As an aficionado of women's swimwear, I am keenly aware that the monokini has become fashionable. As such, I have been haunted by it for months. As you all know from my previous posts, I am obsessed with swimsuits, and I have a curious predilection for one-pieces. I have worn dozens of different bathing suits over the years, but I have never even had a chance to wear a monokini. Imagine the appeal: it's sexy like a bikini, fun like a one-piece, and just uncommon enough to be out of reach.
I've made half-baked plans to buy myself one more than once, but have consistently failed to execute on any of them. First, I've concentrated on the basics: I know I love one-pieces and bikinis, so I've always made sure to have access to some of those. Second, trendy as they are, they are still somewhat uncommon. My wife certainly wouldn't wear one because the resulting tan lines would be unappealing. Even stores stock only a few of them, and I suspect that many women, like my wife, avoid them.
With recent adventures, I've had my fill of bikinis. Sure, I'd always love to try on some more, but I have access to so many. My remaining one-piece is always fun, but I've had it for over a year now, so I'm ready for something new. And finally, my wife is taking a 3-day trip in a few weeks, so I'll have some quality alone time. Therefore, I have decided that I now would be a perfect time to get myself a monokini.
I've been keeping a list of links to monokinis I was interested in, mostly at Victoria's Secret. However, as I pondered which one I would purchase, I noticed to my horror that most of my links were broken!
But this was a mixed blessing: my choices may have been fewer, but Victoria's Secret had discontinued many of the items I was interested in, and was clearing out their inventory. This meant that I would have to act fast, before my precious monokinis disappeared forever. I found that the one suit I was particularly interested in was still available online, but not in the color I wanted. I was willing to compromise, and made plans to visit the local store.
I circled around the mall nervously before I worked up the courage to enter the store. There were very few customers, given the time of day. I wandered around, looking for their swimwear displays, and was disappointed to find one small clearance rack. It took a fair amount of courage simply to paw through the items on the rack. I did this tentatively for a few moments before I lost my nerve. I was terrified of looking like some kind of pervert, or of being recognized by someone.
I backed away from the rack, and found the current swimwear display. Unfortunately, it was beside the cashiers' counter, so I'd have to browse the pretty bikinis right next to the staff and a line of customers. I saw no one-piece suits -- much less monokinis -- at all in that small display. I desperately wanted to inspect every single piece of glorious feminine swimwear before me, but I could not dare to so much as touch any of it. I dutifully returned to the clearance rack at the other end of the store.
This time I took my time.
There were a few monokinis of various kinds hanging forlornly upon it, but not the one I had hoped to find. Most of the contents of the clearance rack was bikini bottoms without matching tops, and a few nighties. I was very keen on achieving my goal, so I carefully sought what I wanted. It appeared that all the remaining monokinis were of the PINK line, which I hadn't been particularly interested in. However, one type of suit did catch my attention. This one was certainly of the PINK variety, but it was also hot pink in color, and in a highly appealing metallic texture, and ultra-feminine side ties on the hips. I was getting excited about it. I initially had wanted one in black, but what could be more feminine than this striking pink? I checked the size (small) and price ($44.50, with a 50% discount!) and giddily returned to the cashiers' counter, where I awkwardly stood in line for a few seconds before even more awkwardly paying for my precious monokini. Imagine my pleasant surprise when the suit turned out to be only $12! Apparently, they had already applied a 50% discount, and added another to clear it out.
Oddly enough, the cashier was a straight man. I had never seen a straight man working at Victoria's Secret before. He offered me a membership card, which I politely declined, twice, before ringing me up. I was obviously embarrassed. I wonder if he suspected my motives.
I was so eager to wear it that I smuggled it into the restroom at the office, and, hidden in a big stall at an hour when nobody was around, I put it on. It fit perfectly. I was only disappointed that I wouldn't get to fully enjoy it just then, given the circumstances, so I quickly took it off and smuggled it back out.
I have now had my new monokini stashed in my secret hiding place all week, fantasizing the whole time about wearing it again. Since my wife is out for a couple of hours, I have slipped into it to tell its story. Now that I'm in it, I must confess that it's surely one of the most feminine items I have ever worn. I love it! It will be a key part of my most prurient fantasies for a long time.
Caution to the Wind
Every now and then, after a day spent ogling gorgeous scantily clad women on a blistering hot day, I get a moment to myself to indulge in my habit. It just so happened today that my lovely wife, who had gone for a swim earlier in the week, and had left one of her bikinis hanging tauntingly on the towel rack in the bathroom, was occupied in the city for a few hours, where I was to join her after running some errands. Part of my errand involved me returning home alone, which left me a small window of opportunity, which I recklessly leapt through.
Before I even got home, I knew what I was going to do. I wanted to savor the moment, and enjoy it to its fullest. I had gone to pick up some groceries, and had to put them away. As soon as I arrived, I dumped them on the counter and scurried off lecherously to the bedroom, where I immediately leapt out of my clothes, and raced to the bathroom to put on ___'s lovely white bikini. However, for whatever reason, I wasn't all that interested in it. Instead, I found myself opening my secret stash for my green side-tie bikini, which has served me so well in the past. Once again, I lusted for her trusty wedge sandals to push my femininity over the top. Thus attired, and member tucked neatly between my legs, I proceeded to put away the groceries, slowly and deliberately, reveling in my womanliness.
These shoes are, as I've mentioned before, much too small for my grotesque man-feet, and the straps barely fit around my ankles. When I wear them even for a short time, they leave marks around my toes and under the straps. Imagine what it looks like after I wear them for a half hour or so! I was fully aware of this when I put them on, and this knowledge that I would show tell-tale signs of my crime for hours longer aroused my passions even more.
After I succumbed to a hot and sweaty pleasure attack, blissfully satisfied, I cleaned up after myself, and put everything away. Only now I had to deal with the marks on my feet, which wouldn't go away. It being a hot summer day, I had no choice but to rush out to meet my wife in the city, wearing my own manly sandals, but with strange red strap marks around my ankles.
Nobody noticed, thank Goddess!
Before I even got home, I knew what I was going to do. I wanted to savor the moment, and enjoy it to its fullest. I had gone to pick up some groceries, and had to put them away. As soon as I arrived, I dumped them on the counter and scurried off lecherously to the bedroom, where I immediately leapt out of my clothes, and raced to the bathroom to put on ___'s lovely white bikini. However, for whatever reason, I wasn't all that interested in it. Instead, I found myself opening my secret stash for my green side-tie bikini, which has served me so well in the past. Once again, I lusted for her trusty wedge sandals to push my femininity over the top. Thus attired, and member tucked neatly between my legs, I proceeded to put away the groceries, slowly and deliberately, reveling in my womanliness.
These shoes are, as I've mentioned before, much too small for my grotesque man-feet, and the straps barely fit around my ankles. When I wear them even for a short time, they leave marks around my toes and under the straps. Imagine what it looks like after I wear them for a half hour or so! I was fully aware of this when I put them on, and this knowledge that I would show tell-tale signs of my crime for hours longer aroused my passions even more.
After I succumbed to a hot and sweaty pleasure attack, blissfully satisfied, I cleaned up after myself, and put everything away. Only now I had to deal with the marks on my feet, which wouldn't go away. It being a hot summer day, I had no choice but to rush out to meet my wife in the city, wearing my own manly sandals, but with strange red strap marks around my ankles.
Nobody noticed, thank Goddess!
Opportunity Knocks
Once again, ___ invited her friend over. They planned to go shopping for a few hours, and then return and hang out at the community swimming pool. Yes, that would be the very same friend whose trust I had previously violated about a year ago.
It took a few moments of weak hesitation after they left before I carefully pawed through her bag to see what she might have brought. At the very top, rolled up and protruding sideways , something made of denim -- a pair of jeans, I thought, disappointed -- concealed everything else. When I pulled it out to inspect the deeper contents of the bag, careful to keep it as much in its current form as possible so I could replace it without raising suspicions, I noticed that the denim was much too short to be a pair of pants. Probably shorts, I guessed.
But no. It was a miniskirt.
I couldn't believe my luck. How many times had I dreamed of wearing a denim miniskirt over a bikini, like all the pretty girls do near the beach? I had even contemplated buying myself one, because it seems to me to be an invaluable part of any woman's wardrobe -- except for my wife's. And to think that I hadn't even looked inside the bag yet!
As expected, the bag also contained a swimsuit. As I cautiously lifted it out of the bag, again studying how it was folded and positioned under the miniskirt, I felt the softness of the charcoal gray microfiber fabric, and noticed the sexy ties on the sides of the panties left a hole through which to peek a tantalizing bit of skin. It was so soft that I immediately thought it must be some fancy Victoria's Secret bikini, but a quick glance at the label surprised me: it was Mossimo. The bra was a cute halter, which wasn't very revealing, but not at all disappointing. I have a weakness for substantial bras, especially halters, whose size constantly reminds me of what I'm wearing.
I trembled from the thrill of it. I had to put it all on, and there would be no way to avoid wearing ___'s trusty old wedge sandals to complete the ensemble. I had a lovely little beach outfit to put on, and I had no idea when my play time would be over. For all I knew, they'd be back in 30 minutes. I had no time to waste.
I quickly brought all of these feminine items into the bedroom. I stripped out of all my clothes, slipped into the remarkably soft panties, and was immediately smitten. The fit was delightfully snug, perfect for feeling the gentle touch of the feminine fabric in its erotic shape. Then I tied myself into the bra, and luxuriated in the silkiness over my chest. What a shame that I can't do this more often! At last, I stepped into the miniskirt and pulled it up. It was very tight around my waist, and I was a bit worried about my member leaving a little goo on it, so I was careful about how I put it on.
Before I could even get to the sandals, I was possessed with ecstasy for a moment, overwhelmed by the softness and tightness of the bikini, and the fact that I was finally, for the first time ever, wearing a denim miniskirt. I composed myself, knowing that the moment would be wasted without the wedge sandals, which are a key part of the outfit. Why bother wearing a miniskirt if I'm not going to show off my legs?
