?

Thus, I have inevitably begun to imagine what it would be like for her to know.  I would tell her somehow, break it to her gently, but unequivocably.  What follows, I can only imagine now.  I present a few scenarios, plausible or not, of how it might shake down.

Pessimistic

She's in denial at first.  Then I prove it to her somehow.  She's devastated.  She's horrified.  She cries for days, refuses to speak to me.  She tells everybody, and I'm publicly shamed and humiliated.  She files for an annulment.  Meanwhile, I continue to cavort in my stash of undies, but I lose my intimate companion, my wife.  Remember, I suffered such terrible despair before I met her.  It would be unbearable, if not for my pathetic outlet.

Optimistic

Denial, as always.  She understands immediately what I'm going through, and she's a bit surprised about it, but enthusiastic about sharing some clothes.  She wants us to shop for lingerie as soon as possible, and we immediately romp around in her lingerie.  It becomes a staple of our sex play.

Cautiously Optimistic

She hates the idea.  I have crushed her image of me as a masculine sexual powerhouse.  She's appalled that I've spent so much of my spare time over the years contemplating this sick delusion of mine.  She's livid that I've worn her clothes, and masturbated in them.  She weeps for days.  She hates me.  But she can't stay upset with me, because she loves me.  She forgives me, and learns to understand and support my fetish.  She adapts to it, and eventually finds it delightfully kinky.  She indulges me once in a while, but I have to do her some serious favours to earn the right to do it.  We work out a deal that when I buy her lingerie, I get some for me, too.

Realistic

She'll be devastated, there's no question.  But she'll come around.  She'll lose a lot of respect for me, and feel terribly betrayed that I never told her before we got married.  She won't understand that I still love her, and that I'm not gay.  She will insist that I stop, that I never do it again, and that I seek help to kick the habit.

I'm almost fantasizing about wearing that silver swimsuit in the bedroom with her.  She'd indulge me to the point of having me shave my body and prance around like a girl.  She'd do my makeup and we'd giggle like schoolgirls as we model lingerie.

Perhaps it's preposterous, but damn would it ever make my life easier.  I wouldn't have to hide (unless I indulge when she's not around), and I could keep my stash in plain view.  However, as I figured above, it's highly unlikely that she'd accept it.  Moreover, the more I sneak around, and the more careless I get, the more I risk getting caught.  Part of the reason I want my own stash is to avoid using her clothes, and therefore avoid damaging or soiling them.  Also, I get to choose whatever strikes my fancy, as long as I can order it inconspicuously.  The drawback, of course, is always the risk of her finding it, or worse, catching me in flagrante.  It's pretty well guaranteed to happen eventually.

In conclusion, I really must come clean, no matter what.  It's going to be extremely difficult, and most likely extremely painful, but it must be done, somehow.  At least by telling her, it wouldn't be so much of a shock, and it wouldn't be so heartbreaking.

Too bad it'll never happen.

What I need to do is lead her to it.  I've been thinking about really emphasising the lingerie for the next little while.  Then I can start admitting at the very least that I have a thing for ladies' underwear.  I can reinforce it slowly, and work up to how I have stolen some before.  I can gauge her reaction to know how far to go.  But I must not stop.  I have to continue until she knows all about it, and is sworn to secrecy.

Fiction: How I Turned Into a Girl

1. Started off as normal hetero bachelor.  No girlfriend.  Suspicious ex.
2. Start going to the gym because ex humiliated me about my body.
3. Notice a few little physical things (less body hair, softer build, sensitive nipples)
4. Fag fantasies
5. Begin to suspect that I’m slowly turning into a girl.  At this point I can still reverse the process, if I can figure out what’s causing it.
6. I put the pieces of the puzzle together bit by bit
7. I think about what I’m becoming.  In some ways I’m afraid, but in others I’m excited.  I buy a sports bra, ostensibly because I want to hold down my budding titties, but also because I know how cool it looks on girls and I want to look cool too.
8. I buy another bra, but this one’s frilly and lacy.   I can’t wear the same one every day, can I?  To avoid suspicion, I buy matching panties and pretend they’re for a girlfriend.
9. Meanwhile, I pretty well figure out what’s happening.  I do nothing to stop it.  I pretend that I want to stop it.
10. I embrace my new femininity.

I know it’s unbelievable, because nobody believes me.  I don’t even believe it.  The trouble is that it’s a fait accompli.  There’s no denying that it happened.  This is how I remember it.

I was a normal heterosexual male bachelor.  I wasn’t even very promiscuous.  I tended to have long-term relationships with women who eventually got sick of me and dumped me.  I would settle into long gaps between relationships when I would refuse to have anything to do with women.  I preferred to be alone.  I only started to notice changes several months after breaking up with A__.  We had been dating for about two and a half years. 

I was always very slim.  I never exercised much, so my physique wasn’t muscular.  Don’t get me wrong: I was still pretty masculine.  I still have broad shoulders, and big hands and feet.  I’m just saying that I was no muscleman.  In fact, that was one reason why A__ left me.  It stung me so much when she told me that, that I started working out half-heartedly to try to beef up, even though it was already over.  I didn’t want that to get in the way of a relationship ever again. 

Anyway, I preened myself in the mirror at this time, deluding myself into thinking that I would get big and muscular.  It seemed that my exercise had no effect.  In fact, I looked even softer than I had before I started.  It was very subtle.  The only area that seemed to be getting bigger was my pectorals, but they looked soft and roundish, not hard and square like they’re supposed to.  I was disappointed by this discovery, but resolved to work even harder to become buff.

At the gym, I kept my eye on the men for tips on what kinds of exercise I should be doing, how many sets, how many repetitions, and so on.  Mostly, I checked out the women, watching lecherously as their lithe bodies sweated and strained erotically beneath their form-fitting leotards.  At least, that’s the way it was at first.  I thought I was becoming envious of my male gym buddies.  Or maybe I thought I was becoming awed by them.  I became troublingly obsessed with their bodies.  Actually, it only became troubling when I started dreaming about them. 

Homoerotic dreams are quite commonplace.  However, I had never experienced them with as much frequency as I had lately.  I tried to convince myself that it was only temporary, that I was confused because of my recent break-up.  I tried to concentrate all of my erotic energy towards thoughts of women.  My memories of fucking A__ kept me straight, so to speak, even though they were sometimes painful.

Things gradually worsened.  I noticed that I needed to shave less often.  Even my body hair seemed more sparse.  And still, my body would not become muscular.  My pecs continued to grow slightly, almost imperceptibly.  But they were still soft and round.  They did not harden when I flexed.  I know because I squeezed each while I flexed to inspect them.  I could have sworn then that my nipples looked larger.  They were certainly more sensitive.

Soon, people at the gym began asking me why I shave my legs.  I had to try to persuade them that I never did, that I didn’t know what they were talking about.  And it was true.  My legs weren’t hairless, but they were pretty damned close.  And I hadn’t done anything to them!  Worse, I became self-conscious of my pecs.  I thought they looked ridiculous, and I didn’t want any of the men to laugh at me.  I blushed whenever I saw them.  Frighteningly, my dreams about them became more frequent still, and started catching myself fantasizing about them.  I imagined them sucking my sensitive nipples.

