f708_454genresxdresshisbraDo you love bras? I do. I have a whole drawer-full of them. Lacy cups, stretchy straps - irresistible! My love affair with bras goes back a long way. When I first tried on my sister's clothes as a teenager, perhaps the most interesting - and pleasurable - garment was the bra. Flat chested, I had no real need to wear it, but didn't consider omitting it as I dressed. The web of straps was completely alien to the clothes in my own drawers. That, in itself, was exciting. Slipping the straps over my shoulders was no problem. Then, I tried to fasten it behind my back. The hook and eye seemed to occupy that area of the back where one can never scratch an itch - I tried reaching from below, I tried reaching down from above. Neither did the least little bit of good. f671_724gnrsxdofbrapage4I struggled with the bra for ages and, eventually, I gave in. Unlooping my arms from the shoulder straps, I turned the bra back-to-front and fastened it around my chest. Then, I swivelled it back and wriggled my arms back through the shoulder straps. Admitting defeat on fastening the bra behind my back was the most disappointing part of trying on my sister's clothes. I had a sense of cheating, of not doing the thing properly. On subsequent occasions - and there were, of course, many of them - I tried repeatedly to engage the elusive hook and eye behind my back. The struggle became a regular feature of my dressing. That was over half a lifetime ago. many things have changed since then, and - not least - I have changed. No longer do I struggle to fix the bra behind my back. Without thinking about it, I fasten my bra in a similar way to that first attempt. I do it rapidly, with more assurance and usually without geting the straps tangled - but the method remains much the same. Over the years, I must have seen a number of women putting on their bras, but, oddly, cannot recall how any of them managed it. They include a wife to whom I was married for ten years. Perhaps my teenage feeling of putting the bra on wrongly placed some psychological block in the way of taking note of the methods real women used? Bras do not have to fasten at the back, although that remains the standard way of fixing them. Front fastening bras exist - indeed, I have one in my collection. I haven't seen one, but I know side fastening bras have also been made. Apart from front, side and back fastening, the fourth possibility is not to fasten at all. I f671_722gnrsxdofbrapage1also have a bra with no breaks in the straps, which I put over my head, as though it was a camisole. It's made from a stretchy fabric but - in spite of that - of all the many bras I own, it is the most difficult to put on. I suppose my teenage self would have liked that, but would have regretted its lack of hooks and eyes - so different from the ways in which male clothes were allowed to fasten. The bra without hooks and eyes hugs me delightfully - and it is very pretty - but I don't wear it very often.  
  f671_723gnrsxdofbrapage2Fastening I think that the difficulty in fastening the bra was one of its attractions in my early cross dressing days. For the same reason I then enjoyed struggling into dresses with back zips. One element may have had to do with enjoying the process of dressing in girls' clothes. There were so many experiences to be savoured. If it took a while to struggle into a garment, that prolonged the process, gave me longer to savour it. Now - it seems - I enjoy being dressed rather than enjoy the process of dressing. I still take pleasure in wearing a bra - but very little in putting it on. There may also be a link between difference and difficulty. If it was difficult to put clothes on, it was at least partially because they were different from my male garments. There would have been no point in taking the risk of wearing my sister's things if they were no different from mine. The reasons I no longer feel that way are probably complex. For one thing, difference is second cousin to novelty. Once something is familar it is no longer different - and wearing women's clothes has certainly become familiar. More - over the years I have become increasingly comfortable with my cross dressing. The clothes help me to feel the way I am. They are an extension of an inner, feminine, me. The familiarity of the bra, not it's difference, is something I now enjoy - an expression of the me with whom I've struggled to come to terms, and whom I now treasure.   Finally, perhaps, there were considerations around adventure and danger. Exploring my sister's clothes from the inside - and making the first steps to explore my feminine self - was an adventure. Nor was it an adventure without danger. I cross dressed when alone in the house - but I was not in control of my family's movements. People could return unexpectedly (and, on at least one occasion, did so). I didn't know exactly how they would react to discovering me in my sister's clothes, but preferred not to find out. There is a sense that an adventure is not an adventure unless there are difficulties and dangers on the way. The difficulties increase the dangers. If something was difficult to put on, it would also be - to some extent - difficult to take off. The scene is easy to picture. The sound of a key in the lock. Me struggling with a zip at my back, and then with the bra fastenings. The sweetness of that danger of discovery! Now, I share a house with a fellow transvestite - and all of that teenage danger is far in the past. In recent years, however, I have once more known the sweetness of danger - by stepping out publicly in woman's clothes. Before I reached this stage in development, there was another sense of danger connected with the bra. This surfaced when I ventured out in feminine undies beneath my male clothes. It must be a step which many transvestites take. There didn't seem much danger in wearing women's knickers. They were unlikely to come to light unless I had an accident, in which case being exposed as a transvestite would not be my most pressing problem. On the other hand, I was a good deal less confident that the bra could not be seen through my shirt than that the knickers could not be seen through my jeans. This piled on a whole lot of fresh dangerous glamour to wearing my bras. After all, women's bra straps are often visible through the fabric of their blouses - especially from the back. I sometimes wonder whether women are unaware of this, or do it deliberately. Either way, the bra is the most frequently displayed item of women's underwear. I find that very attractive. On many occasions, dressing at home, I have craned my neck to see in the mirror whether I could glimpse my bra straps through the back of my blouse. There was always a pleasure in being able to trace them, and a disappointment in failing to do so.  
  Pleasure in wearing a bra beneath my male shirt led me on to a further piece of boldness. I started to take delight in hanging my freshly washed bras on the line in the back garden. There are few, if any, garments more instantly visible as non-male. Pegging out my bras, I had a feeling of displaying my transvestism to any neighbours who cared to look. That I enjoyed. The difficulty in struggling into it is not the aspect of wearing a bra to which my attitude has changed over the years. Trying one on for the first time, it felt - to my delight - quite different from anything I had worn before. It was uncomfortable - but an enjoyable discomfort. Today, I find my bras a lot more comfortable - and that now pleases me. These days, I look for three things in my bras - support, comfort and prettiness. I think that a lot of women would list the same things, and often in that order. Of these, the desire for support stems from my using correct weight breast prostheses - which are quite heavy and do need supporting. Comfort has to do with not liking my bra straps to cut in. The prettiness is the icing on the cake, but attractive trims and fabrics - such as lace - continue to delight me. They represent a lot of the point in cross dressing. The question of support brings us to the function of the bra. Essentially, it is a device for supporting the breasts. When I first tried on my sister's clothes, I don't think this had occurred to me. The bra was simply something girls wore. If I was to dress as a girl - and I was determined to do so - that meant wearing a bra. One day on the beach, the inter-relelationship of bra and breasts were brought to my attention. My sister had changed into her swimming costume, leaving her clothes in a neat pile with the bra at the top. It was a new one which I hadn't yet worn. While my sister went off for a swim, one of her school friends picked up the bra and said "I didn't realise that she needed falsies." The friend certainly had much larger breasts than my sister - and there was an element of bitchiness to the remark.'Falsies' was overstating the case but, unlike any of the bras I had tried on, it was padded. In each cup was a fairly stiff sponge rubber cone. For the first time, the bra presented itself to me as something to hold breasts - rather than just something girls wore. I know, too, that there would be no peace for me until I'd worn the padded bra. I had no breasts, and those 'falsies' were the nearest thing available to me. A desire had been awakened within me which would lead, many years later, to my prosthetic breasts. When I finally I had the chance to wear the padded bra, it came as a disappointment. Without small breasts inside the cups, they simply didn't work. They may have the power to make a real girl look as though she cups a size larger than reality, they didn't have the power to make my flat chest look as though I had breasts.  
  The idea of a padded bra had been placed in my mind. What I used were things from my sister's undies drawer - usually knickers. I rather over-did it. Not content with filling the bra cups, I inserterd several more pairs than they could hold. My reasoning was 'the bigger the better' - common enough thinking amongst transvestites, but not a view I still hold. In some ways, I was pleased with the effect of the knicker padded bra. In other ways, I remained doubtful about it. My doubts centred around taking measures which, I felt, a real girl would not. In a sense, it made me feel less girlish. On the other hand, it had a gratifying effect on my reflection in the mirror - especially when I wore something with a bit of stretch. During the years as a closet transvestite, the stretchiness of my sister's - and then my own - tops was probably the decisive factor in whether or not I chose to pad the bra. if it was stretchy I used padding, if it wasn't I didn't bother. As a variant on using undies to fill my bra, I also tried cotton wool. Eventually my choice fell on camisoles - I found that a neatly folded camisole was about the right size for filling a bra cup, without over-filling it. Moreover, two camisoles formed two equal sized breasts - collections of knickers proved difficult to keep even sized. I recall, long after my teens, cross-dressing for my future wife. "You're wearing a bra!"she said with obvious surprise in her voice. I was surprised by her surprise. Of course I was wearing a bra - it was an inevitable part of dressing as a woman. I hadn't attempted to pad it partly because the dress I was wearing wasn't of a stretch fabric. It was also partly because having the padding fall out as she undressed me would only emphasise my flat chesteness, and detract from the experience. It was only when I started to expose my feminine side to the public gaze - in clubs - that padding my bra became a matter of course. Belatedly, I became aware that, without my padding, my clothes didn't hang properly. With this awareness, my bras took on a fresh significance. I was still using two camisoles as breasts, and there was no way to hold them in position without a bra. Increasingly, I became aware of the shortcomings of the camisole in that role. Not before time, I bought a pair of cheap boobs. I suppose I could have glued these into place, but I never did so. One advantage of using a bra, rather than glue, was that it ensured that the boobs were correctly placed. It's unexpectedly difficult to figure precisely where the breasts should be. Another reason is that, from the start, I've liked bras, enjoyed wearing them - and still don't feel properly dressed without one. At last I gave up on the boobs and invested in a proper pair of prosthetic breasts. It was a step I've never regretted - except to regret that I didn't buy a pair years before. The prosthetic breasts have changed the sensation of wearing a bra. They are the correct weight - which means that they weigh heavily in the cups. The heavy cups tug on the bra straps in a way in which the boobs - and lighter forms of padding - never did. It's a wonderful feeling. Over the years my love affair with the bra has seen many changes. The older I grow, the more I love my bras. This is no mere infatuation, it's the real thing.