Of course, much of the enjoyment I get from women's shoes is that they're the last bit to put on. I love fighting with the straps of these little sandal wedges, which are much too small for me, while I'm already tarted up in a bikini and miniskirt. I already felt fantastically erotic, but this last touch simply put me over the top. I only got to take a few steps in my dream outfit before I collapsed into feminine ecstasy.
Alas! If only I had had more time! I could have savored this precious moment for much longer, and enjoyed it to its fullest. Instead, I worried about ___ bursting through the door at any moment, so I satisfied myself quickly, and made a bit of a mess (quickly cleaned up) as I frantically undressed and placed everything back in its rightful spot. I no longer had any idea how any of these heavenly items had been placed in the bag, and I tried a few different ways of packing it, but in the end I realized that there was no way to be sure. I would have to suffer the anxiety of someone noticing for the rest of the day.
The ladies finally returned a few hours later, and I kicked myself for not having taken more time. They immediately prepared for the pool, and ___'s friend described what a bargain her bikini had been at Target, and how she would never feel comfortable wearing such a short skirt anywhere but at a beach or swimming pool. I felt relief and envy as she disappeared into the guest bathroom to change into what I had already worn.
It took a few moments of weak hesitation after they left before I carefully pawed through her bag to see what she might have brought. At the very top, rolled up and protruding sideways , something made of denim -- a pair of jeans, I thought, disappointed -- concealed everything else. When I pulled it out to inspect the deeper contents of the bag, careful to keep it as much in its current form as possible so I could replace it without raising suspicions, I noticed that the denim was much too short to be a pair of pants. Probably shorts, I guessed.
But no. It was a miniskirt.
I couldn't believe my luck. How many times had I dreamed of wearing a denim miniskirt over a bikini, like all the pretty girls do near the beach? I had even contemplated buying myself one, because it seems to me to be an invaluable part of any woman's wardrobe -- except for my wife's. And to think that I hadn't even looked inside the bag yet!
As expected, the bag also contained a swimsuit. As I cautiously lifted it out of the bag, again studying how it was folded and positioned under the miniskirt, I felt the softness of the charcoal gray microfiber fabric, and noticed the sexy ties on the sides of the panties left a hole through which to peek a tantalizing bit of skin. It was so soft that I immediately thought it must be some fancy Victoria's Secret bikini, but a quick glance at the label surprised me: it was Mossimo. The bra was a cute halter, which wasn't very revealing, but not at all disappointing. I have a weakness for substantial bras, especially halters, whose size constantly reminds me of what I'm wearing.
I trembled from the thrill of it. I had to put it all on, and there would be no way to avoid wearing ___'s trusty old wedge sandals to complete the ensemble. I had a lovely little beach outfit to put on, and I had no idea when my play time would be over. For all I knew, they'd be back in 30 minutes. I had no time to waste.
I quickly brought all of these feminine items into the bedroom. I stripped out of all my clothes, slipped into the remarkably soft panties, and was immediately smitten. The fit was delightfully snug, perfect for feeling the gentle touch of the feminine fabric in its erotic shape. Then I tied myself into the bra, and luxuriated in the silkiness over my chest. What a shame that I can't do this more often! At last, I stepped into the miniskirt and pulled it up. It was very tight around my waist, and I was a bit worried about my member leaving a little goo on it, so I was careful about how I put it on.
Before I could even get to the sandals, I was possessed with ecstasy for a moment, overwhelmed by the softness and tightness of the bikini, and the fact that I was finally, for the first time ever, wearing a denim miniskirt. I composed myself, knowing that the moment would be wasted without the wedge sandals, which are a key part of the outfit. Why bother wearing a miniskirt if I'm not going to show off my legs?
Of course, much of the enjoyment I get from women's shoes is that they're the last bit to put on. I love fighting with the straps of these little sandal wedges, which are much too small for me, while I'm already tarted up in a bikini and miniskirt. I already felt fantastically erotic, but this last touch simply put me over the top. I only got to take a few steps in my dream outfit before I collapsed into feminine ecstasy.
Alas! If only I had had more time! I could have savored this precious moment for much longer, and enjoyed it to its fullest. Instead, I worried about ___ bursting through the door at any moment, so I satisfied myself quickly, and made a bit of a mess (quickly cleaned up) as I frantically undressed and placed everything back in its rightful spot. I no longer had any idea how any of these heavenly items had been placed in the bag, and I tried a few different ways of packing it, but in the end I realized that there was no way to be sure. I would have to suffer the anxiety of someone noticing for the rest of the day.
The ladies finally returned a few hours later, and I kicked myself for not having taken more time. They immediately prepared for the pool, and ___'s friend described what a bargain her bikini had been at Target, and how she would never feel comfortable wearing such a short skirt anywhere but at a beach or swimming pool. I felt relief and envy as she disappeared into the guest bathroom to change into what I had already worn.
Taking Full Advantage of a Rare Opportunity
So today, my wife had an outing, and she wouldn't be back until tomorrow morning. When she told me about it, I got very excited for all the fun things I could wear while she's gone. I'm insatiable when I have time to myself.
Since I had gotten ample warning, I had been making plans all week to get myself something special. I looked around on Victoria's Secret, Fredrick's, and so on, and was just overwhelmed by my options. But that's a lot harder than it seems: I have to somehow acquire my girlie goods, and I can't really mail order any of it, because it won't get here in time. I have to shop in person.
This took a first aborted trip to a Nordstrom Rack store, where I was horribly disappointed in myself for not really spending the time to really look, for fear of being seen fondling women's clothes. My real problem was that I didn't know what I wanted.
So I thought about it. I needed to get something I've never had. I've tried on just about everything under the sun. I've been fantasizing about a monokini for a while, but I've already got too many swimsuits. So I decided to get a corset and some knee-high fuck-me boots.
Since the wife left early in the morning, this gave me the opportunity to actually wear panties all day long. I put them on, and never looked back. I wore my own over top, to avoid detection. Then, after a long day's work, I went to Fredricks and DSW and got the requisite items. I've been wearing them ever since, and I love them! I've been fantasizing all night about how they're turning me into a real girl, and how lovely it would be if I could wear stuff like this all the time.
It'll be a long, wonderfully erotic night...
Since I had gotten ample warning, I had been making plans all week to get myself something special. I looked around on Victoria's Secret, Fredrick's, and so on, and was just overwhelmed by my options. But that's a lot harder than it seems: I have to somehow acquire my girlie goods, and I can't really mail order any of it, because it won't get here in time. I have to shop in person.
This took a first aborted trip to a Nordstrom Rack store, where I was horribly disappointed in myself for not really spending the time to really look, for fear of being seen fondling women's clothes. My real problem was that I didn't know what I wanted.
So I thought about it. I needed to get something I've never had. I've tried on just about everything under the sun. I've been fantasizing about a monokini for a while, but I've already got too many swimsuits. So I decided to get a corset and some knee-high fuck-me boots.
Since the wife left early in the morning, this gave me the opportunity to actually wear panties all day long. I put them on, and never looked back. I wore my own over top, to avoid detection. Then, after a long day's work, I went to Fredricks and DSW and got the requisite items. I've been wearing them ever since, and I love them! I've been fantasizing all night about how they're turning me into a real girl, and how lovely it would be if I could wear stuff like this all the time.
It'll be a long, wonderfully erotic night...
Fantasy: Caught and Tested
Surfing around, I've found advice board postings where people ask what to do about their teenage son who they caught wearing lingerie or something. One suggestion that seems common is to buy him something similar so he doesn't have to steal from his sister or mom, and see what happens. The rationale is that he'll get what he wants, and be satisfied with experimenting with it.
So, what if...?
Man, I wish. So when my mother found my stash (which consisted of her bathing suit and leotard and tights) she could have gotten this advice. She would have given me her bathing suit that I had stolen, and which had really gotten me most interested in wearing girl clothes. Or she would have bought me a new one. I would have been utterly mortified, even though she would have given it to me secretly. But I would totally have worn it.
Now, with a signal that it's ok, I'd have become curious about other things. I was already fantasizing about bikinis and lingerie. I would have sheepishly asked for a bikini eventually. She would initially refuse, but she'd feel bad, and give in, and buy me something modest. I'd have been disappointed slightly, but hey, it's still a girlie bikini!
I'd wear that one a lot, then ask for a skimpier bikini. This time, I show her a specific one. She gets it for me, and asks if I want to wear underwear, too, full time, if I want to be a girl. I of course refuse, clinging to my maleness. I think about it while wanking in my new string bikini, and regret my answer.
After a while of feeding these fantasies, I would admit that I'd love to wear panties. So now we'd go together to get panties. Mostly modest ones, cuz she'd try to discourage me. But I'd push the limit as much as I dare. I'd now be wearing panties all the time, and be very confused about what this means as far as my own sexuality. Given how much I love it, I'd surely conclude that yes, I'm a girl in a boy's body, and come out as such. Now all of a sudden, I'm in therapy, and wearing skirts and dresses.
Given how permissive therapists can be about this stuff, they'd encourage me to drop all attachment to my maleness, and embrace my feminine urges. I'd start hormone therapy, and grow boobs and get all girlified. I'd be wanking almost constantly now.
Eventually, I'd get the surgery, and become a girl. Luckily, I started in puberty, before it was too late, so I look passable.
So, what if...?
Man, I wish. So when my mother found my stash (which consisted of her bathing suit and leotard and tights) she could have gotten this advice. She would have given me her bathing suit that I had stolen, and which had really gotten me most interested in wearing girl clothes. Or she would have bought me a new one. I would have been utterly mortified, even though she would have given it to me secretly. But I would totally have worn it.
Now, with a signal that it's ok, I'd have become curious about other things. I was already fantasizing about bikinis and lingerie. I would have sheepishly asked for a bikini eventually. She would initially refuse, but she'd feel bad, and give in, and buy me something modest. I'd have been disappointed slightly, but hey, it's still a girlie bikini!
I'd wear that one a lot, then ask for a skimpier bikini. This time, I show her a specific one. She gets it for me, and asks if I want to wear underwear, too, full time, if I want to be a girl. I of course refuse, clinging to my maleness. I think about it while wanking in my new string bikini, and regret my answer.