The more I looked at myself in the mirror, the more evident it became: I was growing tits!  And they were becoming more and more noticeable.  How could any girl ever find me attractive now?  I was devastated.  There was no way to escape the truth.  I was not hallucinating.  I was not dreaming.  I couldn’t understand what was happening to me.

Clearly, something strange was afoot.  First things first, though, I had to do something about my chest.  My budding breasts were beginning to bounce when I jogged.  I had to do something to keep them down, but without making it too obvious.  First, I tried taping them down, but it was getting wasteful.  Wearing a tight shirt made them stick out so much that they were actually accentuated.  They even turned me on, they looked so feminine (Yes, I still had some heterosexual urges at that point).  I had to wear loose shirts to the gym, and had to make sure that no one saw me bare-chested.  Even that brought me some pretty strange looks from both men and women.

I had to face the reality of my situation: I needed a bra.  I still clung stubbornly to my manhood.  I bought the plainest, least sexy sports bra I could find.  It wasn’t exactly manly, but at least it wasn’t frilly and lacy or flowery.  It was just plain black.  I was so embarrassed when I bought it.  The sales clerk asked me if I wanted the matching shorts.  I felt my face flush.  She knew I was buying it for myself.  I made a point of not changing at the gym anymore, even though I was so sweaty.  I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone seeing me wearing a bra.  And with my tits, it didn’t look like anything else.  I posed girlishly a few times, because my chest looked so sexy.  I must admit that even then I didn’t entirely dislike them. 

So why was I turning into a girl?  Physically and psychologically, I was getting more and more feminine.  I fantasized about men more than women.  I lost my body hair, had tits, and seemed to be getting softer all over.  I had to find a way to reverse the process while I still could.  How could I face my friends?  How could I ever pick up another girl?

I scoured my entire apartment for clues.  I found nothing out of the ordinary.  Then it occurred to me that my tap water tasted a little funny lately.  I checked the outside plumbing and found some kind of extra pipe on my water meter.  Was somebody pumping something into my water?  I vowed to keep watch over my water meter, to see if anyone ever tampered with it.

Meanwhile, I had to stop going to the gym.  My femininity was starting to show far too much.  I could barely even hide it under my work clothes.  I found myself leering at men.  I began to preen to the mirror as a woman.  I tucked my dick between my legs and pretended to be female.  I stopped shaving my face (or even needing to) and started shaving my legs and my armpits.  Finally, I caved in to the temptation and bought myself a prettier bra.  Then I realized that it would look much prettier with matching panties.  Pretty soon, my underwear drawer overflowed with lingerie.  I looked gorgeous in my new underwear.  It seemed to fit so much better, and highlight all my feminine parts.  At first this was a guilty pleasure, but it soon became routine.  Women’s underwear is so cool.  I began to look forward to coming home from work, so that I could fondle my sexy undies.

When I finally confronted the water meter man, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to give up being a girl.  I asked him meekly if he could look into it, and hoped that he wouldn’t so that I could continue my metamorphosis.

Fiction: The Truth

The TRUTH about crossdressing

Everybody knows that it's not cool for boys to wear women's clothes.  We learn this at a very early age.  When we are children, we don't understand gender at all, why or how boys and girls differ.  We learn that there is no mixing of the two, and we segregate ourselves by gender.  Boys play with boys, and girls play with girls.  Those who do otherwise are mistrusted.  They are automatically questionable.  And we're all perfectly happy with this: boys don't want to be girls, and girls don't want to be boys.  This is when we establish our sexual identity.

Now, when all of this is firmly engrained in our psyches, we come to accept some fundamental truths.  Primarily, boys are forbidden from doing anything that identifies them with women; and most importantly, boys do not under any circumstances wear girls' clothes.  We do permit the opposite, but only because something about femininity makes it unquestionable. 

This simple truth proves that femininity is dominant.  Masculinity, in spite of its emphasis on strength, size, and power, is hopelessly subordinate to its opposite.  A woman who wears pants is still a woman; a man who wears a dress is not much of a man.  Yet we pretend that men are dominant. 

The TRUTH is that any man voluntarily wearing any article of women's clothing becomes irreversibly feminized.  The degree to which this occurs is directly proportional to the degree of femininity of the article of clothing, and how close it is to the genitals.  Lingerie has much more effect than, say, pink sweat pants.  Everyone, especially men, innately knows this, but suspects that it isn't true.

Given that no self-respecting man would willingly sacrifice his sexual identity, how do men become transsexuals?

The answer is simple: men worship femininity; it is most natural to want to become that which one desires most.  Therefore, men think that they can experiment with wearing women's clothes, but only at their peril.  Those who dare are inevitably tainted.

I know this, because I have experienced it.

I discovered this by accident, as we all do.  I was in my late teens, and furiously obsessed with girls.  I masturbated all the time, fantasizing about their skin, their shape, their curves, their hair, their underwear.  But I was shy, and no girl would want to talk to me.  I contented myself with watching them from a distance, masturbating whenever I had a moment of privacy. 

I worked at a public swimming pool during the summer, specifically so I could ogle the girls in their fantastic tight form-fitting swimsuits.  It would have been unbearable if it weren't so fascinating.  Every now and then, some absent-minded hottie would forget her swimsuit in a locker, and we'd hold it in the lost and found until she returned to claim it.  Most of the time, they returned almost immediately, but every now and then something would remain forever.

I was so obsessed with femininity, and so curious about it, that I impulsively stole a one-piece swimsuit that had been in the lost and found box for the entire summer.  I was drawn to it because I remembered the girl who had worn it, and I couldn't get a vivid picture of her glorious body in it out of my mind.  I wanted desperately to touch it, because it had touched her.  For weeks I did not dare, but I found myself deliberately brushing my hands against it whenever anyone came to claim anything else.  Finally, I could no longer resist, and I furtively stuffed it into my bag when nobody was looking.  All I wanted was to feel it in my hands, and worship her body from afar.

This became a key to my masturbation.  I was in possession of something feminine, for the first time in my life, and it was completely at my mercy.  I felt weak in its presence.  It made me sweat and shake with nervousness.  It was like trying to talk with a girl, only it couldn't reject or ignore me.  I could fondle it whenever I wished.  Inevitably, that was very frequent; and every time I did, I also masturbated.

But unfortunately, there was far more to it.  It was so much more than a talisman of womanhood.  I knew that my worship was abnormal.  Why else was I so careful to avoid detection when I claimed it?  I hid it in my bedroom, rather than leave it out in the open.  I had a secret which I did not want to share with anyone.  Why?

I was afraid of the stigma of being a boy who owned a girl's swimsuit.  It had little to do with the fact that I had stolen it: it was more to do with an implicit betrayal of my gender.  Somehow, worshipping women in this way was unacceptable, and I knew it all along.  I should have been talking to girls, trying to seduce them, exploring their bodies in person.  Instead, I was fondling the things that they wear, and pretending that it was a worthwhile substitute.  But it goes even deeper than that.  My fascination with feminine things was evidence of a lack of manhood.  That's the true reason why I concealed my habit.  The guilt and shame I felt when I thought of my hidden treasure only made my desire stronger.