I mean, it is not as if I usually buy chainstore clothes. No, I go for something a little less obvious; the dress or outfit to be found as a one-off in the smaller boutiques. Not the sort of thing one is likely to meet every other day in the high street. I can remember the first time it happened very clearly. She had just come out of the hairdresser's as I happened to be passing. She was young, attractive, had a good figure, an excellent complexion and she knew how to carry herself. She swung into the street with an air of complete confidence. She was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted in life and was determined to get it. And she would be very choosy, not one to fall for the first fellow in trousers. She would take her time, leave nothing to chance, choose coolly and carefully, just as she chose her clothes. And in any partnership, she would have at the very least an equal voice. f479_170gnrsxdskirtpage1.jpgBut none of these reflections occurred to me as I saw her emerge from the hairdresser's door. No, what caught my attention was the skirt, the long patterned skirt swinging about her thighs as she strode purposefully up the street. It was my skirt. Well, not quite, because I was well aware that my skirt was still hanging in my wardrobe in the bedroom of my flat, only twice worn since I had bought it at the little shop whose proprietress had assured me that it was an unusual buy. No doubt she was right. I knew her well and I had always been guided to my entire satisfaction by her in the choice of my clothes. Nevertheless, here it was flowing about the legs of this young woman, contributing as did everything else about her to her undeniable attractiveness. And I felt a small thrill because she had chosen what I had chosen. We had something in common, she and I, a similar taste in clothes, for what had impelled her to buy that skirt for herself was no doubt exactly what had motivated me. We shared the same feminine taste. Attributes I watched her as she walked along the street until she passed from my sight, noting her appearance and all those attributes which I had already described. I wondered idly who she was, what she would think if I approached her and told her I also possessed a skirt exactly the same as she was wearing, how much I liked it, how much I enjoyed wearing it, feeling it wrapped around my legs, billowing in the breeze as I walked, its silky smoothness caressing my nylons and the gentle swishing sound it made. The memory of that brief encounter has remained with me for a long time now, although I have never seen her again. And with the memory the same thrill returns, especially when I wear my skirt. It gives me an extra confidence; I walk with more self conscious pride, head held high, breasts proud, hips swaying. At times I have changed my wardrobe, had a good clear-out, consigned the unfashionable to the charity shop and the worn out to the textile bank, but I could never part with her skirt. It remains in fashion. It is still very beautiful to wear...