After a while of feeding these fantasies, I would admit that I'd love to wear panties. So now we'd go together to get panties. Mostly modest ones, cuz she'd try to discourage me. But I'd push the limit as much as I dare. I'd now be wearing panties all the time, and be very confused about what this means as far as my own sexuality. Given how much I love it, I'd surely conclude that yes, I'm a girl in a boy's body, and come out as such. Now all of a sudden, I'm in therapy, and wearing skirts and dresses.
Given how permissive therapists can be about this stuff, they'd encourage me to drop all attachment to my maleness, and embrace my feminine urges. I'd start hormone therapy, and grow boobs and get all girlified. I'd be wanking almost constantly now.
Eventually, I'd get the surgery, and become a girl. Luckily, I started in puberty, before it was too late, so I look passable.
Fiction: Forbidden Knowledge
When I was a boy, I learned to think of everything to do with women to be forbidden. I feared it, as did all of my peers. It was improper for boys to ever see girls' underwear. There were very strict social norms against boys having anything at all to do with feminine things. This makes sense: as a child, you're still trying to form a sense of identity, and gender is one of the most immediately comprehensible aspects of it. It's like a lifebuoy that we cling to, to assure us of who we are.
So imagine what it must have been like to have to wear girls' tights for a school play, so our kindergarten teacher could have us all dressed like flowers. Now, suddenly, it was ok for boys to wear girl clothes. But deep down, I knew that it was subversive. It was even comical, but not so embarrassing since all the boys had to do it.
I, for one, had tasted the forbidden fruit, and I wanted more. It planted a seed in my head which in a few years' time, when puberty started to hit, would grow like a weed.
It is forbidden for men to wear women's clothes. Those who do are cast out of polite company. It's simply unacceptable, deviant, and perverse. But why?
First, it was pantyhose. They seemed innocent enough, since I had already effectively worn some in kindergarten. But this time, it was more serious. I wanted to. And when I did, it felt so good. I learned about how it feels to have sheer nylons on my legs. This knowledge is forbidden to boys and men.
From there, my thirst for knowledge only expanded. I knew full well that it was perverse, and at that young age, at the beginning of puberty, sexual matters are secret; so I did this entirely out of sight. Nobody would ever know. I felt guilty about it, too. But I always wanted more. Then I fantasized about wearing other forbidden things. There was far more forbidden knowledge to be learned, and I needed to gain some experience in order to fully appreciate it. I developed an elaborate fantasy about how I'd have to wear pantyhose hundreds of times before I would be permitted to wear leotards, and those thousands of times before I could wear a bathing suit, and so on. This was partly a way to rationalize that I did not have access to these things, and would have to leave it to some distant, unimaginable future.
Soon enough, I did try on a leotard. But before that even happened, I borrowed my mother's swimsuit. Now I was in trouble. There was no turning back, and I knew it. I was deeply ashamed, but that didn't stop my intense cravings. I would look at pictures of sexy girls, and imagine wearing their bikinis. Now I was actually stealing things from people, and keeping it hidden in my room. Just about every day, I would masturbate in something girlie. Meanwhile, I was slowly becoming a man.
By now, my desire for lingerie was overpowering, yet it remained always out of my reach. Eventually, I did steal some panties, and wore them often. I was gaining lots of knowledge and experience. I could put on a bikini in the dark under my bedsheets. But it was seldom good enough.
I was so confused. Sometimes, I would wonder if I were actually a girl, and whether my parents and doctors had made some terrible mistake and made me a boy. But I knew this wasn't so. At the same time, I was shyly obsessed with images of girls in lingerie and swimwear. I fantasized all the time that they would force me to become like them.
By early adulthood, I had been with girls, and secretly worn their underwear. I started buying myself things, like lingerie and swimwear. I had accumulated quite a collection. I had learned more and more, to the point where I had become a sort of expert in feminine undergarments. I fantasized about ordering lingerie online. I made laundry lists for myself.
One girlfriend actually bought herself some lingerie and left it in my room, since she was afraid of what her mother would think. I wore it at least 10 times more than she did. When she and her family went away on vacation, and I was given the responsibility to water their plants, I took the opportunity to try on just about everything she owned. No man should know so much about women's clothes. Especially not what it feels like to wear them.
Relationships with women lasted long, but not forever. I would start feeling guilty about wearing their underthings while their backs were turned. I found myself focusing on my fantasies instead of finding new girlfriends. Wearing lingerie and swimwear was so satisfying that I hardly needed any fulfillment from any woman. I moved into my own place, and played with my outfits in secret, alone, just about every night.
I developed fantasies of becoming a girl. I wrote all sorts of them down. I read other people's fantasies, too. I learned a lot about men who want to become women. I bought a bustier, and a patent leather halter mini-dress. I owned about 5 swimsuits.
I moved away to a different city, and began to spend lots of my extra cash on women's clothes. I became obsessed with shoes. I had decided that I knew enough about wearing girls' clothes that I could wear only them when I was home alone. I would sleep in nightgowns. I would wear skirts and corsets and stockings and pumps while cooking dinner, watching TV, or vacuuming. My little French Maid's outfit was particularly fun for doing chores. This is when I felt ultra-feminine. I still wanted more.
I started wearing only women's underwear, all the time. I wore them to work under my boy clothes. In winter, I would wear a bra, which nobody could see because of my thick outer layers. I threw away all my boy underwear in a moment of passion.
Soon I started keeping my legs shaven. Then my chest. It made the girl clothes feel so much sexier.
Then I found out about a certain questionable drinking establishment where men were encouraged to dress like women. They provided change rooms and lockers, so you could travel there as a man, and conceal your true colours from the outside world. Now I saw how much more I had to learn. Some of my fellow patrons were gorgeous. I was terribly manly looking. I had some competition.
As I improved my womanly looks, I learned to spurn the advances of men. For God's sake, I'm not gay! Sure, I fantasized often and guiltily about furthering my forbidden knowledge, but apparently I wasn't ready yet. I longed for the taste of cock, which only women know. Everything I learned about women made me want to know more. But after years of happily pushing the limits, I had finally found a new and significant barrier.
People knew now that I was a transvestite. I stopped caring. I would wear androgynous clothes to work. Sometimes I'd have a bit of makeup on. It was difficult for a while, but I got used to it. I hardly needed my male wardrobe anymore.
Determined to learn my lesson, I practiced with some dildoes. I had misgivings about putting them in my ass at first, because most women don't do that, but I figured I'd hardly be feminine if I couldn't have a penis inside me.
Around this time, as I whimsically looked into how I could get a sex change, I discovered that some doctors make a distinction among transsexuals: those who genuinely are women trapped in men's bodies, and men who love to make themselves feminine. The distinction is remarkably clear. The former have always been outwardly feminine, and have no trouble pretending to be girls. The latter are actually very masculine, typically engineers, policemen, soldiers, or other masculine professions, and struggle to come off as women. Furthermore, the former want to be women so they can have sex with straight men. They are thoroughly homosexual. The latter are interested in women only, although they fantasize about sex with men, there is never any emotional connection. These doctors further posit that the latter should never be allowed to have sex changes, because they really are men through and through.
Recognizing myself as being firmly in the latter camp, I began to doubt my fetishes for stockings and panties and corsets and swimsuits and fellatio. But I couldn't prevent them. I envied those who were allowed to become girls.
Unable to resist, I finally sucked my first cock at my favourite bar. It was a terrible fiasco, as these first attempts always were. After almost vomiting at the end of it, semen all over my face and skirt, I vowed never to do it again, and stayed away for weeks. But in retrospect, I became aroused at the thought that I had sucked dick, like a girl. I had gained another piece of forbidden knowledge. It comforted me to think that this practically made me a girl now.
They say that practice makes perfect, and I began to meet with a certain man to improve my technique. I think I became quite skilled. It was almost too easy to have him teach me how to take a cock in the ass. By now I wanted to be as gay as possible, because it made me feel so feminine. When he pounded my ass and came inside it, I could only think of how feminine I was.
Now I became serious. I had sexy piercings on my belly button, my nipple, and my tongue. I was ready to learn the final forbidden lesson: what it feels like to have a penis in my own vagina. The thought excited me to no end. I was nervous when I made the first appointment. Lucky for me, the doctor didn't believe in this hogwash about autogynophiles. I would begin to live as a girl full-time, without exceptions, and take hormones after a year. A year after that, I would have the surgery and have a small piece of my small intestine cut out and my sensitive parts attached to it, to make it look and feel like a pussy.
It was hard to come out to my family, but eventually, they accepted it. Work was sensitive, but at least they were prepared for it. It felt good to be dressed like a girl all the time. I had a few sexual adventures, too. I was overjoyed to start taking the hormones, until taking so many pills became a drag. I had waited so long to fill in my brassieres, and finally, it was happening.
My mind began to change. I was much more emotional. I thought about stopping, but I persevered. After all these years of gaining feminine knowledge forbidden to men, I was finally really beginning to feel like a girl.
I still knew, though, that I was an autogynophile. Deep down I knew that I am fundamentally attracted to women, not men. Yet the thought of my own vagina was far too tempting. I needed this last bit of forbidden knowledge.
At last, the surgery was done, and I became a woman. It was months of visits and bandages and stitches and ointments before I could use my new body. In spite of decades of preparation and longing, nothing could adequately prepare me for the reality of it. I was aroused by the knowledge that I now had a pussy, but at first I couldn't even touch it. My arousal felt so strangely displaced. It hurt at first, terribly, because of the surgery around such sensitive parts. But eventually, it healed, and I learned to find my clitoris. It felt like somone had exposed the head of my penis to a nuclear blast. Later, I discovered that deep inside my new vagina are the nerves that were once on the shaft of my penis. It took days of desperate experimentation, but I eventually discovered a truly feminine orgasm.
This drastic reconfiguration of my cock, which had foolishly led itself to its own demise, was incredibly disturbing. I cursed myself for mutilating my most precious body part. I wanted to fuck girls with my dick again. I realized that I could never do it again. I cried a lot those days.