At first I had planned to only borrow it.  But soon after I took it home and jerked off with one hand as I fondled it with the other, I had already gotten it dirty with my effluvium.  I could never return it in that state, so I happily decided to keep it.  No-one would notice that it was missing, I rationalized.  I could do as I pleased with it, so long as no-one ever discovered my secret.  Having already defiled it, I succumbed to the fantasy I had been masturbating to: feeling that soft material, and what belongs within it, against my insatiable cock.  I wrapped my penis in it and rubbed myself very quickly to the most fantastic orgasm I had ever felt as I imagined rubbing against Her body, encased in this glorious piece of stretchy cloth. 

Thus rewarded, I repeated it time and time again, her delicious curves in my mind every time.  I knew that this wasn't even close to the real thing, and it frustrated me.  I was, as I said, well aware of the shamefulness of my actions.  As often as I succumbed to these bouts of self-abuse, I hated myself for being so shy, and for having such an incriminating possession as this.  I had no confidence that I could change my lot, so I continued.  In a way, I knew that if anyone discovered my secret, they would question my manhood.  What could I possibly be doing with a girl's bathing suit?  Worse, I found myself fantasizing about touching other articles of girls' clothes with my dick.  I desperately wanted to touch lace and silk and fishnet and leather.  I longed to compare the sensation of these things on my penis. 

Somehow, a seed began to grow in my head.  The swimsuit, hidden underneath my dresser, taunted me, questioned my manhood.  My awareness of it, combined with my utter lack of success with girls, constantly reminded me of how gay it was that I owned a girl's swimsuit.  Unfortunately, this only made me desire it more: it was my secret, and it gave me such pleasure, that I didn't even care if I were gay, as long as I had my swimsuit.  It's not like I wore it or anything.  All I did was rub my penis against it.

I began to worry as I rubbed it against myself that I was rubbing away my manhood every time my penis made contact with women's clothes.  The pleasure trumped any worry, and even fed off of it.  I began to stretch it over my crotch, in an attempt to get maximum coverage over my private parts.  It occurred to me then that this must be what it feels like to wear it.  The thought struck me as terribly dangerous, and I came all over myself, my bedsheets, and my girlie swimsuit.

I could no longer rationalize having it in my possession.  It was terrifyingly gay of me to own such a thing, and I knew it.  I kept thinking to myself that I might as well be wearing it.  The thought possessed me.  I was now fatally curious.  I tried to fight the impulse, for days.  Somehow, I became desperate to feel the swimsuit stretched not only over my crotch, but over my entire body. 

I knew what I would be risking.  As a child, I would have thought that it would immediately turn me into a girl, the moment I put it on.  That deep-seated certainty led me to be careful.  I balked several times, and settled for mere rubbing.  I reasoned that by inverting it, at least I would still be touching the outside, which I would be doing anyway if I were humping a girl.  I also thought that by keeping on my own underwear, I would be protecting myself from any adverse affects of wearing it.  At least I would still feel the spandex on my torso.

When I slid it on, inverted, over my gitch, I had to stop before I could get the shoulder straps in place.  I was so shocked by the softness and tightness of it on my body that I knew that I had already given up any pretense at manhood.  Even without the shoulder straps, I was already wearing a woman's swimsuit!  I could no longer pretend that my secret was an innocent stage of boyhood, or showing curiosity in feminine things -- a normal impulse for a man who is interested in women.  No, I was now guilty of performing acts of femininity.  I had already gone too far.  My hands shook as I pulled it off again, without having so much as touched myself.

I nearly wept with shame.  Simultaneously, I shook with anticipation.  An intense feeling of warmth and slitheriness came over me.  I had an intense desire to move my hips in a feminine way.  I had worn a girl's bathing suit!  I was a transvestite!  There was no turning back!  I might as well go ahead now anyway.  I picked it up again, and de-inverted it.  I slid off my gitch, and pulled it onto my naked body.  My hips gyrated as it stretched over my crotch.  I did not hesitate to put my arms through the shoulder straps and pull it all into place.

Immediately, my mind was flooded with images of beautiful girls, including the previous owner of my swimsuit.  I was like them, now!  If the myths of my childhood were true, I would become female within a few minutes.  The idea filled me with such unfathomable horniness that I nearly came.  I felt the spandex on my waist, and the elastic of the leg holes, so much higher than anything I had ever imagined.  Nobody would ever have to know about my secret!  I wear girls' swimwear!  And I absolutely LOVE it!

I didn't even want to touch my penis, because I knew that I would come almost immediately, and end this phenomenal pleasure.  My mind wandered to fantasies of wearing a bikini, or even lingerie.  How gay would that be?  How unbelievably sexy would that be?  I wanted my swimsuit to be even more feminine than it already was.  Now that I knew what femininity was like, I didn't much care for my manhood anymore.  I was now a certifiable transvestite sissy, and there was nothing that I could -- or would even want to -- do about it.

As I frolicked in my girlie swimsuit, and wished most intensely to lose my penis altogether in favour of a nice soft unobtrusive pussy, I understood the truth most vividly: what I knew as a child about boys wearing girls' clothes might not be true in a physical sense, but is certainly true psychologically.  I was now a girl in spirit, if not in body, and I would always be tainted with this experience.

Imagine my embarassment when, the very day after my wonderful epiphany, the true owner of my swimsuit returned, asking if anyone had seen her swimsuit, which she last wore two months before at this very swimming pool.  My co-worker (a girl) poked around the box for it, convinced that she had indeed seen it in the lost and found box.  I was mortified.  The girl was even prettier than before.  I was so gay that I had stolen this girl's bathing suit, and worn it.  She looked at me funny when she saw me blush.  Somehow, she knew.

I am wearing my Speedo

It's certainly much too small and tight, but the sensation is excruciatingly sexy. I have it stretched as much as it can, and it's cutting into my crotch a bit, but the leg cut goes above my hips. When I walk in it, it forces me to swing my hips girlishly because of the way it moves on my body. I'm tempted to run around town wearing it under my boy clothes, just to enjoy the sensation of it. I want to go for a swim in it.

I sure wish I looked more feminine.

Anticipation

Yesterday evening, I found myself with a bit of spare time and some freedom. On an impulse, I decided that this would be the time to buy the damn swimsuit already.

I had just eaten dinner with my fiancee. She was off to do some homework, and I had an appointment an hour later. The moment we parted ways, I knew that I had a golden opportunity to execute my plan.

I had already scouted the wares of a sporting goods store near my home. I had images of a black and red racing swimsuit, and I was excited about it. I had a twenty minute drive, and lots of time to ponder my coming adventure. I twitched with nervousness. My stomach bubbled and churned. All the same, I was determined to fulfill my twisted little fantasy.