A NIGHT OUT WITH THE GIRLS

  "Mickey, why don't you come over and comb my hair for me?" She said drawing me closer to her. As I then stood behind her and began to run the comb through her hair I could feel myself getting more and more lost in her hair. She began telling me how easy it was to get lost in it. How soft it was, how thick and how deep. Her perfume began to filter up and around my entire head, losing me more under her spell. The comb began to get heavier and heavier in my hand until I couldn't hold it anymore and it fell to the floor. I just stood there staring into her hair and smelling her perfume. She then laughed and suggested that I bend over and smell her hair and feel it on my face. By this time I was so mindless that I could not resist her. I bent over and began to brush my face with her hair. She then talked about my getting lost in it. And how I was becoming mindless and stupid and weak. "That's it, Mickey. Just let your mind become blank. Just get lost in my hair. You're getting trapped there, Mickey. You are getting lost. Deeper and deeper. You can't escape. You are lost in my hair. That's it.. Just get lost, mindless, stupid and weak. That's it..." I was now so weak and under her control that when she told me to take off my clothes I found it to be something that I had to do. I stripped naked. She wheeled around and made me look deeply into her eyes. She laughed at me as she began to caress me, making me very, very hard. I was falling deeper and deeper under her spell. I was lost. She told me that I would do anything that she told me to. And I agreed. She then asked me if I wanted to be a girl. And she made me beg for her to turn me into a girl. "That's it, Mickey. You will do anything and everything that I tell you. That's it. You're under my spell my pet. You are under my hypnotic spell. Now, wouldn't you like me to turn you into my lesbian slave? Hmmmm? How would that be for me to lose you in softness and make you my lesbian girl slave? Would you like that my pet?" And I begged her to to do it. At that point she made me kiss her love canal. She pushed my face to her soft patch and I began to kiss her magic place with my lips over and over again. She kept telling me how she was going to turn me into a girl and make me her slave. I was getting harder and harder as she spoke. Her body began to tremble greatly as she then found my lips to be bringing her to that point of explosion. She laughed at me with how she had so easily now made me her slave and she told me that she was going to lose me forever in softness. And with that, her hips jerked upwards and her back arched with her exploding before me.
    Sitting back into the chair she then told me to crawl into the closet with her. I did so. Once in there she then bound me to the wall rings. My hands and feet now could not move to protect me. I was completely at her mercy. She laughed at me again and told me how she was going to make me really beg to be turned into a girl. All that Diane was wearing was a black sattin nightie to the crotch. She then turned around and put on this full length silver fox fur, in dark smoke grey, with an oversized shawl collar and large bell sleeves. She then turned around and began laughing at me as she then began to caress my C over and over. She was telling how soft the fur is. "Soft, isn't it, Mickey. So soft. That's it. Get lost in it, Mickey. You're getting lost in the fur. It's making you so hard. That's right. You're getting hard Mickey. You're getting trapped by the fur. The fur has you trapped there on the wall. That's right. Now, Mickey... Beg me.. Do you really want to be a girl? Hmmmm? Do you? I could put this coat on you. And that would make you a girl forever... Would you like that? Tell me Mickey..." And she laughed at me again as my body was trembling and shaking as she continued to tease my C. I began whining and begging her to turn me into a girl. I was shaking and so lost under the spell of the fur, and her, that I was begging her to turn me into a girl. She then instructed to beg her in a girl's voice. And I changed the tone of my voice to be higher, softer and a little lustier. She smiled and then laughed and told me how soft I was becoming. How I was becoming like the fur, soft and weak and feminine. I agreed with her and told her that I was feeling somewhat feminine. Laughing, she asked me if I would like to put the fur on. I told yes. She warned me that if I put it on that I would become trapped in it. I would become lost in the softness. And that there was no going back once I did that. I would be trapped forever. And she laughed again. I couldn't help it. I was mad with desire. I was so mindless that I could only think of looking pretty for Diane and putting the coat on and becoming her girl slave. I begged her again to let me wear it. Laughing, she then began rubbing the front of my body with the fur. I was moaning and begging her to please let me wear it. She then backed away from me and slowly undid my fastenings and let me stand before her. Swirling around the coat teased my C as she moved. She laughed again as she took the coat and put it on me. Once on, she then pulled the fur collar up around my face and laughed at me as my eyes then went out of focus and I stood there before her, totally in a deep trance. "Now don't you look feminine. Ah! What shall we call you, honey? I know. We'll call you Melissa! That's it. Melissa. How does that sound?" She giggled as she stood there. "That sounds wonderful Mistress." I returned. And she then made me walk around the closet with MY beautiful ladies fur on. I began to sway when I walked. I was lost under her spell. She then led me out into the other room and inspected me. My hair was pulled back in a pony tail behind my back. She then undid my poney tail, letting my middle of the back hair fall around my shoulders. She then inspected my legs for hair, and my arms. Neither had a hair on them. And then she looked at my crotch to make sure that it was hairless too. It was. She then pulled the coat around me and began to caress my penis with it.
    "Feeling soft, Melissa? Feeling lost and trapped in the fur, dear?" And her laughter rang throughout the room. I could only nod. She then laughed and took me into the other room and began putting my hair up in curlers. And then she applied my makeup. Once done with this she sprayed perfume all over my body and put drop earings on me, and a long black cameo around my neck. And then there were the bangle bracelets. She remarked how soft and pretty I was looking. And she made a point to call me Melissa throughout the experience. From there she led me into the room and dressed me in a red sattin garter with black silk stockings. Then a black sattin bra and a hot pink chemise. Then she got out some 4" black leather heels and put them on my feet. And then she put the coat back on me and took my hair down and combed it out. The large soft curls fell around my face and shoulders. Every time that I would move my hair would caress my face, putting me deeper and deeper under her trance. I was lost to her. She asked me how I felt and I told her that I was lost in the softness. And she laughed. She then directed me to model my pretty clothes for her as she snapped pictures of me. And I strolled around the room extending this leg and that one as I pulled the fur around me and became more and more a girl with each step. I was so lost under her spell that I truly had become Melissa. She then took me back into the bathroom and sat me down in front of the mirror and closed and locked the door telling me to look deeply at myself and to tease myself into exploding at least once, if not more. And the door closed with her moving about outside the room. As I sat there I looked into the mirror and obeyed Mistress's request I stroked my C with the fur over and over. The image of the person in the mirror was that of a girl. My ruby red lips, the light blush on my cheeks, the drop earings in the shape of a heart hanging from ears. And the cameo around my neck. I was a soft and lovely girl. My long hair spilled around my shoulders in very large and soft curls, caressing my face as I moved my head. I continued to caress my C over and over. The more that I caressed my C, the more that I knew that the image in the mirror was truly a girl. That I was a girl. And the more that I stroked my C, the more that I felt that I was stoking my clit!!!
    Outside of the bathroom I could hear Diane on the phone laughing and talking with Annette, one of her girlfriends. Then later it was Charlene, and then it was Shannon. During the conversations I could hear her tell them about how she had really finally done it. How she had turned me into a girl. In each conversation they must not have believed her because she told them that she really had done it, and that she even had pictures. Each conversation ended with Diane inviting Annette, Charlene and Shannon over to see how well she had done with me. I was so excited at this that I exploded in front of me and my body jerked as I looked at the girl in the mirror experiencing her first orgasm! And I dried myself off and began again to tease myself, as Mistress had instructed me to. I could hear Diane moving around the room outside. I could hear the music playing something erotic on the turntable in the corner, and hear her laughter as she heard me move inside the bathroom. Her movements, and the image of myself in the mirror, began to get me so hard again that my body began to tremble and I began to say out loud that I was a girl. I moaned and exploded a second time with my saying out loud in a rather loud voice that I was a girl and Diane's slave. I could then hear laughter in the other room. Finally, after almost an hour, the door opened. And I was truly hypnotized!!! In front of me stood Diane wearing this hot pink sattin jumpsuit with black 5" heels, and a black Lynx coat that came to the knees. Her hair was falling softly around her shoulders with the curls gently framing her face. Her eyes were done severely with dark shadow above on the lids. She then told me to look at her and then into her eyes. She asked me who I was. I replied that I was Melissa. And she then told me to get out of the bathroom and follow her. As I stepped in front of her she then began to tease my C with the fur of her coat as she made me look into her eyes. I became very, very hard as I fell deeper under her spell. She laughed as she could feel me get hard. She told me that she wanted to make sure that I was ready for our guests. And I got even harder. Taking a c-ring out of her pocket she placed it around my C and turned it tightly. Suddenly I felt trapped with my C being hard and that I no longer could control myself. She then began again teasing me with her fur. My C got harder and harder, but I could not release. I was beckoming so totally mindless that I no longer knew where I was. And she continued to tease me, making me look into her deep eyes. It was about five minutes later that we heard a knock at the door. Diane led me to the couch and made me sit on the floor by her at the end of the couch. And she told the girls to come in. The door opened and there were three very sexily dress young ladies, their hair falling around their shoulders, all dressed in soft and full dresses. They immediately looked at me and began laughing and giggling. One by one they told me how much better I looked and how they just knew that I would behave now. And they laughed again at me as they walked over and sat down on the couch opposite the one that Mistress Diane was on.
    Getting up she told me to 'stay' and walked over to the girls sitting on the couch. She showed them my pictures that Diane had taken just before with me. The girls all laughed and talked about what a good job Diane had done with me. They told her how proud they were of her. And how they were sure that she would love having me as her slave instead of her husband. And they loved how she had changed me into a girl. But there were a bit skeptical about whether Diane really had control over me or not. Diane said that I would do whatever she asked me to. And Charlene and Shannon just couldn't believe that. So Diane then came back over to where I was kneeling and she told me first to bend down and kiss her feet, to worship her feet. As I did this the girls began to laugh and say how nice it was that Diane could make me do that. Bu they still seemed to doubt that I had been made her prisoner. So Diane had me stand up in front of her. She told me to look into her eyes. As she did this she began to caress my C over and over telling me to get lost in the softness. Her perfume, my perfume, her hair, her eyes, and the fur were too much for me. I was getting harder and harder. I was about to explode. Laughing, Diane asked me if I wanted to masturbate for her? I begged her to let me masturbate. She reminded me that I would have to do it right here in front of the girls. But that she was sure that I would do it if she asked me to. I told her that I would. And she then took the c-ring off of me and told me to sit on the floor in front of the girls and to masturbate myself to exploding. As I sat down the girls began making comments about how nice my hair looked and how soft I was. They told me that I looked so helpless there stroking my C. As I listened to their words and looked at their hair, their eyes, and their clothes, I became harder and harder. I began to moan, at which time the girls then began making fun of me for being so soft and feminine. I got all the harder as they then began talking about how I was going to learn what it was like to be a woman now. And with that, the fur on my C, I exploded onto a towel that had been placed on the floor. I sat there saying that I was a girl, my name was Melissa, and that I was Diane's slave as my body cooled down from my release. And the girls then laughed at me, and told Diane that they were convinced. That she had truly taken over my being and turned me into her slave. And they loved it. But Diane wasn't through. She then told me to get up on my knees and to lift Charlene's dress and to kiss her magic spot. I pushed my head between Charlene's legs and felt her soft thighs on my cheeks as I began to kiss her there. Charlene was getting hotter and hotter as she laughed at me, and the other girls made fun of how lost I was. While I was down there doing that, Diane then walked up behind me and inserted her toy. I was lost in the pleasure of the moment and I brough Charlene to bliss and I was embaressed and humiliated into becoming hard again.
    Then, with her toy still there, Diane then instucted me to do the same with Annette and Shannon. I obeyed. When I was done, the girls were leaning back on the couch smiling, giggling and telling Diane that she hoped that she would share me, Melissa, in the future. Diane told them that she would of course share me with them, all the time. And all four of the girls then laughed at how I had become their slave. Diane then had me serve the wine to all of them as they talked about me and how they were going to use me at the store to wait on the gay guests that would come in from time to time, and how they were going to use me at parties to please the guests. They were all a buzz. Once the wine was served I was instructed to kneel a the corner of the couch on the opposite side of the room as Diane and the girls then finished talking. She turned around once and told me to play with myself, and they all laughed when I began to caress my C with the fur. They went on talking. After about 30 minutes Diane turned to me and watched me for moment as I knelt there playing with myself slowly. She told me to come and lie on the floor in front of the couch. I did as she told me. As I lay there, the girls all gathered around me, one at each limb. They began using Diane's fur, which she had taken off, to tease me over and over. My c-ring was back on and their hair was falling around their faces as they looked down at me, laughed at me, teased me, and taunted me with how lost I was, how I was trapped and how I was never going to be masculine again. How I was going to be a girl and their slave. I was getting harder and harder. I couldn't release because of the c-ring. But I was getting harder and harder. I was trembling greatly as they continued to tease me. I finally began begging them to keep me a girl and their slave. I begged them over and over to please never let me go back to being a man. I begged them to lose me in softness forever. And they continued to laugh at me. I was begging them. I was talking in a girl's voice and was becoming more and more feminine with each passing second. I could feel my mind changing and that I was so lost and trapped that I no longer felt like a man in any way shape or form. I felt like a woman. Like I was one of them, and yet not. That I was one of them in that I was a girl, but that I was not one of them in that I was their slave. I was lost. They continued to tease me over and over, with me begging more and more to always be allowed to be their girl slave. And they continued to tell me that they had no plans of ever letting be anything other than their girl slave. Finally, they took the c-ring off of me and teased me to the point of exploding. They then dried me off and began again with the teasing. They brought me to the point of exploding there three times. And by the last time I was so much their slave that I would do anything that they might ask. Their slightest wish was my command.
    Diane then had me please each of the girls again and then they sat around again and talked while I played with myself in the corner. The evening ended with the girls looking at me and telling me that they would expect me at the store tomorrow evening at 6:00 pm, dressed and ready to serve. Diane told them that she would definitely have me there. And they walked out. Diane then sprayed me with perfume again and took off her jumpsuit and made me please her with my lips for the next several hours. After we were through she then led me into the bedroom and got out a nightie for me to wear to bed. She then led me to the bed and tied me down, hand and foot. Taking a large Ostrich feather duster she then began to tease me over and over. She made me explode twice then as she conditioned me more and more that I was a girl and her slave. And I truly was. The next day for work I wore women's under clothes, including a bra under my outer garments. I was to call Diane at noon, in a girl's voice and tell her how I felt during th day. And then I was to wait for her to pick me up and take me home to get ready for the night. I told her that I would do as she told me. Well, that's the story of my night with the girls. If there are any Ladies out there who would be interested in discussing this I certainly would like to hear from you. I hope everyone enjoyed this little story. It's all true, and I've been looking for a Lady ever since to allow me to experience this life again. Be Well.... The End  