Armed with my new girlhood, and desperate to truly experience it, I trolled my old haunts for some action. But none of my old boyfriends were interested anymore. They were gay men, and fucking girls -- even formerly male ones -- did not at all appeal to them. It took many depressing months of trying before I finally got one. He was ugly and disgusting, but I needed to feel a penis inside me. I hardly even took notice of him as he fucked me. All I could think of was how incredibly sexy and feminine I felt and looked. Now it was simply a matter of trying different positions. Somehow, it was still never enough. It dawned on me that I must be a lesbian.
At last I knew the price of my forbidden knowledge. In the end, I am a man, no matter what my crotch looks like. I am insatiably attracted to women. I betrayed my gender, my identity, for a sympathetic fantasy about the object of my desire. I was punished the moment I learned my first lesson when I was a young boy. I was cursed with an insatiable desire to know everything that was forbidden to me from the beginning. I should have been humiliated enough to stop long ago, at many different stages. But instead I took it to this irreversible end.
And just the very thought of it makes me unfathomably horny.
So imagine what it must have been like to have to wear girls' tights for a school play, so our kindergarten teacher could have us all dressed like flowers. Now, suddenly, it was ok for boys to wear girl clothes. But deep down, I knew that it was subversive. It was even comical, but not so embarrassing since all the boys had to do it.
I, for one, had tasted the forbidden fruit, and I wanted more. It planted a seed in my head which in a few years' time, when puberty started to hit, would grow like a weed.
It is forbidden for men to wear women's clothes. Those who do are cast out of polite company. It's simply unacceptable, deviant, and perverse. But why?
First, it was pantyhose. They seemed innocent enough, since I had already effectively worn some in kindergarten. But this time, it was more serious. I wanted to. And when I did, it felt so good. I learned about how it feels to have sheer nylons on my legs. This knowledge is forbidden to boys and men.
From there, my thirst for knowledge only expanded. I knew full well that it was perverse, and at that young age, at the beginning of puberty, sexual matters are secret; so I did this entirely out of sight. Nobody would ever know. I felt guilty about it, too. But I always wanted more. Then I fantasized about wearing other forbidden things. There was far more forbidden knowledge to be learned, and I needed to gain some experience in order to fully appreciate it. I developed an elaborate fantasy about how I'd have to wear pantyhose hundreds of times before I would be permitted to wear leotards, and those thousands of times before I could wear a bathing suit, and so on. This was partly a way to rationalize that I did not have access to these things, and would have to leave it to some distant, unimaginable future.
Soon enough, I did try on a leotard. But before that even happened, I borrowed my mother's swimsuit. Now I was in trouble. There was no turning back, and I knew it. I was deeply ashamed, but that didn't stop my intense cravings. I would look at pictures of sexy girls, and imagine wearing their bikinis. Now I was actually stealing things from people, and keeping it hidden in my room. Just about every day, I would masturbate in something girlie. Meanwhile, I was slowly becoming a man.
By now, my desire for lingerie was overpowering, yet it remained always out of my reach. Eventually, I did steal some panties, and wore them often. I was gaining lots of knowledge and experience. I could put on a bikini in the dark under my bedsheets. But it was seldom good enough.
I was so confused. Sometimes, I would wonder if I were actually a girl, and whether my parents and doctors had made some terrible mistake and made me a boy. But I knew this wasn't so. At the same time, I was shyly obsessed with images of girls in lingerie and swimwear. I fantasized all the time that they would force me to become like them.
By early adulthood, I had been with girls, and secretly worn their underwear. I started buying myself things, like lingerie and swimwear. I had accumulated quite a collection. I had learned more and more, to the point where I had become a sort of expert in feminine undergarments. I fantasized about ordering lingerie online. I made laundry lists for myself.
One girlfriend actually bought herself some lingerie and left it in my room, since she was afraid of what her mother would think. I wore it at least 10 times more than she did. When she and her family went away on vacation, and I was given the responsibility to water their plants, I took the opportunity to try on just about everything she owned. No man should know so much about women's clothes. Especially not what it feels like to wear them.
Relationships with women lasted long, but not forever. I would start feeling guilty about wearing their underthings while their backs were turned. I found myself focusing on my fantasies instead of finding new girlfriends. Wearing lingerie and swimwear was so satisfying that I hardly needed any fulfillment from any woman. I moved into my own place, and played with my outfits in secret, alone, just about every night.
I developed fantasies of becoming a girl. I wrote all sorts of them down. I read other people's fantasies, too. I learned a lot about men who want to become women. I bought a bustier, and a patent leather halter mini-dress. I owned about 5 swimsuits.
I moved away to a different city, and began to spend lots of my extra cash on women's clothes. I became obsessed with shoes. I had decided that I knew enough about wearing girls' clothes that I could wear only them when I was home alone. I would sleep in nightgowns. I would wear skirts and corsets and stockings and pumps while cooking dinner, watching TV, or vacuuming. My little French Maid's outfit was particularly fun for doing chores. This is when I felt ultra-feminine. I still wanted more.
I started wearing only women's underwear, all the time. I wore them to work under my boy clothes. In winter, I would wear a bra, which nobody could see because of my thick outer layers. I threw away all my boy underwear in a moment of passion.
Soon I started keeping my legs shaven. Then my chest. It made the girl clothes feel so much sexier.
Then I found out about a certain questionable drinking establishment where men were encouraged to dress like women. They provided change rooms and lockers, so you could travel there as a man, and conceal your true colours from the outside world. Now I saw how much more I had to learn. Some of my fellow patrons were gorgeous. I was terribly manly looking. I had some competition.
As I improved my womanly looks, I learned to spurn the advances of men. For God's sake, I'm not gay! Sure, I fantasized often and guiltily about furthering my forbidden knowledge, but apparently I wasn't ready yet. I longed for the taste of cock, which only women know. Everything I learned about women made me want to know more. But after years of happily pushing the limits, I had finally found a new and significant barrier.
People knew now that I was a transvestite. I stopped caring. I would wear androgynous clothes to work. Sometimes I'd have a bit of makeup on. It was difficult for a while, but I got used to it. I hardly needed my male wardrobe anymore.
Determined to learn my lesson, I practiced with some dildoes. I had misgivings about putting them in my ass at first, because most women don't do that, but I figured I'd hardly be feminine if I couldn't have a penis inside me.
Around this time, as I whimsically looked into how I could get a sex change, I discovered that some doctors make a distinction among transsexuals: those who genuinely are women trapped in men's bodies, and men who love to make themselves feminine. The distinction is remarkably clear. The former have always been outwardly feminine, and have no trouble pretending to be girls. The latter are actually very masculine, typically engineers, policemen, soldiers, or other masculine professions, and struggle to come off as women. Furthermore, the former want to be women so they can have sex with straight men. They are thoroughly homosexual. The latter are interested in women only, although they fantasize about sex with men, there is never any emotional connection. These doctors further posit that the latter should never be allowed to have sex changes, because they really are men through and through.
Recognizing myself as being firmly in the latter camp, I began to doubt my fetishes for stockings and panties and corsets and swimsuits and fellatio. But I couldn't prevent them. I envied those who were allowed to become girls.
Unable to resist, I finally sucked my first cock at my favourite bar. It was a terrible fiasco, as these first attempts always were. After almost vomiting at the end of it, semen all over my face and skirt, I vowed never to do it again, and stayed away for weeks. But in retrospect, I became aroused at the thought that I had sucked dick, like a girl. I had gained another piece of forbidden knowledge. It comforted me to think that this practically made me a girl now.
They say that practice makes perfect, and I began to meet with a certain man to improve my technique. I think I became quite skilled. It was almost too easy to have him teach me how to take a cock in the ass. By now I wanted to be as gay as possible, because it made me feel so feminine. When he pounded my ass and came inside it, I could only think of how feminine I was.
Now I became serious. I had sexy piercings on my belly button, my nipple, and my tongue. I was ready to learn the final forbidden lesson: what it feels like to have a penis in my own vagina. The thought excited me to no end. I was nervous when I made the first appointment. Lucky for me, the doctor didn't believe in this hogwash about autogynophiles. I would begin to live as a girl full-time, without exceptions, and take hormones after a year. A year after that, I would have the surgery and have a small piece of my small intestine cut out and my sensitive parts attached to it, to make it look and feel like a pussy.
It was hard to come out to my family, but eventually, they accepted it. Work was sensitive, but at least they were prepared for it. It felt good to be dressed like a girl all the time. I had a few sexual adventures, too. I was overjoyed to start taking the hormones, until taking so many pills became a drag. I had waited so long to fill in my brassieres, and finally, it was happening.
My mind began to change. I was much more emotional. I thought about stopping, but I persevered. After all these years of gaining feminine knowledge forbidden to men, I was finally really beginning to feel like a girl.
I still knew, though, that I was an autogynophile. Deep down I knew that I am fundamentally attracted to women, not men. Yet the thought of my own vagina was far too tempting. I needed this last bit of forbidden knowledge.
At last, the surgery was done, and I became a woman. It was months of visits and bandages and stitches and ointments before I could use my new body. In spite of decades of preparation and longing, nothing could adequately prepare me for the reality of it. I was aroused by the knowledge that I now had a pussy, but at first I couldn't even touch it. My arousal felt so strangely displaced. It hurt at first, terribly, because of the surgery around such sensitive parts. But eventually, it healed, and I learned to find my clitoris. It felt like somone had exposed the head of my penis to a nuclear blast. Later, I discovered that deep inside my new vagina are the nerves that were once on the shaft of my penis. It took days of desperate experimentation, but I eventually discovered a truly feminine orgasm.
This drastic reconfiguration of my cock, which had foolishly led itself to its own demise, was incredibly disturbing. I cursed myself for mutilating my most precious body part. I wanted to fuck girls with my dick again. I realized that I could never do it again. I cried a lot those days.
Armed with my new girlhood, and desperate to truly experience it, I trolled my old haunts for some action. But none of my old boyfriends were interested anymore. They were gay men, and fucking girls -- even formerly male ones -- did not at all appeal to them. It took many depressing months of trying before I finally got one. He was ugly and disgusting, but I needed to feel a penis inside me. I hardly even took notice of him as he fucked me. All I could think of was how incredibly sexy and feminine I felt and looked. Now it was simply a matter of trying different positions. Somehow, it was still never enough. It dawned on me that I must be a lesbian.