I strode purposefully, my legs shaking, through the mall and into the store. As I walked in, a hot, shapely young store clerk walked in front of me, crouched down, and folded some clothes, exposing the upper part of her butt crack. I wandered around the men's clothing section, pretending to be interested in a shirt. I considered leaving, but I took a closer look at the women's swimwear section, and boldly headed in that direction. I slowly walked past it and into another display of discount men's t-shirts, no more than ten feet away from what I was really interested in.

The store was virtually empty. There were a couple of teenagers looking at baseball equipment, but quite far from my position. I snuck furtive glances at the object of my desire. Slowly, I made my way towards them, pretending that I wasn't interested. Finally, I dropped my pretenses, and started pawing at the swimsuits.

At first, I felt like an idiot standing there, fondling women's swimwear. But nobody was near, and I decided that I didn't care anymore. I took my time. I had no idea which size to take. I inspected a fiery red one, but rejected it for fear of drawing too much attention. The black and red I thought I had seen did not exist. There was a red and navy, but I didn't care for it. I needed black, primarily, and there were plenty of those. Finally, I settled on a black Speedo, size 6, fearing that it would be a bit too large. I folded it in my hand, trying to cover up my shameful purpose, and made my way to the cashier's counter.

I asked the girl at the counter a question about their return policy. It was the perfect cover. She gave no indication of finding it strange. I paid for it and walked out, less nervous but sick with anticipation.

I had little time to examine my purchase, much less try it on. I stuffed the shopping bag into the bag I was taking to my appointment, for fear that my finacee would find it if I left it behind. I anticipated that I would have time to play when I returned, imagining that my fiancee would not be coming over.

When I arrived, I shook with eagerness. Still, I had to resist. I had no idea whether or not she was coming. I started developing my fantasy. An hour into it, she suddenly walked through the door. I was shocked, and thanked my stars that I hadn't exposed my secret. Moments later, I fucked her in the bedroom, and we went to sleep. I had trouble keeping it up, because I was so much more interested in my secret stash.

All day today, I dreamed about the tiny amount of time I could have with my precious swimsuit. I was feeling somewhat disappointed that it wasn't the black and red I had originally imagined. I felt ridiculous for risking my relationship with my fiancee for a piece of clothing, a sex toy. Still, I couldn't help but reminisce on all the lovely things I had worn in the past, and how often. I looked forward to trying it on.

I had dinner with my fiancee again, but it was very difficult to free myself of her. When I finally succeeded, I rushed home, aching to complete my adventure. I tried it practically the moment I walked through the door. It was incredibly tight, especially around the waist. Somehow I managed to squeeze into it. I luxuriated in it for a few moments before struggling out of it again, afraid of being caught. I would have to be careful. I hid it in a secret place, and started writing this.

Unfortunately, I'm not very horny right now. I don't know why. Now that I have my swimsuit, I'm not particularly keen on it. I want another one.

I would love nothing more at this moment to repeat the exhilaration I felt browsing for women's bathing suits. I want to take more time, try a few on, find the right colour. It was fantastically exciting to do something so plainly perverted. I would rather have a slightly larger swimsuit.

Really, I just want more. I'll wear it again when I have some time to really concentrate on it. It should be fairly soon. Or maybe I'll play with some panties, or the bikini, which I have had access to all along, and come to it later. The beauty of it is that I have my own swimsuit now, and I can wear it whenever it's convenient.

Maybe I'll buy more, just for the thrill of it.

The Trouble With Having a Secret Identity

I've been obsessing about one-piece swimsuits for the last few weeks. I get like this when I don't have access to something I want to wear. I can't get it out of my mind, and it dominates my fantasies. Somehow, I always come back to this. I have a bikini dangling in the closet, just begging to be worn, but I'm not interested. I'm sick of it, having worn it no less than a couple dozen times. I'll wear it again, but I want something different now.

Like all feminine clothing, I want to wear it because it accentuates women's shapes. I want to morph into that shape myself. I want to feel what it's like to be female, inside that stretchy, soft fabric. I sweat just thinking about it. My fantasies take off like a rocket: fast, and straight up into the heavens, without a thought about practicality.

The main problem is that I don't have any access to a one-piece swimsuit. My fiancee doesn't have one (although she does have five bikinis, all of which I've secretly worn) so I'm unable to indulge. I'm formulating a plan to buy one, but it's not at all easy for me to do it. I can't allow anyone to know what I like to wear. I know that it's not all that big a deal, but I'm incredibly shy about buying my own girlie outfits. I've done it so many times by now, that you'd think I'd have no problem doing it. Only twice has anyone ever given me any kind of indication that they suspected what I was up to -- a terribly disheartening experience -- and one of those incidents occurred when I bought one of the many one-piece swimsuits I've owned (the other was about a bikini). Oddly enough, it's ok for men to buy lingerie for their lady friends, but not swimwear. Therefore, it's harder to explain. Nonetheless, I have bought as many as three swimsuits at one time for myself, and the clerk was completely convinced that I was buying them for a woman.

There's simply no way to escape questioning glares from clerks and other customers. I can spend many minutes circling the women's swimwear section of a store until I can summon up the courage to enter it. By then, I've already aroused suspicion from store employees wondering what I'm doing. Then there's the long, painful moments while I walk around the racks, looking for whatever it is I'm fantasizing about, not touching anything. Finally, if I've managed to get even that far, I'll start picking things out of the rack, my mouth dry like a towel, my face burning with embarassment. I'll look at colours, styles, prices, and will have a very difficult time deciding which one I like best; even more difficult is making the decision to pick it up off the rack, walk to the cashier's counter, and buy it. More often than not, I'll be standing in line with a bathing suit in my hands, obvious to anyone within fifty feet of me. Even if I buy something masculine to cover it up, it always shows. Finally, since there's no turning back once I'm in line, I'll reach the counter, where the cashier will confront me. Usually, there's no trouble. But sometimes, I'll get a dirty look, or a blush and a giggle. All that remains from there is the trip to the car with the swimsuit in a hopefully opaque bag.

Today I wandered around a sporting goods store, and didn't have the balls to browse the swimsuits. I made note of the section's location when I walked in, took the most roundabout route to get there, and just pretended that I wasn't interested. I did, however, notice that all of them were shaped just perfectly, with the racer back that I so desperately want. A black and red one even caught my eye, but I just walked right past it. I don't even know the price.

I could be wearing a sleek black and red racerback one-piece girlie swimsuit right now. But I'm not, because I'm a coward, and I'm ashamed of my secret fetish.

Eventually, my desire will be so overpowering that it will conquer my fear, and I'll have my precious swimsuit.

A Strange Dream

The other night I had a strange dream. I entered a bedroom at a house party, and on the bed was what I first thought to be a thin woman with a long manly nose, wearing a black teddy, and barely containing her ample, alabaster breasts. Then somehow, I recognized her to be myself. I asked her if she liked being female, and she answered softly, 'Yes.' I pressed her to confirm, because I knew that she used to be a man. 'I love it!' she answered, purring like a big cat. I then proceeded to make out with her.