  f622_1267What makes a drag queen tick? Angela Brown goes hunting on their trail... When I started to think about this article my first problem was to decide what a drag queen actually is. I know the name conjures up a vision in my mind, and no doubt in yours, but is it the same image? Is it a true image or one clouded by appearance and missing the underlying character? I felt I needed a definition to work from, so I talked to an ex-music hall performer now living in retirement. He was at first quite adamant about the definition. "A Drag Queen" he said, "is a man who performs as a female and never as a male. The difference between them and female impersonators is that a female impersonator will also appear as a man on occasion." During the conversation I got the distinct impression that he thought drag queens also dressed as women off-stage and were all homosexual. This made me wonder how accurate my friend's observations really were and it struck a chord in my mind about the general image of transvestites and drag queens. It appears that most people still consider both groups as homosexuals. One of the earliest practitioners in dealing with sexual problems, Kraftt-Ebbing, a 19th century German psychologist, considered that transvestism was a link between an ordinary fetish and homosexuality, and went so far as to say that homosexuality was always involved. Later studies by Magnus Hirschfeld, also a German working in the early part of this century, indicated clearly what I think all transvestites will agrede with: that the incidence of homosexuality, bisexuality and heterosexuality is as diverse in transvestites as it is in the rest of the population. Hirschfeld's students did a study of his cases which showed that 35% were heterosexual, 35% homosexual, 15% bisexual and 15% monosexual. But it must be remembered that his case files were confined to patients who felt they had a problem and had come for help. There was bound to be a bias towards homosexual cases, as Hirschfeld first became known in Germany for writing a book in 1896 called 'Sappho and Socrates', which dealt with the suicide of a homosexual army officer. In a much more recent survey by 'Accord' magazine of its transvestite readers, they discovered that 44% claimed to be heterosexual, 34% bisexual, 19% monosexual and only 3% homosexual.  
  f622_1145While all these surveys were nominally conducted amongst transvestites rather than drag queens, it would be impossible to say how many readers of Accord who took part could be called drag queens, and I suspect that the figures would be valid for them also. To pursue this matter further, and in the interest of research, I attended a "Fashion, Fetish and Fantasy" night in London. I went, as one charming drag queen put it, under cover - i.e. dressed in men's clothes. From the moment I entered I found everybody friendly and the atmosphere relaxed. It soon became obvious that over ninety five per cent of the patrons were wearing female clothes, at least ninety per cent were male. The crowd represented every facet of cross dressing, from some male transvestites wearing women's clothes but making no attempt to look like a woman, to drag queens dressed in long evening gowns covered in sequins, with beautiful wigs and perfect make up. Two well-built drag queens who were obviously friends were dressed in the shortest of skirts. One was in a pale purple leather skirt with a "V" cut in the bottom back-seam, through which you could catch glimpses of stocking tops. This lady had a bouffant wig, again in pink, which was at least twelve inches high and a see-through blouse with a black pattern. She wore a mass of heavy jewellery including a thick choker covered in diamante and other gems, and large drop earrings. Her friend favourted the leather look. A black leather waistcoat over a tight black and white, off-the-shoulder mini dress which displayed her thick chest hair. A leather collar, arm band and cap perched on a platinum blond wig completed the picture except for her neatly trimmed black beard and moustache. These 'ladies' were charming, but definitely caricatures of a woman, and quite definitely drag queens! As a complete contrast two ladies stood out not as drag queens but as true transvestites. Both were dressed in long evening gowns, one in pink and the other in silver with a blue flower pattern. With their make-up perfect but not overdone they would have both passed as ladies at a normal dance.  
  4609209734However, the stars of the show as far as I was concerned were three ladies all dressed in long evening gowns. Two, standing nearly seven feet high in their heels, wore sheath dresses with splits up the sides to the thigh. One was in white and the other in turqoise, and both covered every inch in sequins. With silver wigs and perfect make-up they would have passed for ladies except for their height and, even under the dresses, obvious masculine build. The third lady had a red gown, also covered in sequins, with short sleeves and a large 'puff' at the shoulder. Smaller and of a slighter build she would have passed for a woman but with the slight touch of the over-dressing which I feel characterises a drag queen. There were also a number of costumes which, although they did make their wearer appear as a caricature of a woman, did not make them in my opinion drag queens. Typical of these were a PVC maid's dress in red with a black apron, a schoolgirl's uniform and a very skimpy red teddy costume. These I felt reflected more of the fetish nature of the wearer's character than an attempt to be flamboyant. So what, if any, is the difference between a transvestite and a drag queen? By strict definition a drag queen must be a transvestite since he dresses in woman's clothes, which is the meaning of the word, but in my opinion what makes the difference is in the motivation behind the need to "dress". The origins and causes of transvestite behaviour are complex to say the least, but two factors seem to be quite common. A mother with a strong and often dominant personality and a job in middle management or the equivalent. I suspect the management element is there because some of the mother's strong personality is inherited. In general, a transvestite will make every effort to appear as convincing as possible, taking great trouble with make-up, body shape and dress sense. Drag queens take just as much trouble and in many cases far more with their dress and appearance, not to appear as a woman but as a caricature of a woman. Their dresses are flamboyant or very stylised. In many cases their wigs are over-elaborate and their make-up lavish. One factor which appears to separate drag queens from transvestite is that drag queens are all extroverts, a trait which probably takes a lot of them into show business. It is also possible that in many cases the motivation is not so much to look like a woman as to poke fun at women in general in much the same way as a pantomime dame does. To discover why someone would go to such lengths to make a visual statement in this way would need some deep psycho-analysis...