At last I knew the price of my forbidden knowledge. In the end, I am a man, no matter what my crotch looks like. I am insatiably attracted to women. I betrayed my gender, my identity, for a sympathetic fantasy about the object of my desire. I was punished the moment I learned my first lesson when I was a young boy. I was cursed with an insatiable desire to know everything that was forbidden to me from the beginning. I should have been humiliated enough to stop long ago, at many different stages. But instead I took it to this irreversible end.
And just the very thought of it makes me unfathomably horny.
Fiction: Fast and Furious
I was walking down the street, minding my own business, when suddenly, at a street corner, a white van screeches to the curb in front of me, opens its doors, and I get pushed in. No sooner do I land on the floor of the van does the door slam behind me and we speed away, screeching tires again, as a velvet bag goes over my head.
I hear women's voices all around me. "You never should have cheated on Marcia, you scumball. We're going to destroy you!" says one, threateningly.
Now, I have no idea who Marcia is. I've never met anyone by that name, much less cheated on her. In fact, I haven't had a girlfriend in months, and I'm the one who got cheated on and dumped. I try to explain that it's all a terrible mistake, but they were having none of it.
"John, don't be such a snivelling coward. Do you really think we'd let you off that easily?"
"But I'm not John! I swear! You've got to believe me! Look at my ID, it's in my back pocket!"
"Do you take us for fools? We know it's you, John, and you've been very, very naughty, and you will be punished. Are you going to take it like a man, or bitch and moan like a girl?"
After much pleading for my life, and them kicking me in the nuts, slapping, and punching my head, the van stops and they hustle me out of it and into some building. I have no clue where I am.
They tear the hood off my head and drag me kicking and screaming into a sort of bathroom, where they cut away all my clothes, lather me with some noxious-smelling substance, and spray me down. To my horror, all of my body hair washes away in the spray.
They restrain me again and wrap my limp penis in some sort of sleeve, which they then tuck between my butt cheeks, and tie. I feel something soft and silky being slid up my now smooth legs, which turns out to be some sort of underwear. Then I somehow have a bra put on me, matching the underwear, and I know I'm in trouble.
Unable to move, I feel a sharp pain around my navel, as two women lean over me. I feel something dangling from the spot where they put a hole in me.
They violently flip me over, and I can hear a soft buzzing sound approaching. For the next few hours, I feel them cutting into the skin of my lower back, and giggling about a "tramp stamp."
Next they wrap a corset around me, and while a group of them work on squeezing the air out of me as they tighten the waist, others take advantage of my almost fainting by slipping stockings onto each of my bald legs, and hooking them onto the garters of the corset, which, it turns out, has a sort of frilly skirt to it. Then they attach shoes with tight straps around my ankles.
They strap me down to a sort of chair, and start working on my face. There's a knife being pressed to my throat, so I don't dare to move. I hear buzzing again, and feel sharp pain as they colour my lips, cheeks and eyes. At the same time, they pinch my earlobes a few times with some kind of tool. Finally, they buzz off every hair on my head, and glue a blonde wig to my scalp.
At this point, they jab my arm with a needle, and as I gasp, they grasp my jaw, keeping it open, and press the knife even harder against my throat. They grab my tongue, and pinch it hard with another tool. It's agony. I can't withdraw it reflexively, because the tool has too firm a hold on it. As they remove the tool, they threaten me some more, as they attach something metallic to my tongue. Finally, they let go, and I can feel a pea-sized metallic lump on the top of my tongue.
Finally, they let me go. I stumble out of the chair to their laughter, nearly breaking my ankle as I lose my balance on my high stilletoes. They point me to a mirrored wall, but it takes me a few moments to recognize myself. I am now utterly feminized. If not for the broad shoulders and over-large hands, I'd look just like a sexy woman. My crotch is especially shockingly convincing, because my cock is tucked out of the way.
"Why have you done this to me?" I ask plaintively.
"John, Marcia was very, very upset when she found out about you and that tramp Vanessa."
"I'm NOT JOHN!" I scream, terrified and furious.
"No, you certainly are not, John," says the ringleader, snickering, "Not anymore."
All the other girls laugh heartily as I cower in the corner.
"From now on," the ringleader continues menacingly, "you yourself will be known as Vanessa, now that you look so much like her."
I am speechless.
"And just so you know, there's no turning back now. We've tattooed makeup onto your face, pierced your ears a few times, and your belly button, and your tongue, and given you a butterfly tattoo just above your ass. Your body hair won't be growing back for weeks, and nobody knows where you are. We've already injected you with your dose of hormones for the day. From now on, you serve Marcia hand and foot. Understand?"
Horrified, I nod my head. I stare at myself in the mirror. I'm astounded that all it took was a few hours to turn me into a girl.
"Now, Vanessa, let's go to your mistress, so you can pledge your eternal servitude."
I meekly follow her out of the salon, girls tittering behind my back. I can't walk very quickly with these stillettoes on, and they hurt my feet. I'm terrified to fall behind her, because I'm afraid of what she'll do to me. I am terribly conscious of my new appearance, as the pain on my face, my ears, my navel, my waist, my lower back, and my feet contrasts sharply against the softness and delicacy of my stockings, panties, corset, and bra. My penis swells painfully, restrained in its sleeve, as I take in my new femininity.
As we approach an ornate door, I am instructed to approach Marcia with my head bowed, walk slowly and meekly to her throne, and bow before her, begging for forgiveness, and offering myself to her service forever as a small token of remorse for my cheating on her. The first parts are not at all difficult, since I am horribly ashamed of what's happened to me. The next is not so easy, since I have no idea who Marcia is, and I am apparently being punished for someone else's crimes.
Before I can even speak, she screams at me. I haven't even looked at her yet. I still don't know what her face looks like, since my head has been bowed all this time.
"John... or should I say, Vanessa, you fucking scumbag! I hope you realize just how badly you fucked up! You're worthless! WORTHLESS! And now see where your few minutes of infedelity have landed you! I thought you would have known better!"
"Yes, your majesty," I reply meekly, too afraid to try to contradict her.
"Now, to show me just how sorry you are, Vanessa, you'll prove to me just how serious you are about renouncing your womanizing ways."
A muscular man, much bigger than me, and wearing no more than a thong, comes up to me, and picks me up off the ground, leaving me on my knees before him. He takes out his cock, a massive, throbbing, muscular thing which puts mine to shame, and sticks it in my face. He slaps my cheek with it. I have no choice, so I grasp it, hands trembling, and bring it to my mouth. I close my eyes as I put my lips around it, and feel it twitch.
I try not to notice the taste too much. I notice that he seems to twitch and groan when my studded tongue touches his head a certain way. I am so feminized! I am sucking cock! My own cock swells uncomfortably again between my butt cheeks. This is so unbelievably dirty! I find my hand jacking the base as I realize that I have tattoos and piercings the likes of which only the sluttiest skanks ever get. I am wearing clothes designed to make women look sexy. I'm more feminine than many women!
I gasp when I feel a pair of hands grab my waist and pull me up to my feet. I am careful not to let go of the penis in my hand, and quickly put it back into my mouth. Only now I feel another cock rubbing against my silky ass. Strong, powerful hands have me by my now shrunken waist. One hand lets go, and tugs at my panties. A dick head probes along my butt, and finds the opening. I gasp as it tears its way into me, but the penis in my mouth takes advantage of this loss of control to pump deeper, into my throat.
I have cock all over me, and I cringe with pain with each thrust into my ass. I can hardly concentrate on the one in my mouth. Soon enough, I feel the one in my ass pumping hot lava into me, relax, and withdraw. The strong hands release my little waist, and I resume tickling the dick head in my mouth with my tongue stud.
Finally, his body twitches and jerks, and I taste some salty paste in my mouth. I gag as he pumps his cock further in my mouth than I can control, and reflexively withdraw, and semen squirts all over my face. I wipe it off on the back of my hand in disgust.
"Swallow it!" commands Marcia from her throne. "Swallow it, or I won't be convinced that you really are sorry."
Glancing down at my new outfit, I realize that it's not worth fighting, so I lick the jizz off my hand and swallow it, like the obedient slut that I am, and look at her for some sign of approval.
Instead, I see shock. I shake free of my reverie and understand why.
"You're not John. Who is this? Tyra, who is this man?"
"Why, Marcia, that's Vanessa now!"
"No, that's not what I mean. This is not the man I wanted you to punish!"
"What!?!"
"Who are you? Why didn't you resist?"
"But I did resist!" I protest. "I pleaded with them to check my ID. I told them I'm not John. But they did all this anyway!"
"Are you gay or something? Why did you suck Moe's cock then?"
"I didn't think I had a choice!"
"Oh my God! What have we done!"
With that, hysteria breaks loose in the room. Girls are crying and screaming, some are laughing. I am standing there in the middle of this chaos, still in my sexy lingerie and shoes, still tasting Moe's cum.
"We're so sorry," says Tyra into my ear, "We've made a terrible mistake. Please come with me."
Tyra seems like an entirely different person now as she leads me by the hand out of the room again. She leads me back to the salon, and hands me back my torn clothes.
"Here," she says, "put your stuff back on, and get out of here! And don't you dare tell anyone what happened!"
"You've got to be kidding me! I look like a fucking bimbo! How can I not tell anyone after what you've done to me! You yourself told me that there's no turning back!"
"Look, aside from the piercings and the permanent makeup, nobody ever has to see anything else."
"You made me do gay things! And you gave me hormones! What the fuck is that going to do to me?!?"
"You sucked that cock all on your own, boy. You've got only yourself to blame. Now get out!"
Showing a fierceness that she didn't show before, she shooed me out the door, still wearing my lingerie. I put my own clothes back on over top of it, took off the earrings, and staggered home in the darkness, only dimly aware of where I was and which direction I needed to go.
I hear women's voices all around me. "You never should have cheated on Marcia, you scumball. We're going to destroy you!" says one, threateningly.