I'm not sure that she was really me, but I felt like I was controlling her like a puppet. The words she spoke were mine. The thoughts and ideas behind them were mine. These thoughts were much more complex than the words might imply. They paused on how my Mistress would feel if I said anything but yes, and added that I loved it not only to please her, but because I realized that it was true. That's when I started necking.

Then the dream dissolved, and I don't remember anything else.

I think that while I fucked my fiancee that night, I imagined sucking cock.

Bathing Suits

There's something particularly sexy and feminine about women's swimwear. I could never quite put my finger on it. Lingerie is wonderful and sexy, too, but somehow, it doesn't make me quiver with desire like a nice bathing suit.

When I was a bachelor, I used to have no fewer than 5 bathing suits. I had a blue one-piece, which I wore more often than anything else, a red one-piece which was quite a bit too small, a hot pink string bikini, a silver bikini meant for serious swimmers, complete with a full bra, and a white thong bikini with lacy trim that covered practically nothing. I had lots of other stuff, too, including panties, a corset, stockings, garter belts, and a patent leather mini-dress. I wore all of it extensively, if privately, but especially the blue bathing suit.

There was nothing special about it. For some reason, I always went back to it. I don't think it necessarily made me feel more feminine than, say, the outfit I wore with the mini-dress (usually my black corset, black satin panties, garter belt, and fishnet stockings), but it was much more simple. It was a single item of girlie goodness that I could slip into and instantly feel like I was betraying my gender. The other stuff always made me feel like I needed to put on more: panties alone were never enough without a bra, and the garter belt would always get messy when my feminine fantasies became too much to bear. The one-piece bathing suit was excruciatingly, unmistakably female with very little effort.

Sadly, I had to dispose of all of it when my girlfriend moved in. I certainly didn't want her to find it. Now I secretly wear her stuff, but unfortunately, she has only two-piece bathing suits. Granted, when we met she only had two, and now she has five, but I desperately miss wearing a one-piece. There's something amazing about that soft, tight fabric, stretched over my waist, shaping me like a girl. Someday, I will have another.

Getting in the mood

It seems that every time I'm alone at home, I can't help but get excited. My first impulse is to rummage through my girlfriend's dainties for something sexy to wear. If I know I have lots of time, I'll fantasize about it for hours, usually by writing dirty stories. You've probably guessed already that she's gone now. I think I'm going to wear her bikini again. I swear that I've worn it much more often than she has!

Hello, world.

Welcome to casualtranny. Just remember, all of this is a big secret. I would never admit publicly to anything I'm going to say here. This is a testbed for some kinky ideas I have always had. This is the painful first post.

Enjoy!

Fantasy: Contrived Innocence

(A contrived situation where I somehow find myself innocently in women's underwear)

So here I am, wearing this one-piece women's swimsuit.  It's not even remotely masculine.  It can't in any way be mistaken for anything but a woman's swimsuit.  The shape, first of all, is meant to accentuate hips, butt, and tits.  The leg is so high-cut it's almost to my waist.  My cock and balls are squashed snugly by the crotch, which is meant to contain nothing at all.  The lycra is soft.  It's got wires where my boobs should be, for support.  And the colour doesn't help me much, either: it's primarily pink, with little flowers.

The first time was innocuous enough.  I didn't know the speedos I had on were actually a female bikini bottom.  I should have known from the lack of drawstring, and the way it hung off my hips, and seemed so high-cut.  Otherwise, it was just simple navy blue.  I hammed it up when I was told.  I pretended that I wasn't mortally humiliated about being out in public wearing nothing but a woman's bikini bottom.  I pretended that my manhood wasn't permanently and irrevocably destroyed.  I don't think that I knew, however, how much I loved the idea.

I guess the fact that I didn't immediately change out of it didn't help.  I tried to keep my composure.  Not that it would have mattered, though.  The seed was planted.  I wondered immediately how it would feel to wear the matching top.  The thought put a weird itch in my cock.  I felt like I was the centre of attention, and I liked it.  Above all, I loved the way the bikini panties felt on my body.  Maybe keeping it on had less to do with keeping composure than with girlish pleasure.

When we got home from the beach, me still in my bikini panties, I thought about how it would feel to slip into some silk panties after my shower.  With lace trim.  And a bustier.  Stockings.  3-inch heels.  I wanted more.

So now as I prance around in this floral swimsuit, at the beach once more, gushing with pride as I explain how wonderfully erotic it is to be feminine, envying all the pretty girls for their sexy outfits, I can't help but think: damn it, this swimsuit, in spite of its feminine cut, girlish colours, and luxurious softness, isn't anywhere near feminine enough!

At first I denied it, but it only made me want it even more.  It started that first day, when they asked me if I was going to make a habit of wearing bikini bottoms.  I vigourously denied it, but the thought aroused me.  By the time I heard the 20^th joke about my mistake, I angrily defended myself, while at the same time inwardly swearing to never wear anything masculine again.  I practically pictured it fitting me the way it was meant to, if you get my drift.

Naturally, I tried to return the faulty panties to the store, but they informed me that they don't accept returns of bathing suits that have been worn.  I begged them to let me exchange it, but they refused.  I ended up buying the matching top, and a one-piece that I tried to exchange it for.  I couldn't wait to get out of my boy briefs!

It didn't take more than a couple of days to get used to walking in heels.  Finding my size was a hassle, but it was worth it.  I couldn't be feminine enough.

Now I tell people, in between mouthfuls of cock, that I fantasize about having my own pussy.

Fantasy: Tricked

To be tricked...

There's something to be said about the idea of being tricked into wearing something feminine, and immediately becoming ultra-obsessed with becoming a super-sexy ultra-feminine girl.

I want to beg for a scrap of feminine attire.  I want it so bad.  I want it to transform me.  I want to utterly forsake my manhood, and become all soft and curvy.

I slip into the bathing suit, feminine as it is.  She giggles.  By the time I've strapped myself into it, I know that something's gone horribly wrong.  It feels like nothing I've ever worn before.  It's soft, and tight all over my crotch and hips and especially my waist.  It's incredibly high-cut, compared to anything I've ever worn.  It's snug around my chest, and the straps on my shoulders keep me snugly inside it.  It clings to my body.  Much to my surprise, it actually feels feminine.  I am picturing her in this very swimsuit, and getting very excited.  I am extraordinarily aroused.  It suddenly occurs to me that what I'm doing is incredibly gay.  As if on cue, she comes to me, and presses her gorgeous panty-clad body against me.  She slaps my ass.

Some inhumanly powerful urge comes over me.  I want to rub my penis all over her.  But at the same time, I don't want it there at all.  I want her to fondle my nipples.  I giggle like she did earlier.  I'm rubbing my crotch over the bathing suit, and squirming around like she does when I finger her.  I want to wear her lingerie.  I want to wear her fuck-me boots.  I am ecstatic with feminine pleasure.