...and why men are such suckers for them The female breast posesses many wondrous qualities which transvestites envy and try to emulate. Its shape, size and sensitivity all contribute to the character and personality of its possessor. No wonder that men love beautiful breasts! Why are men so obsessed with women's breasts? The oft-given psychological explanation is that it is all the result of infant conditioning - whether you were breast fed or raised on the bottle. But if that were really the case, surely half the men in the world would be breast fiends and the remainder indifferent to a woman's most conspicuous charms. In fact, there can be few men who are not fascinated by the twin globes which women carry before them and which they display with varying degrees of boldness or coyness. Men's primary interest seems to be in their shape. Although some overweight or muscular men have rudimentary bosoms they do not posess the subtle, pendulous and ever-changing outline of the female variety. These are the characteristics that transvestites go to so much trouble to emulate. f631_706gnrsxdofbreastpage1.jpgAn examination of a well developed and beautiful female breast shows it to be finely balanced, with the tissue tension precisely matching the weight so that it has both form and mobility, rather like a trendy work of art. The modern breast forms favoured by TVs are remarkably successful in achieving many of these characteristics, being attached to the chest by strong adhesive so that the wearer feels that it is truly a part of himself. He can walk, run, dance or swim without any fear of coming adrift. A further attraction of the female breast is its infinite variety. Many small women have big breasts while some big women are, sadly, endowed in inverse proportion to their size. The same is true of nipples - a big swollen bosom might be crowned by two miniscule points, the proverbial bee-stings...  
  f631_707gnrsxdofbreastpage2.jpgOn the other hand some flat-chested girls, who might have no need for the support of a bra, are often forced to wear one to conceal oversized nipples which press eagerly and unbidden against the thin covering of a summer dress or blouse. Girl runners burn off so much fat that they often have chests as flat as a boy's, and female body builders develop such solid pectorals that their torsoes acquire an almost masculine form. Perhaps surprisingly, many men find both these extremes attractive. Perhaps it is the mystery of the breast that men find so appealing... what shape is it exactly? Women are very clever at giving clues, often revealing a tantalising swelling and leaving the admirer's imagination to figure out the rest. TVs who have not resorted to hormone treatment or implants can, nevertheless, achieve something of this effect by forcing up the flesh of their rudimentary breasts to give a hint of cleavage. Of course, the final appeal of the feminine breast is tactile. Most men find the desire to touch almost overwhelming and they will prostrate themselves in gratitude at the feet of a woman who allows them to handle her most treasured assets! The warm softness, the eager response of the nipples springing to attention beneath the gentle pressure of finger and thumb, the trembling of the woman's body and the look of contentment as she closes her eyes in rapture... Many men also have breasts and nipples which are remarkably sensitive, quickly responding to sexual signals by rising and hardening. Fortunate indeed is the TV who can find a sympathetic woman to indulge him in an evening of mutual mammarial manipulation!

Chris was just a little late on puberty, being 13 years old and not experiencing it yet. Consequently, he was a bit confused about his sexuality. Most of his friends were already going out with girls at school, while he still couldn't relate to the fascination of young girls bodies. He knew he definitely wasn't turned on by boys bodies... the only thing that ever gave him an erection was watching his older sister Janet getting dressed. It wasn't so much her body that turned him on as the clothes she wore. Seeing her delicately lift her pantyhose to the toes of her feet, then slowly, elegantly sliding them up over her feet, up her legs, until the waistband hugged her hips and the center seem kissed her crotch. Observing her hands deftly strapping a bra around her firm, round breasts. Watching slim, stocking-clad feet slip into bright red high-heeled shoes. These were the things that aroused his sexuality. Chris always wanted to try on her clothes, but his frame was a little smaller and he knew they wouldn't fit him nearly as well as they did his sister. Then one day, something happened. He came across a picture of himself as a two-year-old, with Janet at ten years old standing near him. His mom had dressed him in a little blue shirt, but from the waist down he was clad in bright red tights. They were the same color as the tights his sister was wearing. All of the sudden Chris felt his penis stiffen and throb, confusion beginning to cloud his mind. He had erections before, but this time it was different. A shiver went up the spine, heartbeats quickened slightly, and a strange tingling, tight feeling engorged his penis. He stood up, and hurried off into the attic in a state of confusion, not knowing what was going on. There were several dressers in the darkness, lit partially by a window at the far end of the room. The attic was spooky without anyone else around--Chris almost never went up there alone. But something called out in his subconscious. Look around. Quickly. Open the drawers. Search.