Now, I have no idea who Marcia is. I've never met anyone by that name, much less cheated on her. In fact, I haven't had a girlfriend in months, and I'm the one who got cheated on and dumped. I try to explain that it's all a terrible mistake, but they were having none of it.
"John, don't be such a snivelling coward. Do you really think we'd let you off that easily?"
"But I'm not John! I swear! You've got to believe me! Look at my ID, it's in my back pocket!"
"Do you take us for fools? We know it's you, John, and you've been very, very naughty, and you will be punished. Are you going to take it like a man, or bitch and moan like a girl?"
After much pleading for my life, and them kicking me in the nuts, slapping, and punching my head, the van stops and they hustle me out of it and into some building. I have no clue where I am.
They tear the hood off my head and drag me kicking and screaming into a sort of bathroom, where they cut away all my clothes, lather me with some noxious-smelling substance, and spray me down. To my horror, all of my body hair washes away in the spray.
They restrain me again and wrap my limp penis in some sort of sleeve, which they then tuck between my butt cheeks, and tie. I feel something soft and silky being slid up my now smooth legs, which turns out to be some sort of underwear. Then I somehow have a bra put on me, matching the underwear, and I know I'm in trouble.
Unable to move, I feel a sharp pain around my navel, as two women lean over me. I feel something dangling from the spot where they put a hole in me.
They violently flip me over, and I can hear a soft buzzing sound approaching. For the next few hours, I feel them cutting into the skin of my lower back, and giggling about a "tramp stamp."
Next they wrap a corset around me, and while a group of them work on squeezing the air out of me as they tighten the waist, others take advantage of my almost fainting by slipping stockings onto each of my bald legs, and hooking them onto the garters of the corset, which, it turns out, has a sort of frilly skirt to it. Then they attach shoes with tight straps around my ankles.
They strap me down to a sort of chair, and start working on my face. There's a knife being pressed to my throat, so I don't dare to move. I hear buzzing again, and feel sharp pain as they colour my lips, cheeks and eyes. At the same time, they pinch my earlobes a few times with some kind of tool. Finally, they buzz off every hair on my head, and glue a blonde wig to my scalp.
At this point, they jab my arm with a needle, and as I gasp, they grasp my jaw, keeping it open, and press the knife even harder against my throat. They grab my tongue, and pinch it hard with another tool. It's agony. I can't withdraw it reflexively, because the tool has too firm a hold on it. As they remove the tool, they threaten me some more, as they attach something metallic to my tongue. Finally, they let go, and I can feel a pea-sized metallic lump on the top of my tongue.
Finally, they let me go. I stumble out of the chair to their laughter, nearly breaking my ankle as I lose my balance on my high stilletoes. They point me to a mirrored wall, but it takes me a few moments to recognize myself. I am now utterly feminized. If not for the broad shoulders and over-large hands, I'd look just like a sexy woman. My crotch is especially shockingly convincing, because my cock is tucked out of the way.
"Why have you done this to me?" I ask plaintively.
"John, Marcia was very, very upset when she found out about you and that tramp Vanessa."
"I'm NOT JOHN!" I scream, terrified and furious.
"No, you certainly are not, John," says the ringleader, snickering, "Not anymore."
All the other girls laugh heartily as I cower in the corner.
"From now on," the ringleader continues menacingly, "you yourself will be known as Vanessa, now that you look so much like her."
I am speechless.
"And just so you know, there's no turning back now. We've tattooed makeup onto your face, pierced your ears a few times, and your belly button, and your tongue, and given you a butterfly tattoo just above your ass. Your body hair won't be growing back for weeks, and nobody knows where you are. We've already injected you with your dose of hormones for the day. From now on, you serve Marcia hand and foot. Understand?"
Horrified, I nod my head. I stare at myself in the mirror. I'm astounded that all it took was a few hours to turn me into a girl.
"Now, Vanessa, let's go to your mistress, so you can pledge your eternal servitude."
I meekly follow her out of the salon, girls tittering behind my back. I can't walk very quickly with these stillettoes on, and they hurt my feet. I'm terrified to fall behind her, because I'm afraid of what she'll do to me. I am terribly conscious of my new appearance, as the pain on my face, my ears, my navel, my waist, my lower back, and my feet contrasts sharply against the softness and delicacy of my stockings, panties, corset, and bra. My penis swells painfully, restrained in its sleeve, as I take in my new femininity.
As we approach an ornate door, I am instructed to approach Marcia with my head bowed, walk slowly and meekly to her throne, and bow before her, begging for forgiveness, and offering myself to her service forever as a small token of remorse for my cheating on her. The first parts are not at all difficult, since I am horribly ashamed of what's happened to me. The next is not so easy, since I have no idea who Marcia is, and I am apparently being punished for someone else's crimes.
Before I can even speak, she screams at me. I haven't even looked at her yet. I still don't know what her face looks like, since my head has been bowed all this time.
"John... or should I say, Vanessa, you fucking scumbag! I hope you realize just how badly you fucked up! You're worthless! WORTHLESS! And now see where your few minutes of infedelity have landed you! I thought you would have known better!"
"Yes, your majesty," I reply meekly, too afraid to try to contradict her.
"Now, to show me just how sorry you are, Vanessa, you'll prove to me just how serious you are about renouncing your womanizing ways."
A muscular man, much bigger than me, and wearing no more than a thong, comes up to me, and picks me up off the ground, leaving me on my knees before him. He takes out his cock, a massive, throbbing, muscular thing which puts mine to shame, and sticks it in my face. He slaps my cheek with it. I have no choice, so I grasp it, hands trembling, and bring it to my mouth. I close my eyes as I put my lips around it, and feel it twitch.
I try not to notice the taste too much. I notice that he seems to twitch and groan when my studded tongue touches his head a certain way. I am so feminized! I am sucking cock! My own cock swells uncomfortably again between my butt cheeks. This is so unbelievably dirty! I find my hand jacking the base as I realize that I have tattoos and piercings the likes of which only the sluttiest skanks ever get. I am wearing clothes designed to make women look sexy. I'm more feminine than many women!
I gasp when I feel a pair of hands grab my waist and pull me up to my feet. I am careful not to let go of the penis in my hand, and quickly put it back into my mouth. Only now I feel another cock rubbing against my silky ass. Strong, powerful hands have me by my now shrunken waist. One hand lets go, and tugs at my panties. A dick head probes along my butt, and finds the opening. I gasp as it tears its way into me, but the penis in my mouth takes advantage of this loss of control to pump deeper, into my throat.
I have cock all over me, and I cringe with pain with each thrust into my ass. I can hardly concentrate on the one in my mouth. Soon enough, I feel the one in my ass pumping hot lava into me, relax, and withdraw. The strong hands release my little waist, and I resume tickling the dick head in my mouth with my tongue stud.
Finally, his body twitches and jerks, and I taste some salty paste in my mouth. I gag as he pumps his cock further in my mouth than I can control, and reflexively withdraw, and semen squirts all over my face. I wipe it off on the back of my hand in disgust.
"Swallow it!" commands Marcia from her throne. "Swallow it, or I won't be convinced that you really are sorry."
Glancing down at my new outfit, I realize that it's not worth fighting, so I lick the jizz off my hand and swallow it, like the obedient slut that I am, and look at her for some sign of approval.
Instead, I see shock. I shake free of my reverie and understand why.
"You're not John. Who is this? Tyra, who is this man?"
"Why, Marcia, that's Vanessa now!"
"No, that's not what I mean. This is not the man I wanted you to punish!"
"What!?!"
"Who are you? Why didn't you resist?"
"But I did resist!" I protest. "I pleaded with them to check my ID. I told them I'm not John. But they did all this anyway!"
"Are you gay or something? Why did you suck Moe's cock then?"
"I didn't think I had a choice!"
"Oh my God! What have we done!"
With that, hysteria breaks loose in the room. Girls are crying and screaming, some are laughing. I am standing there in the middle of this chaos, still in my sexy lingerie and shoes, still tasting Moe's cum.
"We're so sorry," says Tyra into my ear, "We've made a terrible mistake. Please come with me."
Tyra seems like an entirely different person now as she leads me by the hand out of the room again. She leads me back to the salon, and hands me back my torn clothes.
"Here," she says, "put your stuff back on, and get out of here! And don't you dare tell anyone what happened!"
"You've got to be kidding me! I look like a fucking bimbo! How can I not tell anyone after what you've done to me! You yourself told me that there's no turning back!"
"Look, aside from the piercings and the permanent makeup, nobody ever has to see anything else."
"You made me do gay things! And you gave me hormones! What the fuck is that going to do to me?!?"
"You sucked that cock all on your own, boy. You've got only yourself to blame. Now get out!"
Showing a fierceness that she didn't show before, she shooed me out the door, still wearing my lingerie. I put my own clothes back on over top of it, took off the earrings, and staggered home in the darkness, only dimly aware of where I was and which direction I needed to go.
Fantasy: My First Fantasy
This is what I used to fantasize about when I was a boy:
Women are determined to catch men, and turn them into girls for their amusement. Men catch on and learn to resist. They catch me, and start turning me. They start me off with pantyhose. I know that my only hope is to have some layer to protect me, so I put the pantyhose on over my own underwear. But the girliness seeps through somehow anyway, and I'm tainted. The women catch on, and force me to do it without protection. I try to cling to something masculine: first, a t-shirt, then maybe a watch or a ring -- anything at all. But at last, I am left completely without protection.
(In reality, that's exactly how I progressed. I didn't dare wear anything else, because it was too feminine; even this was dangerously girlie, and I risked becoming feminized each time I wore it.)
The problem is temptation: a small, weak part of me wants to give in to the girls, because it feels so good. But I must continue to resist. Without the protection, I feel utterly helpless, and I fear the next stage: leotards!
(once again, I had to move forward slowly. I couldn't just wear a swimsuit without protection, because it's far more feminine. At first, I tried it on with my underwear on, but I wanted more. I couldn't dare, so I dreamed up this fantasy of leotards, which were in fashion at the time. I did this by wearing a swimsuit over pantyhose. Eventually, I found a real leotard, but only after it was much too late.)