She asks me if I want to be a girl, and to my shock and horror, I answer affirmatively.  And I mean it.  My shock is mainly from the surprising realization that I love the idea.  In a split second, I fantasize about wearing bikinis, panties, bras, stockings, nightgowns, mini-skirts, and all sorts of glorious shoes, all of which aren't nearly feminine enough.  She lets me try on some stockings, even though they clearly don't match my swimwear.  She offers me a corset and a thong, and I take them reluctantly, unwilling to remove this glorious bathing suit.  But I give in, suspecting that this new outfit will be even sexier.

By the end of the night, I've impulsively thrown all of my masculine attire in a garbage bag, and ostentatiously walked it out to the curb, in full view of my neighbours.  I have promised her that from this moment forward, I will wear nothing but the skankiest clothes imaginable, and strive to become as feminine as possible.  She has me ritually forsake my penis, and all manhood, forever.  I moan the words emphatically.  I fall asleep in a silk nightgown, and dream of sucking cock.

When I wake up, I regret what I've done.  I feel ridiculous in my feminine outfit.  I have nothing to change into.  I lament how incredibly gay I've been, and suddenly become aware again of how much I loved it.  Soon I find myself trying on boots again. 

Fiction: Photo Shoot

The fantasy is the same as always.  Different articles of women's clothing make me succumb to become ultra-feminine.  I become a cheerleader for the LA Clippers.  I am coerced into competing to become feminine.  I single-handedly betray my entire gender when I chose femininity over masculinity. 

For whatever reason, I find myself in the position of having to choose, and I can't help but choose womanhood.

No, here it is:

I'm walking around in public, minding my own business.  Some guy comes up to me and asks me if I'm there for the photo shoot.  "Photo shoot?" I ask.

"Yeah, aren't you one of the models?"

"Um, no..."

"Oh, I'm sorry.  I thought you were here for the shoot.  We've been waiting 40 minutes for our guy to show up, and so far no sign of him.  Say, would you want to try it out yourself?  We'll make you a big star!"

"No, thanks."

"Seriously, you're even better looking than the guy we actually were gonna pay to do this."

"Whatever, pal.  See ya."

"Come on!  We'll give you his money!  All you have to do is pose!"

"How much money?"

"Five grand."

"Guaranteed?  No strings attached?"

"No way!  We don't just pick up anybody off the street.  Come on, we're desperate, we're late, and we just want to get this done already.  Are you in or not?"

"Wait a minute.  You promise there won't be any bullshit?  I want half the money up front, or I walk.  You're just some salesman trying to trick me into some bullshit that I'll end up having to pay for."

"Fine," he says, counting twenty-five hundred dollar bills in front of me, and putting them in my hand.  "Now just go stand over there, and Tracy will take care of you."

Dumfounded, I do as he says.

Tracy sends me down the hall.  But I spot a ridiculously sexy woman in lingerie up ahead.  I figure, what the hey, even if it's not where I'm supposed to be, I've already got $2500.  All I want to do is look.  I'll just pretend that I'm there for the shoot.

She looks so hot in her stockings and bustier and undies.  She even has a feather boa.  Inside are a whole bunch of other scantily clad ladies.  I stand there for a full minute staring at all the pussy lounging around in that room.  A photographer has one girl on a bed, striking bawdy poses.  It takes a while to register that some guy with a clipboard is trying to get my attention.  "Hey, buddy, if you're not part of the shoot, then get the hell outta here!" he says.

"Um," I stammer, "I am part of the shoot."  I hand him a slip of paper that I got from Tracy, who sent me in this general direction in the first place.

He glances at it for a while, and sizes me up.  "Ok, sweetie, then you'd better get into costume quick."  With that, he shuffles me to a dressing room.  Inside are Betty and Monica, who are middle-aged but trying hard to be pretty.  Betty wears a thick black apron, and Monica has a blow dryer in one hand, and a measuring tape around her neck. 

"Come in, come in, sit!" beckons Monica.  So I come in and sit.

"It's truly amazing," says Betty.  "You'd never suspect some of these guys, would you.  Honey, we'll make you a superstar."  They immediately go to work on me.

It doesn't take long for me to realize that they're trying to apply makeup.  I try to stop them.

Monica scolds me.  "Listen, honey, just because you're getting paid $50 grand to show off your girlie side doesn't mean you get to treat me like a peon.  Just tell me what you want me to do, but don't give me this bitchy attitude, ok?"

"Fifty grand?!?"

"Oooh, sorry if it's more.  I didn't realize the caliber of superstar we're dealing with here."

I look at the slip of paper.  I am shocked to discover that it is, in fact, a contract for fifty thousand dollars.  As well as for five.  It appears that I have indeed infiltrated the wrong photo shoot.  There are two items on the schedule.  The first offers five thousand dollars for a standard men's magazine aftershave feature.  The second offers fifty thousand dollars for transvestites for an adult website. 

I am faced with a rather interesting dilemma.  Do I flaunt my boyish good looks, and increase my chances to score with ladies when I tell them I am a model, and pocket a month's worth of pay?  Or do I abandon my manhood for just a brief moment and take home a whole year's worth?  Not much of a dilemma, really.

Nobody will ever know about it, except the people here.

"You know," I say, "I'm a little unprepared.  I'm sorry, I haven't done this in a while.  I don't even know where to begin.  Why don't you two girls just go to town on me, and hopefully I'll turn out ok?"

They grumble, but they start to work.

First, they demand that I strip down.  They shake their heads and tsk-tsk at me.  Before I know it, I'm covered in depilatory cream.  They rinse it all off after the requisite amount of time has passed.  My body hair and facial hair are gone, without a trace.  My body feels chilly from the lack of insulation.  I am suddenly ridiculously smooth and sleek.  I'm beginning to wonder if this is such a wise decision.  But then I remember the payoff.

"Why don't you choose your outfit?" asks Betty.  "You fellas are usually pretty picky about this kinda thing."

I am surrounded by racks upon rack of lingerie.  I don't even know what to choose.  I am aroused at the sheer femininity around me, but too nervous for it to show.  I hesitate around a poofy lacy white bra.  I even hold its hanger in my hand for a minute.  "Hurry up, we ain't got all day," admonishes Monica.  That's when I notice that it's actually a bustier, with straps for stockings, and a matching full-cut boyshort type panty that's so lacy it's an insult to call it boycut.  Before I know it, they're helping me into it.  The bustier is acts as a corset, so it's difficult for me to strap myself in.  Betty hands me a package of white nylon stockings.  I put them on clumsily, and marvel at the sensation on my legs.  Betty hands me some white heels, which I slip onto my feet daintily, in spite of myself. 

I look into the mirror, and find myself shockingly sexy.  When I tuck my cock between my legs, I look positively female, from the neck down.

Betty sits me down in the chair and starts working on my face.  Monica starts working on a blonde wig on the sidelines.  In the end I look like a juicy little whore with far too much makeup.  I can't believe what a great job they did making me look like a woman.  I'm actually sexy!

"My, aren't we the little princess!" says Monica.  I'm not sure whether she was mocking me or not.  There was a tone of respect in her voice.  "Now go out there and knock 'em dead!"  She places a sheer robe over my shoulders and pushes me out the door.