    In about twenty minutes, all of the dresser drawers had been opened, odd clothes were strewn about the floor. Then something caught Chris' eyes. With the bottom drawer of the big mahogany, bureau pulled out, space beneath was exposed that revealed a shiny red garment. He reached in and grabbed it. It was soft, stretchy, and very slippery. Held at full length, it had the shape of a body, from neck to toe, with long sleeves and a small zipper in the back. What was it? Like tights and a leotard joined together, but no seams except along the arms and up the inner legs. A full-body unitard. He dropped them. What a strange feeling! Like doing something wrong, yet so compelled to indulge. In a brief moment, Chris had all of his clothes off and he sat on the cool floor. The air had a slight chilling effect, causing a tingling sensation across his skin. The zipper of the unitard slid down easily, revealing the inviting insides of the lycra garment. He rolled up the right side and pulled it onto his right foot, covering the toes the way Janet put on her pantyhose. Swiftly and eagerly, the spandex slid upwards, a snug fit to the upper thigh. He repeated the same with the left side, his crotch throbbing steadily. Standing up, Chris gave a firm but gentle tug, and the whole lower half of the unitard covered him up to his waist, a soft smooth snug feeling all over. He darted both hands through the arms, reached behind, and pulled up the zipper. Ohhhh..... The light from the window danced across his body, and he could see himself in a mirror on the adjacent wall. There stood a young boy, clad so snugly in red lycra from neck to toe. At this point, Chris had trouble containing himself. Hormones coursed through his body, tingling sensations shot up the spine, and a compelling tight feeling surged through his maleness. How could something feel so good?? Both hands raced all over, taking in the stretchy smoothness of the lycra encased about him. He laid down and hugged himself gently, drenched in ecstasy. Moments passed. "Chris? Oh, Chris! Where are you?" It was his mother calling. Oh no! She couldn' find him like this. What would she think?? He laid perfectly still, not to make a noise. Her voice came closer, approaching. Suddenly, he noticed that the attic door was slightly open. Certainly, that would lure her to open it further and look inside! "Chris??" His mother was only a few feet away now. But suddenly Chris was distracted. He felt a little odd, the unitard was slightly tighter around him somehow. And it got worse. The lycra seemed to have a life of its own, pulling, stretching, almost seeking to embed itself in his skin. He wanted to cry out! "Chris?? Where are you? Humph! I could've sworn he came up here after school." A hand reached for the door handle, casting a dim shadow onto the attic floor, right beside a limber leg completely covered in red lycra. Chris felt hot flashes waving across his body. He began to shake slightly, a tight tingling sensation welling deeply in his penis. He felt like he was going to explode in a sexual fervour, like never before. Thunk! The door closed. Footsteps walked off, downstairs. His mother was gone. Shiver! Tremble! He couldn't control his body. Crotch pulsating, nipples pinching, skin crawling. As if he had been punched in the stomach, Chris doubled over and moaned. His voice cracked, caught between boyhood and puberty, then smoothed with a feminine sigh.


  Something was wrong. It felt as if the nipples on his chest were swollen. What happened? He reached down between his legs, hands sliding over the red lycra, to find that his penis was gone! Small thin lips running up and down, a small bump on the top that tingled with a touch, was all that was left. His hands felt smaller, his legs were thin, feet smaller. He touched himself more, only to finally realize that he had lost something--his boyhood. He now had the body of a girl! Christine, not Chris. Her vagina pulsated, fresh from the transformation, eager to be loved. In a confused daze, she slowly brought her hand to it and stroked softly. Her newfound girlhood called for more. She pressed firmly between the lips of her vagina, massaging the clitoris. More, faster, firmly! Her head turned to the side and she caught sight of herself in the mirror. In spite of the shock, she could see how lovely her new body was. Sweet long legs stretched out to the sides, pretty feet pointed outward, small breasts with nipples perked tightly. Her hand rubbed more briskly as her eyes stared back in anticipation. A quivering began, deep inside, like she never felt before. Like the rumble of a tidal wave, pleasure quaked through her body. The red lycra body danced in the dark, to a tune of newfound sexuality. Christine gave out long deep moans with each repeating orgasm until she was completely spent, her love juices darkening the unitard between the legs. Her heavy breathing relaxed, giving way to slow soothing sighs. She rested and thought about her new predicament. What would she do, now that she was no longer a boy? She giggled, revealing a peaceful smile. What did it matter? She never felt better before in her whole life. The End



A Dominatrix Account

They don't only look effective - when the arms have work to do, sleeves get in the way. The belt is also of shiny black leather, with a silver coloured metal buckle. Of the same colour metal are a pair of handcuffs hanging from the belt. More black leather is strapped next to the handcuffs - a neatly coiled whip. It is for this, especially that the arms should not be emcumbered. There is no shortage of transvestites who would like to meet the vision of a dominatrix. At least some of them would like to be her, but I go further - I am her. At first sight, there seems little mystery in the connection many of us make between transvestism and submission or domination. Our clothes define our role. For the transvestite they are obviously important in defining who is masculine, who is feminine. It is but a step further to define who is dominant and who is submissive.

 

Submissive

 

Some forms of clothing, especially uniforms, give one person authority over another. Military uniforms are a good example. The clothes an officer and a private wear are essential to their relationship - the officer's uniform marks the wearer as someone who may issue orders to the person in the private's uniform.

 

There are uniforms popular with transvestites which work in much the same way. The most commonly found are the schoolgirl and the maid - both of these have proved good sellers for such companies as Transformation. No doubt they are to be found in many a transvestite's wardrobe.

 

It is interesting, and may be significant, that the most easily available uniforms are for the submissive roles. Since such companies as Transformation respond to public demand, this obviously means that submissive uniforms are more popular than dominant ones.

 

Before me are the catalogues of three companies offering such outfits as maid's and schoolgirl uniforms. One catalogue also includes a harem outfit. Another has a range of little girls' party dresses in adult sizes. None of the three includes a policewoman's uniform, or anything else suggesting the dominant.

 

I know a tranvestite who wished to assemble a headmistress outfit - an obvious counterpart to the schoolgirl one. Unable to find exactly what was required in the stocks of fantasy clothing specialists, the person in question went to a supplier of genuine academic regalia to universites.

 

If this indicates that people regarding themselves as submissive outnumber those preferring a dominant role, it does no more than confirm my experience. This is certainly least as true amongst transvestites. Many of them may turn out to be a lot less submissive than they seem - but I'll come back to that later.

 

Connection

 

The link betwen uniforms and sub/dom is no mystery. However, people in realistic-looking fantasy uniforms seem to be in the minority on the sub / dom scene. At any club catering for such interests, you'll find most of the devotees in leather or rubber, with a few opting for PVC.

 

I recently picked up a flyer for something called Club Whiplash. The name says it all - or almost so. Apart from paying to get in, the flyer's only demand on members is how they may dress; "VERY STRICT DRESS ONLY, Rubber, Leather, Lingerie, PVC" - no mention of uniforms.

 

There is, of course, some overlap between uniforms and the kind of dress demanded by Club Whiplash. Rubber/PVC maid's uniforms are certainly available. Mostly, however, the rubber and leather clothing remains quite seperate from the uniform items. Most of the rubber wear being sold - and worn - is not uniform, and most fantasy uniforms are not rubber or leather.

 

The connection between rubber / leather and sub / dom is less easy to explain, but is very strong. There may be a direct connection between some rubber garments and bondage - being encased in tight stretchy rubber is only a step away from being tied up.

 

Likewise, leather is a traditional material for harnesses. Not only is it used for harnessing horses, but also - at least when I was a child - for reins used to restrain young children. I wonder how many children so restrained grew up to have a liking for being harnessed in leather?

 

These considerations, however, fail to explain a number of things. One is that while many rubber garments fit like a second skin, not all of them do. There is a considerable body of interest in mackintoshes, for example. Nor is there any correlation between looser and tighter fitting garments and the submissive or dominant roles.