The women force me to wear pantyhose ten times before I get leotards. Halfway through it my fear turns to curiosity. By the end, it's fantasy. When at last the first ultra-feminine shock of leotards hits me, my fear returns. It's too much! What have I done! I must resist! I can't give in to this girliness, or else all is lost! But they will force me to wear leotards 100 times before I am worthy of wearing a one-piece swimsuit. The thought horrifies and excites me at the same time.
I ease into the transition, because the leotard tights are similar to pantyhose, but with the added terror of the bodysuit, with its high leg cuts. Bathing suits, of course, look just like the leotard without the tights.
(I probably gave in almost immediately to the swimsuit. I was still very apprehensive about it for a long time, and only wore it when I was desperately overcome.)
Sooner than I realize, I finish my 100-leotard initiation. I am given a fairly modest one-piece swimsuit. I must wear 1000 of these before I can touch a bikini. I nervously put it on, wishing I had some protection again. The sensation is so intensely feminine that I come almost immediately. I am blown away. I know now that I am utterly feminized in my heart, and only my body remains. I love the idea of wearing 1000 one-piece swimsuits, but I can't wait to put on a bikini.
(I now have discovered a less modest swimsuit, and after a few lame attempts in my own underwear, furtively, nervously, afraid of being caught, I dare to do it completely unprotected. The sensation utterly destroys my inhibitions. I am overwhelmed by its femininity, and I know now that there's no point in pretending to protect myself. I am beyond protection now.)
The 1000 swimsuit trial drives me insane with desire for a bikini. I desperately want a bikini! But the women won't let me have one. At some point, I manage to sneak into their storeroom, and secretly put one on outside of their schedule. I know that they schedule it this way to properly prepare us for womanhood, and that breaking with the schedule puts me at risk of becoming too feminine, but I don't care!
(I don't have access to any bikinis. I must rationalize my lack of one by pretending that I have to go through an ordeal before I am worthy. But my fantasies won't be restrained. I fantasize about lingerie, too, even though it's practically inconceivable to me to ever get any.)
I make a habit of sneaking to the store after wearing a one-piece all day. I am now trying on bikinis, teddies, garter belts, stockings, and everything I can get my hands on. Nobody needs to know! By the time I get to bikinis legitimately, the women are surprised at how easily I handle it, and how easily I put it on. They suspect, but I don't care! I'm supposed to wear 10,000 bikinis before I can wear any kind of panties, but I've already done that, so what do they know?
(I stole bikini bottoms from someone's dresser. I couldn't dare with the bra, because I was both afraid of getting caught, and convinced myself that the bra wouldn't do anything for me. It's not like I really wanted to be that girlish, after all, I told myself. It was just another defense mechanism, even this late in the game. Eventually, I stole another bikini, but with the bra this time. I could hardly just go with the panties anymore, because now I craved the fully feminine outfit.)
The women, it turns out, have known all along about my secret escapades. In fact, they secretly encouraged it. The schedule is fake, and is made to test my desire, and push it over the edge. We laugh about it as I put on an bustier, panties, stockings, and shoes, and go merrily along being girlie.
(At this point in the fantasy, I come all over myself, and suffer terrible guilt and shame.)
Women are determined to catch men, and turn them into girls for their amusement. Men catch on and learn to resist. They catch me, and start turning me. They start me off with pantyhose. I know that my only hope is to have some layer to protect me, so I put the pantyhose on over my own underwear. But the girliness seeps through somehow anyway, and I'm tainted. The women catch on, and force me to do it without protection. I try to cling to something masculine: first, a t-shirt, then maybe a watch or a ring -- anything at all. But at last, I am left completely without protection.
(In reality, that's exactly how I progressed. I didn't dare wear anything else, because it was too feminine; even this was dangerously girlie, and I risked becoming feminized each time I wore it.)
The problem is temptation: a small, weak part of me wants to give in to the girls, because it feels so good. But I must continue to resist. Without the protection, I feel utterly helpless, and I fear the next stage: leotards!
(once again, I had to move forward slowly. I couldn't just wear a swimsuit without protection, because it's far more feminine. At first, I tried it on with my underwear on, but I wanted more. I couldn't dare, so I dreamed up this fantasy of leotards, which were in fashion at the time. I did this by wearing a swimsuit over pantyhose. Eventually, I found a real leotard, but only after it was much too late.)
The women force me to wear pantyhose ten times before I get leotards. Halfway through it my fear turns to curiosity. By the end, it's fantasy. When at last the first ultra-feminine shock of leotards hits me, my fear returns. It's too much! What have I done! I must resist! I can't give in to this girliness, or else all is lost! But they will force me to wear leotards 100 times before I am worthy of wearing a one-piece swimsuit. The thought horrifies and excites me at the same time.
I ease into the transition, because the leotard tights are similar to pantyhose, but with the added terror of the bodysuit, with its high leg cuts. Bathing suits, of course, look just like the leotard without the tights.
(I probably gave in almost immediately to the swimsuit. I was still very apprehensive about it for a long time, and only wore it when I was desperately overcome.)
Sooner than I realize, I finish my 100-leotard initiation. I am given a fairly modest one-piece swimsuit. I must wear 1000 of these before I can touch a bikini. I nervously put it on, wishing I had some protection again. The sensation is so intensely feminine that I come almost immediately. I am blown away. I know now that I am utterly feminized in my heart, and only my body remains. I love the idea of wearing 1000 one-piece swimsuits, but I can't wait to put on a bikini.
(I now have discovered a less modest swimsuit, and after a few lame attempts in my own underwear, furtively, nervously, afraid of being caught, I dare to do it completely unprotected. The sensation utterly destroys my inhibitions. I am overwhelmed by its femininity, and I know now that there's no point in pretending to protect myself. I am beyond protection now.)
The 1000 swimsuit trial drives me insane with desire for a bikini. I desperately want a bikini! But the women won't let me have one. At some point, I manage to sneak into their storeroom, and secretly put one on outside of their schedule. I know that they schedule it this way to properly prepare us for womanhood, and that breaking with the schedule puts me at risk of becoming too feminine, but I don't care!
(I don't have access to any bikinis. I must rationalize my lack of one by pretending that I have to go through an ordeal before I am worthy. But my fantasies won't be restrained. I fantasize about lingerie, too, even though it's practically inconceivable to me to ever get any.)
I make a habit of sneaking to the store after wearing a one-piece all day. I am now trying on bikinis, teddies, garter belts, stockings, and everything I can get my hands on. Nobody needs to know! By the time I get to bikinis legitimately, the women are surprised at how easily I handle it, and how easily I put it on. They suspect, but I don't care! I'm supposed to wear 10,000 bikinis before I can wear any kind of panties, but I've already done that, so what do they know?
(I stole bikini bottoms from someone's dresser. I couldn't dare with the bra, because I was both afraid of getting caught, and convinced myself that the bra wouldn't do anything for me. It's not like I really wanted to be that girlish, after all, I told myself. It was just another defense mechanism, even this late in the game. Eventually, I stole another bikini, but with the bra this time. I could hardly just go with the panties anymore, because now I craved the fully feminine outfit.)
The women, it turns out, have known all along about my secret escapades. In fact, they secretly encouraged it. The schedule is fake, and is made to test my desire, and push it over the edge. We laugh about it as I put on an bustier, panties, stockings, and shoes, and go merrily along being girlie.
(At this point in the fantasy, I come all over myself, and suffer terrible guilt and shame.)
I can't be trusted
My wife had a friend over today. While I went to work, they hung out around town, and spent some time sunbathing by the pool. Now they're out to dinner. Her friend left her bag in our place, and I'm all alone with some time to kill.
Of course I'm going to wear her bikini and sundress! And only I will ever know about it.
Of course I'm going to wear her bikini and sundress! And only I will ever know about it.
A Dream
I dreamed last night that my wife and I had a big soiree to attend. So I went to a mall to buy myself something to wear, but I was obsessed with buying girlie stuff. Back at home, getting ready, I put on black panties and black tights. My wife wasn't totally unhappy about it. I was going to wear a short, tight skirt, but she had me put on some pants instead and out we went.
The party is a blur of old high school acquaintances and evening wear. Of course, at some point I think I ended up without my pants, exposing my tights, but it was taken as perfectly normal.
When it was time to go home, we had to return my pants to the store for some reason. The owner was furious about having to deal with a tranny like me, and kicked us out of his store. Then he followed us with a gun, me happily without my pants again. I wasn't afraid of him at all. He kept missing, until finally I fought him, and woke up.
What was interesting about this was that my wife, who in reality has no clue about my secret, knew about and tolerated it, as long as it remained private. How I wish that were true, but I'm far too chicken to ever tell her.
The party is a blur of old high school acquaintances and evening wear. Of course, at some point I think I ended up without my pants, exposing my tights, but it was taken as perfectly normal.
When it was time to go home, we had to return my pants to the store for some reason. The owner was furious about having to deal with a tranny like me, and kicked us out of his store. Then he followed us with a gun, me happily without my pants again. I wasn't afraid of him at all. He kept missing, until finally I fought him, and woke up.
What was interesting about this was that my wife, who in reality has no clue about my secret, knew about and tolerated it, as long as it remained private. How I wish that were true, but I'm far too chicken to ever tell her.
Diary: Stages
The stages:
- awareness: subject becomes aware that some men wear women's clothing for a sexual kick
- - understands that it's not just for fags
- awakening: subject understands the erotic appeal
- understands the inherent femininity of women's underwear, skirts, bathing suits, etc.
- feels a slight flush of curiosity about bondage scenarios with forced feminization, and what it would do to a man
- experimentation: subject is curious enough to try for himself
- tries on some fetish (stockings, underwear, bathing suit, whatever) either by "force" (visit to a dominatrix) or out of boredom, and fulfills himself sexually with it
- tries on some fetish (stockings, underwear, bathing suit, whatever) either by "force" (visit to a dominatrix) or out of boredom, and fulfills himself sexually with it
- humiliation: subject begins to worry that his experiments are destroying his manhood
- as experimentation repeats, and becomes a habit, our subject denies himself as much as possible
- rationalizes by saying he likes the feel of tight silk against his crotch, that it has nothing to do with panties being feminine
- escalation: subject tries on skankier and skankier clothes, as his humiliation drives his desire (this may require more explanation)
- prolonged privation leads to exponentially increased desire: the longer he goes without wearing panties (or whatever), the more extreme his fantasies become.