The guy with the clipboard ushers me to a bevy of women such as those I had previously observed.  "You're number 19.  Just stay here and wait your turn."  Of course, upon closer inspection, I can see that these women are actually men in drag.  I'm not sure whether to whistle or cringe.  Two of the five look at me jealously.  The others are much too happy in their outfits to be anything but welcoming.

I can't help but look at myself, and admire what I'm wearing.  This is the kind of outfit that I've only ever dreamed of having one of my girlfriends wear.  And here I am, decked out in it like a strumpet, looking every bit as sexy as any girl I ever dated.  I can't help but rub my thighs together when I walk, for the sheer pleasure of the sensation.  I'm very nervous.  I never thought I'd allow myself to be caught dead wearing women's underwear.  The idea always seemed so revolting to me.  But in the end, it's not so bad, especially since I'm getting fifty G's out of it.

I can feel all kinds of eyes on me.  The other "ladies" are talking amongst each other about their favourite outfits and so on.  I have nothing to offer.  They're such flamers.  Their every gesture is so unerringly feminine.  I feel out of my depth.  I keep my distance, hoping that none of them will come on to me.  I concentrate on thinking of what I will do with the money I'm making.  Even though I'm standing around in women's lingerie with a bunch of flaming transvestites, and at least a dozen others, too.

I get to watch all of the other "girls" pose.  A few others show up behind me.  They're disturbingly awkward as they camp it up, trying to be girlish.  The photographer acts like it's a real photo shoot, with real hot girl models.  At least I get some ideas for what I'm supposed to do when it's my turn.  I hope they can't tell that I'm just a straight guy doing this for the money.

Finally, it's my turn.  I stumble onto the platform, since I've never walked in heels before.  I'm horribly embarrassed.  Everyone is looking at me!  And I'm dressed like a girl!  I'm standing there, immobile, petrified. 

"Come on, baby," cajoles the photographer.  "Don't be shy.  Just be yourself, feel natural!  Show me what a sexy little tramp you are!"

He starts snapping photos.  "Yeah, I get it.  You're the shy little debutante, aren't you?  Yeah, that's it baby!  I like it!  Yeah, be coy, look away from me like you're afraid of me!  Yeah, that's working, baby!"

I notice that I'm not even looking at the camera, and I'm shyly covering up my shameful outfit.  I'm crossing my legs, and feeling the stockings on my thighs.  Everywhere I touch, there's silk or lace.  Oh my God, what have I done!  Is this worth fifty thousand dollars?

"Yeah, baby!  Touch yourself some more!  That's what I want to see!"

I'm gently moving my hands over my hips, over the gentle elastic of the lace.  I've never felt anything like it.  I'm picturing Vanessa's body in my mind.  I'm touching all of her best parts, like her waist, her hips, her flanks, her boobs, her butt.  I'm shaking my hips to the beat of the music. 

"Oh yeah!  That's it!  Get into it now!"

I'm dancing around a bit now, barely moving my feet, but rubbing my silky legs together.  I'm feeling it now.  I can't stop it.  I'm moving my body delicately, pretending I'm Vanessa, doing the little striptease I've always wished she'd do for me.  I'm luxuriating in this fancy lingerie.  I feel dirty.  This is so wrong!  Not only am I dressed like a girl, never mind a skank, and not only am I being photographed, but I am actually enjoying it!  To think that I'm getting a small fortune for it to boot!

Finally, the photographer puts a stop to it, having used up a roll on me.  Some other clipboard guy ushers me off the stage, and directs me to Jen, who stands by a table, handing out cheques.  I stride over to her confidently, and put out my hand.  It is with great disappointment that I notice a zero missing from the sum.

"Five thousand?  I thought I was supposed to get fifty!" I squeal.

"Well then, you shoulda gone to the aftershave shoot like you were supposed to!"

"What the Hell!  It says on the schedule that transvestites get fifty!"

She shows me the little checkbox on the contract that shows that I signed on for five thousand dollars.  "It's in your contract, sweetie.  Better luck next time."

She turns around, and I'm about to shout back some witty retort, when I realize that I'm standing around, arguing with a woman while wearing sexy lingerie and a wig. 

Mortified, I skitter back to my dressing room, clopping along in my pretty white heels, almost in tears.  I whip out of my clothes as fast as I can, ashamed that I'd been tricked into compromising my manhood for a mere five thousand dollars.  I want to rid myself of every trace of my error.  Only I struggle to get out of the corset, and Betty and Monica have to stop working on some other, more seasoned trannie to help me.

Even after I put on my pants, I don't feel quite right without my body hair.  It looks like It'll be a while until I can forget all about this. 

I'm about to storm out the door when Betty hands me a bag.  "Don't forget your clothes," she says.

"What clothes?"

"Duh!  You get to keep your lingerie, you know.  You think anybody else wants to wear it after you?"

I sheepishly accept it and go on my way.  I toss it in a dumpster behind the mall.

[A few weeks later, as I rummage through my closet for a particular sweater, I notice an unfamiliar white bag.  I peek inside it, and am shocked to discover my lingerie from my photo shoot fiasco.  I almost faint from the rush of shame.  I hold up the panties, and admire the flowery lace design, and the sexy cut.  I shudder to recall the greed that led to me prancing around for a camera in something that feminine.  Could it be a coincidence that Vanessa and I aren't getting it on so well ever since?  It was very difficult to explain the loss of hair.  I never did own up to what I did.

With heavy heart, I toss the panties back into the bag, and walk out to the kitchen, and]

A few weeks later, I notice a large manila envelope with an anonymous return address, sent to me, in my mailbox.  Inside is a set of five photo contact sheets of what appears to be a scantily clad woman.  Upon closer inspection, it becomes clear that it's not a woman, but me.  These are the photos from my shoot!

Along with the contact sheets is a note from the photographer, offering me prints of any size for a fee.  He also mentions that I've been a hit on the website, and that they'd be happy to photograph me again for "another cool $50 K". 

Again, my face reddens, but this time with rage.  How dare they rip me off like that!  And rub my face in it by offering me proof of my shame at a price!  I throw down the offending documents and storm off to my computer.  I want to see what they've done with my photos.

I turn up a little ways down their front page.  Apparently, I was the "Sissy of the Day" for July 23rd.  I rated a 7.3 from viewers of the site, which is crawling with images of shemales and transsexuals.  I must admit, I do look awfully feminine.  I look far better than most of the other "girls" on the site, although some of them are astoundingly beautiful.  But I can only see one photo, as the other 12 are available to members only.

I don't feel so bad if my photos are not particularly widely available.  Thank God Vanessa still knows nothing of this.  We've been having so much trouble since then.  I just haven't felt quite like the man I used to, and she's gotten antsy.  I don't think she bought my excuse for the loss of my body hair.  I guess I'm still depressed about having been tricked so badly.

I lost out on forty-five thousand dollars!  Giving up my manhood for five thousand certainly wasn't worth it, but I doubt I would feel so badly if I had actually gotten paid properly.

Now, I know that I should know better, but they are offering to pay me fifty to shoot me again.  I've done it once before, and it's my own blunder that cost me the full amount.  What harm could there be if I did it again, and got the full amount?  I might as well get my due.  Consider the first incident a loss, but the second makes up some of it.