 

Both rubber and leather are worn by the dominatrix and the submissive partner alike. True, there is often a distinction between the garments proper to the two roles - but that distinction is often not as clear as might be expected.

 

Amongst rubber devotees, the submissive parties are known as "damsels in distress." In reality, the "damsels" are often male. Transvestism in rubber is nearer the rule than the exception.

 

Historic

 

A "damsel" may be in a mackintosh or tightly encased in Latex. Likewise, the person responsible for the "distress" may be dressed either way. Indeed, either or both of them may combine both forms of rubber.

 

That said, there are garments proper only to one role or the other. Rubber masks containing inflatable gags or other devices restricting the ability to breathe are strictly for submissives. Masks leaving the nostrils and mouth clear, resembling those worn by historic executioners or torturers, are for the dominant partner.

 

Other items strictly for the submissive partner include those exposing, encasing or entering the wearer's private parts. (In so far as any of their parts remain private!) These include rubber shorts open at the crotch, with a built-in penis sheath, or with an integral dildo. Similarly for submissives are garments equipped with D-rings or fixings for restraints.

 

For lovers of rubber and leather alike, high stiletto heels are pretty well essential for both the submissive party and the dominatrix. They are suitable for the submissive, perhaps, because they make it more difficult to walk - and much more difficult to run. They may possibly be seen as dominant because of their suitability as weapons. Having a stiletto pressed hard into the flesh is an extremely painful experience.

 

Turning to leather, the items worn by submissives are more likely to consist of straps (like harnesses) than are the garments worn by the dominatrix, but arrangements of leather straps can feature in the clothing of the dominatrix as well. In her case, they are likely to leave less of the body uncovered. This is probably the main distinction on a superficial level.

 

Sometimes, similar straps have entirely different purposes. For example, the submissive may have leather straps at the wrist for use in binding or fettering, or for support when using the whip.

 

Indeed, these are very useful - cracking the whip can put a lot of strain on the wrist joint. Similar supports are worn by tennis players, archers, and others. It's a question of avoiding sports injuries.

 

In all of this, the whip is bound to arise (and fall). A means of hurting your partner is an essential part of the experience. The submissive must surrender to the dominatrix. If that surrender doesn't include the power to inflict a little pain, it doesn't mean very much.

 

Actually, a lot of so-called submission doesn't mean a great deal. Many who call themselves submissives, not least transvestites, want to lay down all sorts of conditions. The more conditions they make, the less they submit. It can easily become a waste of time for all concerned.

 

Whether they realise it or not, laying down conditions makes the experience less satisfactory for the submissive partner as well as for the dominant. There is some point in having an emergency signal which will enable the submissive to bring the session to a close - it can be used to stop things getting out of hand, but the signal should only be given in the most extreme circumstances.

 

The essence of submission is letting go. Someone else takes charge. The submissive can, in a real sense, relax. It may be painful relaxation, but is none the less relaxing for that.

 

Submissive

 

Viewed thus, it is little wonder that there are more people eager to submit than dominate. It should also be clear that any effort to take charge (on the part of the submissive) defeats the object of the exercise. Yet they will try to control the situation. They deserve a good whipping - or perhaps they'll have to do better before they truly deserve one.

 

Near, the start I mentioned both the whips and the handcuffs. The latter, or any form of tying or chaining, can be a big help in allowing a submissive to let go. Hands cuffed behind the back is not a good position for laying down conditions. Being held securely at each wrist and ankle is even less good for it.

 

Binding is very useful in a submissive's progress, but it requires trust. Indeed, the trust in one's dominatrix is in itself a liberating experience. But that trust is not to be gained instantly.

 

It is easiest to take things a step at a time. It's better to start with tying rather than chaining or handcuffing. However difficult it may be to cut through stout cord (especially with hands tied) it looks a lot less threatening than with a chain.

 

Better also, to start with the hands tied in front, rather than behind the back. This leaves the submissive feeling less helpless - and with some justification. Likewise, it is a good idea to have the submissive become accustomed to bound wrists before passing on to binding the ankles as well - or to binding to a fixed or heavy object.

 

I knew a girl who wouldn't take on the role of dominatrix because she thought the submissive was really in charge - and the dominatrix was serving the submissive rather than vice versa. Badly handled, things can work out that way. The submissive requires careful training - for benefits of both partners.

 

It is also a good idea to set the submissive to some useful work. Obviously, this can't be done during periods of highly restrictive binding - but work can be done, for example, with hands cuffed and attached to a wall by a few yards of chain. It is good to have someone else attend to the chores. Also - it helps to establish who is slave and who is mistress.

 

Sensitivity

 

This distinction may not be as clear and obvious as one might expect. In some sub / dom relationships the partners swap roles from time to time. They may even adopt a roughly 50 / 50 division of the submitting and dominating.

 

Moreover, even when the roles are distinct, it is a truism that one cannot dominate properly until one has learnt to submit. The role of dominatrix calls for a great deal of sensitivity - it's certainly not just a matter of tying them up and whipping them.

 

It needs to be stated that truly fulfilling sub / dom is essentially a loving relationship. Failure to realise this leaves many sub / dom experiences deeply unsatisfying. The dominatrix must give - and understand what she is giving; the submissive must trust completely - and surrender utterly.

 

The dominatrix's pleasure - and skill - depends on knowing how it feels to be tied, helpless, in that position. In knowing how the caress of the lash feels - now gentle, almost tickling; now severe, most definitely painful.

 

Submission and domination is a shared experience. A shared pleasure. To work properly it is love.

 

Most couples do it, anyway. It is part of love's game to use the teeth. Sometimes gently. Sometimes biting hard.

 

The use of whips and chains takes that experience a stage further, a stage closer to the ultimate love. However hard I strike, I do it with love.

 

Love and my spike heeled boots - painful combination. But what could be more exquisite?