This is absolutely key: his fantasies from the beginning are about becoming feminine, but he's hardly even aware of it. It drives his first fantasies, but doesn't fully enter his consciousness, because he's rationalizing it. As he denies himself, the fantasies, unfulfilled, have more time to develop, and creep more into his conscious mind. When he eventually gives in to his irrational desires, mere panties aren't good enough: in his fantasies, he's becoming completely female, and so he wants his reality to come closer to his overwhelming fantasy. He gets himself a bra, and is shocked at how it magnifies his climax. It also magnifies his shame, and leads him to deny himself again. This in turn leads to even more outrageous fantasies, which he eventually fulfills by wearing something even more feminine. Before he knows it, he's wearing lingerie, stockings, heels, makeup, etc. and hating himself more and more for it. - "I'm not gay"
- subject is in denial about his secret cocksucking fantasies
- subject invariably feels deep shame when he comes, and when not under the grip of his fantasies, wants to abandon them (which makes them so much more potent)
- prolonged privation leads to exponentially increased desire: the longer he goes without wearing panties (or whatever), the more extreme his fantasies become.
- capitulation: subject accepts and understands that he now wants to be a girl (still privately)
- accepts that he dresses up because he wants to be feminine
- unabashedly fantasizes about sucking cock
- exhibition: subject comes out of closet
- everything was hidden up to now.
- wears at least something feminine at all times
- strives to go out in drag, hoping to pass
- parties at gay bars, trolling for cock
- gets fucked by men
- transformation: subject strives to physically become a woman through surgery, hormones, etc.
- ultimate fulfillment: growing boobs, having vaginoplasty, feeling a cock pump giz into neovagina
A Morning Adventure
I took the morning off from work because I'm expecting a delivery of furniture between 10:30 and 12:30. We've just moved, and I've been surrounded by clutter for the last few days, including piles of ___'s underwear, shoes, and various other fantasy-inducing ultra-feminine items. I've been holding it together quite well, mainly from the fatigue of lugging heavy boxes and furniture, but every now and then something catches my eye, and I briefly speculate about putting on something girly.
I crawled into bed last night completely free of such thoughts. As I drifted off to sleep, I nearly jolted awake remembering that I would have the morning mostly to myself! I immediately began to fantasize about wearing stockings, or maybe ___'s fishnet tights. I'd have her entire wardrobe at my disposal. I fell asleep thinking about some of her more elaborate lingerie.
While I stayed in bed watching her get ready, I was eager to get into something -- anything! -- feminine. I wanted to slip into the black and pink silk nightie she had under her pillow. I wanted to steal a pair of her panties. I controlled myself, and waited patiently for her to leave. Then I calmly took care of some business while having a leisurely breakfast.
Unfortunately, I realized then that I had a quick errand to run, and that I had better do it well before the delivery arrives. But I didn't want to lose time I could have otherwise spent feminizing myself. The best solution, I realized, would be to put on some lingerie, and hide it with my regular clothes as I ran my errand. This would satisfy my craving, and it would give me the added thrill of secretly running around town in frilly panties.
With heart aflutter, I retired to the bedroom, carefully picking through piles of clothes, in search for ___'s black bustier, matching panties, and stockings. I was eager to feel stockings on my legs, and I wanted a feminine treat, and this is the most outrageously feminine outfit I could think of. I chuckled as I put on my own jeans and t-shirt, luxuriating in the sensation of my legs in stockings and garters. I didn't bother with socks, for an added thrill.
Within 10 minutes, I had accomplished my mission, and returned home completely undetected. I could now frolic around to my heart's content for an hour or so until the delivery arrived.
Naturally, I couldn't do this without proper shoes, so I rummaged through a box where I knew I could find the one pair of ___'s shoes I can actually squeeze my feet into. As I sat down near the front door to buckle the sandal strap of the first shoe around my ankles, I heard voices outside. I dismissed them, thinking they must be neighbors, and certainly not the deliverymen I was expecting to show up more than an hour later. As I was working my way into the other shoe, there was a knock on the door.
Panicked, I shouted to please give me a minute. Twice. With one shoe on, I hopped into the bedroom, desperate to divest myself of this embarrassing outfit. There was no way I could remove the shoes, stockings, and corset in any reasonable amount of time. There was no way I would let anyone catch the slightest hint of me like this. The only way was to put on my jeans and t-shirt again, with a loose sweater to avoid showing bra straps and cups through the shirt. But there was one more problem: my stockinged feet.
Since I had no time (nor desire, truly) to unhook the stockings from the garters, my feet were obviously in black hose. This would surely be most obvious to the deliverymen. I needed to hide my feet somehow. Amazingly, it took me an agonizing 5 seconds or so to think of putting on socks. When the idea finally occurred to me, I realized that I had no idea where my socks were. I was panicking, knowing that the deliverymen were waiting at the door. Then it came to me: while I had no idea which pile contained my socks, I remembered that some recently laundered ones sat on a chair, right by the front entrance. But that would also be suicidal. As I calmed myself down, I noticed a pair in a laundry basket, and coolly put them on.
The men dropped off my furniture, oblivious to the secrets I share with Victoria. They were an hour early, and caught me quite literally with my pants down. Within ten minutes of moving boxes around and a polite amount of small talk, they left.
I had dodged a bullet. As an added bonus, I now had the rest of the morning to play dress-up. I practically tore off my man clothes, and put the sexy sandals back on as soon as they were gone. Then I put on a gorgeous little skirt and strutted around for a while. I like to prolong my pleasure by doing mundane things around the house en femme. I write this now wearing the same outfit described above. Perhaps there will be more.
Have I learned nothing from my adventure this morning?
I crawled into bed last night completely free of such thoughts. As I drifted off to sleep, I nearly jolted awake remembering that I would have the morning mostly to myself! I immediately began to fantasize about wearing stockings, or maybe ___'s fishnet tights. I'd have her entire wardrobe at my disposal. I fell asleep thinking about some of her more elaborate lingerie.
While I stayed in bed watching her get ready, I was eager to get into something -- anything! -- feminine. I wanted to slip into the black and pink silk nightie she had under her pillow. I wanted to steal a pair of her panties. I controlled myself, and waited patiently for her to leave. Then I calmly took care of some business while having a leisurely breakfast.
Unfortunately, I realized then that I had a quick errand to run, and that I had better do it well before the delivery arrives. But I didn't want to lose time I could have otherwise spent feminizing myself. The best solution, I realized, would be to put on some lingerie, and hide it with my regular clothes as I ran my errand. This would satisfy my craving, and it would give me the added thrill of secretly running around town in frilly panties.
With heart aflutter, I retired to the bedroom, carefully picking through piles of clothes, in search for ___'s black bustier, matching panties, and stockings. I was eager to feel stockings on my legs, and I wanted a feminine treat, and this is the most outrageously feminine outfit I could think of. I chuckled as I put on my own jeans and t-shirt, luxuriating in the sensation of my legs in stockings and garters. I didn't bother with socks, for an added thrill.
Within 10 minutes, I had accomplished my mission, and returned home completely undetected. I could now frolic around to my heart's content for an hour or so until the delivery arrived.
Naturally, I couldn't do this without proper shoes, so I rummaged through a box where I knew I could find the one pair of ___'s shoes I can actually squeeze my feet into. As I sat down near the front door to buckle the sandal strap of the first shoe around my ankles, I heard voices outside. I dismissed them, thinking they must be neighbors, and certainly not the deliverymen I was expecting to show up more than an hour later. As I was working my way into the other shoe, there was a knock on the door.
Panicked, I shouted to please give me a minute. Twice. With one shoe on, I hopped into the bedroom, desperate to divest myself of this embarrassing outfit. There was no way I could remove the shoes, stockings, and corset in any reasonable amount of time. There was no way I would let anyone catch the slightest hint of me like this. The only way was to put on my jeans and t-shirt again, with a loose sweater to avoid showing bra straps and cups through the shirt. But there was one more problem: my stockinged feet.
Since I had no time (nor desire, truly) to unhook the stockings from the garters, my feet were obviously in black hose. This would surely be most obvious to the deliverymen. I needed to hide my feet somehow. Amazingly, it took me an agonizing 5 seconds or so to think of putting on socks. When the idea finally occurred to me, I realized that I had no idea where my socks were. I was panicking, knowing that the deliverymen were waiting at the door. Then it came to me: while I had no idea which pile contained my socks, I remembered that some recently laundered ones sat on a chair, right by the front entrance. But that would also be suicidal. As I calmed myself down, I noticed a pair in a laundry basket, and coolly put them on.
The men dropped off my furniture, oblivious to the secrets I share with Victoria. They were an hour early, and caught me quite literally with my pants down. Within ten minutes of moving boxes around and a polite amount of small talk, they left.
I had dodged a bullet. As an added bonus, I now had the rest of the morning to play dress-up. I practically tore off my man clothes, and put the sexy sandals back on as soon as they were gone. Then I put on a gorgeous little skirt and strutted around for a while. I like to prolong my pleasure by doing mundane things around the house en femme. I write this now wearing the same outfit described above. Perhaps there will be more.
Have I learned nothing from my adventure this morning?
Changes
I'm taking a new stab at this. Previous attempts were far too explicit and potentially non-anonymous. What can I say? I was in the grip of my delusions. Looking back, it was little more than an exercise in exhibitionism.
While I stopped posting out of sheer embarrassment, I haven't stopped dressing up like a girl and frolicking about like a randy tart. I've also developed some ideas for content offline, which I am glad to start sharing. I have multiple streams of thought to dip into. Perhaps someone will even read it.
Updates will be irregular and infrequent. There will be no photos.
While I stopped posting out of sheer embarrassment, I haven't stopped dressing up like a girl and frolicking about like a randy tart. I've also developed some ideas for content offline, which I am glad to start sharing. I have multiple streams of thought to dip into. Perhaps someone will even read it.
Updates will be irregular and infrequent. There will be no photos.
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.
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.
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