Naturally, Vanessa is not to know.

Lucky for her, I'm uncommonly horny that night, and fuck her brains out.

In the days leading up to my appointment, I excitedly scout around for some sexy outfits.  I look at all sorts of pictures from lingerie vendors' websites.  I get excited thinking about how sexy those girls are.  I know that I have to take a hit to my manhood, but for fifty grand, it's cake.  I'll have them in mind when I prance around on the stage, and it'll be over before I know it.  Easy money.

The same people are set up in the mall.  The guy who shanghaied me into this to begin with doesn't even recognize me, but he does a double-take when he sees what I'm signed up for.

"Didn't you do an aftershave ad for us?"

"Um, no.  I mean, yes."

"Heh, well here it has you signed up for the transvestite lingerie shoot.  Somebody's clearly fucked up somewhere."  He says this loud enough for everyone within a ten foot radius to hear him.

"No, that's right," I whisper.

"OK, I'll switch you over to the deodorant ad."

"No, I mean it was right before."

"What?"

I'm straining to keep my voice low, but he's not hearing me.  "The lingerie," I say with clenched teeth.

"You're here for lingerie?!?"

"Yes."

He looks at me for a long time.  A few other people are staring.

"OK," he says, finally.  "Lingerie it is.  Now go see Tracy by that door over there."

I walk timidly over to Tracy, who is trying not to laugh.  "OK, Lingerie is suite 233.  Here's your contract."

I look at it closely this time, and sure enough, they are trying to rip me off again!

"Hey," I shout, "this is for only ten thousand.  I thought I was getting fifty!"

"In one shoot?" she replies, incredulously.  "What are you, nuts?"

"That's what it said in the letter you sent me!  And that's what you were going to pay the first time when you ripped me off!"

"Read the contract!  It says you'll get up to fifty after four shoots, if your site gets the enough hits.  According to our records, you're only a tier 3, so that means ten grand.  Take it or leave it!"

Another difficult decision.  They're certainly tricking me again.  But it's also better than five.  I'm already here, and all these people already know why I'm here.  I'm not happy about it, but I didn't come all this way for nothing.

"Fine.  I'll do it."

This time, I take more time to pick out an outfit.  I was particularly smitten with a photo of Carmen Electra in a silver teddy with a furry trim, but they had nothing like it.  I had so many hot women in mind, but the selection of lingerie was somewhat limited.  I felt like I was shopping for Vanessa.  I couldn't help but remind myself that I would be wearing it.  I settled for a sheer black babydoll, silk string bikini panties, fishnet stockings, all with red bows, and knee-high black fuck-me boots.  Betty and Monica removed all my hair again, and I got dressed.  I felt like I had everything under perfect control until I zipped up the last boot.  Oh my God, I thought, what the Hell am I doing?  I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror.  My hair and makeup had yet to be applied.  This is so fucking flaming gay, I thought to myself.  I trembled as I walked to the chair and sat down for my makeover.  I'm turning into a girl! I thought.  I sold my manhood for ten thousand dollars!

By and by, the women finished their work, and I was gorgeous.  My heart pounded in my chest like a jackhammer.  I couldn't walk away now.  In fact, I didn't even need to be ushered to the side of the stage.  I was psyching myself up, thinking about how Carmen Electra would look in this outfit. 

At the stage, there was no sign of the coy debutante.  Instead, I was a raunchy, horny little slut.  I felt so wonderful acting like a girl.  I was imagining that my outfit was so feminine that my penis shrank into my body and became a pussy.  I didn't want to stop.  I went home with my panties on instead of my boxers, knowing that Vanessa wouldn't be home.  I even got to keep the boots!

I hid the outfit in my closet.  I thought I'd put it where Vanessa would never find it.  It was buried under all sorts of junk, where it could do no harm.

For weeks I marvelled at the huge sum of money I had made, just for wearing lingerie, and having some pictures taken!  I couldn't wait for the next shoot.  I didn't especially need the money, but I figured it was so easy, and so harmless, that I might as well go back another three times and collect my cool fifty.  I was still embarrassed enough to not want Vanessa to know.  She didn't trust me at all anymore.

Unfortunately, the shoot didn't go as well as I thought.  My ratings on the website had dropped to a 6.5.  I clearly didn't look curvy enough.  I looked like a man in drag.  I could only conclude that I hadn't prepared enough, so I started to practice when Vanessa was out.  Since it's worth so much money, I thought I might as well put some effort into it.  I might make more.

When she found my stash from the last shoot, she thought there was another woman.  I tried to tell her that it was for her, but I didn't know how to present it to her because she always resisted this kind of sex play.  She then confronted me about the shemale website in the browser history.  She called me a sick pervert, although she still didn't quite make the connection between the two.  So I had to give her the outfit, even though the boots didn't fit her at all.

Imagine my disappointment when Tracy told me that my 6.5 rating dropped me into tier 4, and that I'd only be making five thousand for the third shoot.  I accepted it, because I knew that there was only one way to get my rating back up.  I chose a sexy little pink camisole, a thong, and slippers with straps all the way up to my knees.  This time, I knew how to pose.  I made sure to accentuate all the good girlie parts.  I posed like a pro.  Sure enough, when my pictures showed up on the site, they were worth an 8.

Of course I wasn't satisfied.  I had only gotten five thousand. I took it as a challenge.  A rating of 8 made me a tier 2 trannie, which would be worth fifteen thousand dollars at the next shoot.  As much as I wanted to stop, for Vanessa's sake, the money was just too good.

That's how I explained the whole thing to her when she caught me wearing her bikini.

I figured I needed to expand my horizons a bit, and try some new things.  I was horribly ashamed when she found me.  She was in tears.  I told her the truth: that I was doing it just for the money, that it was harmless.  After a while, she forgave me.

She said she'd stay with me, but only if I would split my earnings with her.  She would help me out by showing me the proper way to do my own makeup, and how to walk and talk.  After the final shoot, it would all have to stop.  I readily agreed, to save our relationship.

She had me dressing up every other day by the end of it.  She had me try on just about everything.  I was getting really good at being female.  The third shoot was a smashing success.  I wore a one-piece bathing suit, and looked every bit like Carmen Electra.  They gave me fifteen thousand dollars, as expected.  I split it evenly with Vanessa.

For the fourth shoot, we decided that I'd have enough time to grow my hair.  It would be a crucial factor.  My rating went up to 8.6 based on the swimsuit pictures.  I practiced every day in preparation.  I even started going out to buy my own lingerie and swimwear and skirts and dresses and shoes, while dressed en femme.  I spent the week before the final shoot as a girl.  I even showed up this time already dressed in a miniskirt and a tight little blouse.

When it was over, I had decided to break it off with Vanessa.  By now, she was holding me back.  My wardrobe had become sexier and more feminine than hers.  Plus I wanted all the payoff to myself.  Besides, she was horrified about the hormones I started taking to keep the hair off my body and put some natural volume in my brassiere.