AN UNEXPECTED CHANGE

  My Mother had always told me to take my vitamins, which I did. My father had run off and it had always been just me and my mother. I helped her with the laundry and during that chore noticed that her clothes were different than my blue jeans and T-shirts. For some reason I lingered over her clothes and marveled at the difference. They looked and felt so nice and were so soft. When I took a bath, I found myself noticing her stockings drying over the shower bar. When I asked her about what a run in her stockings meant, and why my socks didn't have runs, she tried to explain it was a girl thing. Then I decided one day to look in her dresser and that experience changed my life. Everything was so smooth and soft and smelled so good. I decided to revisit that dresser when I got the opportunity when I got the chance. I thought my chance came when my mother was at work and I got out of school at 3:00. Careful to remember where everything was placed and how it was folded, I took some items from her lingerie drawer. There were silky things and other items that looked tight and felt stretchy. For some reason I decided to put on one of the stretchy things that had legs in them. It was hard to get it on but I managed. It felt nice yet strange. My little parts between my legs felt constricted but somehow I felt wonderful. I also loved the smell of her perfume and opened a container of one, spilling a bit of it on me. I carefully replaced the cap and put it back on the top of her dresser. I spent an unknown amount of time enjoying my feelings and sensations. Then I heard the door open !!! It was my mother! I was in her bedroom, in her girdle and smelled like her perfume! I struggled to undo what I had done! I found myself on her bedroom floor, her girdle around my ankles, trying to crawl under her bed. The expression on her face gave me no clue as to what she thought. I undressed - embarrassed and afraid. We ate macaroni & cheese without a word spoken. I went bed fearful, yet exhilarated from the emotions and feelings that came from my mother's dresser that day. Nothing was said for a year. A year later I was in our garage and found some boxes. I rummaged through them and discovered the mother load. So many girdles, so many panties and skirts - blouses, bras and everything feminine! I couldn't resist myself! In a wave of ecstasy I dressed again. Nothing else mattered. Then I heard my mother's voice! Again I tried to scramble for cover! Again I didn't succeed in my deception! This time my mother insisted we talk. Afraid and shy, thinking I might die or be punished. I told her that I liked being in her clothes. Then I cried, went to bed and shivered.
Nothing was said again for about a week. She was my mother and I knew she loved me. I was 11 years old. At breakfast soon after she told me that I had to take some new vitamins. I took them as always and ate my oatmeal. I studied hard, made good grades but wasn't very good at sports. I continued this regimen for the next 2 years. Six months after my garage experience I told my mother that I was feeling a bit of pain. She asked me where and I said it was in my chest. She took off my shirt and examined me. My pain seemed to come my nipple areas and I thought that I felt a lumpiness that was new to me. She told me that I was O.K. and it was part of growing up. When I went to Jr. High School I was told that I couldn't take P.E. because of a medical condition. I still did art, studied hard, but didn't understand the obsession the other boys were starting to have in girls. I liked most of the other girls and even some of the boys, but I didn't somehow seem to fit in. I was a loner but still kept taking my "vitamins".   Now it was the era of long hair for boys and other social changes. There were other major changes happening to me. Some of the boys were growing mustaches but nothing that way was happening to me. Other things were though! Slowly I noticed things in the mirror! My pants didn't fit right! They were loose around my waist and my bottom and thighs were looking fat! My mother encouraged me to grow my hair long because it was now in fashion. Then I noticed in the mirror that not only did I not have any chest hair but that my chest looked like I had breasts! Over the next six months they were undeniable! I had larger breasts than half of the girls in my high school! I also started having feelings for some of the boys that were hard for me to understand. I also kept close to some of the girls who told me that I way of relating to them that "other boys" didn't. I wore loose shirts, kept my hair log according to the style and tried to figure out that which was getting very difficult to disguise! My waist was thin! My breasts were large! I had a body shape that caused most people to call me miss or young lady! I was surprised that most of the time I enjoyed it! I still kept taking my vitamins - but it was time that I had to express my concerns and intimate feelings to the only family that I had known - my mother. My breasts were now large, my waist was thin and body had a shape that some girls would envy. I felt attracted to boys in a way that scared me and excited me too. My voice didn't sound like the other boys and because I was teased I kept to myself for the most part. Confused, I turned to my mother again. Dutifully I still kept taking the "vitamins" as always. She suggested that we have a talk, keep taking my vitamins and that she had something to tell me! What she said both floored me and relieved me. She related that since my father left her she had a distrust of men. She tearfully told me that she had always wished to have a daughter. She couldn't fathom raising a son and had early on decided for me to be her daughter. We both cried. She then told me that she had a couple of surprises for me. In my old bedroom was a new dresser. She asked me to open the drawers. Inside them were the prettiest panties, the coziest night gowns and in the top drawer were barrettes, head bands and ear rings! I sighed, was excited but didn't know quite how to express my feelings. I was glad inside but then knew that it was time for us to have a real "girl to girl" talk! We proceeded to have that talk and I expressed my honest concerns and fears! I took my vitamins, sat down with mother as she told me of her last surprise! She told me that she had been saving her money and had befriended a skilled doctor. Over the next 2 hours I thought, cried and went more than twice to the mirror. Among the options I considered was being the boy that born as. The mirror told me otherwise. But there was still the matter of a particular piece of anatomy that made my mother's wish for a daughter impossible - or was it? After another heart to heart discussion with my mother, I decided to finally resolve my ambiguity. My anatomy could finally be in sync with the rest of me!
    The arrangements were made, and with trepidation I checked in, was prepped, sedated and went to sleep. When I awoke it was over and a nurse told me all was successful. I had completely become the daughter my mother had always wanted and there was no turning back! Eventually I healed, we went shopping together and even looked at catalogs. My reasoning was that over 50% of the population was female, I didn't feel comfortable as a male and we have nicer clothes. I enjoy doing my hair, picking out earrings and necklaces and dabbing perfume. I enjoy being a girl. The best "came later". Since being a woman I naturally wanted to try out my new equipment. I did however require that it be with a nice and loving man. Since my mother has passed on I have considered lesbian options. Either way I love to be loved, love to have my breasts loved and enjoy an orgasm. As a woman it is a bit of an inconvenience to pee when camping or to always have to sit on the toilet, but I have come to enjoy being touched, lotioned, and cuddling! The first time I was entered I was scared and it was a little painful. I sure it was the same for all girls at first. Believe it or not one of the most pleasurable experiences I now have is to walk by my bathroom mirror, look at myself and then apply the soap to the body that my mother so long ago envisioned her son/daughter having. Enjoy being a girl - a boy - but living!

Younger Crossdressers

First, here’s a little of my history for you to compare your experience with.

 

I first crossdressed when I was 5 years old–I put on an old blouse and skirt and hid under the bed covers. My mother discovered me, and, looking a little confused, told me that I shouldn’t do that.

 

I didn’t dress again for several years, but the desire was always there. When I watched television I constantly hoped to see a crossdressing character or theme. Many cartoons had crossdressing scenes, which I loved.

 

I thought often about being a girl. My idea of heaven was a place where you could just look at a picture of a girl and you would wake up in that scene as her.

 

I had a fantasy of a machine that would turn me into a girl: I’d enter at one end onto a conveyer belt, and would go through various steps until I emerged as a girl at the other end.

 

I often prayed at night to wake up the next morning as a girl. I would sometimes dream I was a girl. In the dreams I would be wearing a dress or walking down the street with a cute pony-tail. I’d try to hold onto the feeling of these dreams for as long as possible. When I was aware that I was dreaming, I’d try to control the scene into one where I was a girl.

 

I never felt that I *was* a girl or a girl trapped in a man’s body. I just strongly wanted to *become* a girl. As a boy I did reasonably well. Though shy and anxious, I was smart and got attention for that. The older boys scared me, but I was able to defend myself against the bullies my own age.

 

In high school I started to dress again,”borrowing” my sisters’ clothes from the dirty-clothes bin or from her bedroom, and occasionally my mothers’ lingerie.

 

Then there was no internet–if there had been, I don’t know what would have happened.

 

In college I was too busy to crossdress, and dorm rooms offered no privacy anyway. But I did smoke marijuana, and, when I did, the fantasy emerged. Both during high school and college, I never dated girls (or anyone else).

 

I graduate school I was again very busy, but I did have girlfriends. When they were gone I would sometimes wear their clothes, which felt really nice.

 

So that’s my history during my young years. There’s no need here to talk about later stuff here, except to say that now I basically crossdress once a week or every couple of weeks to go out. The rest of the time I spend as a guy.

 

This is just to let you know where I’m coming from. Anyway, the important topic is you, not me.

 

If you are a young crossdresser–especially if you are experiencing a lot of confusion or unhappiness about it, then here are some things to consider. You have friends You are not alone in this! It might seem like Life has singled you out for abuse. But there’s a lot of other people out there feeling the same thing. And all those who have had a difficult time share a special bond. They recognize, and feel an instinctive responsibility to help each other. The best way to express this is the lines from a song:

 

I made it through the rain, I kept my world protected.

 

I made it through the rain, and kept my point of view.

 

I made it through the rain, and found myself respected by the others who, got rained on too.

 

and made it through.

 

This too will pass The teens and early twenties are perhaps the most stressful, anxious times in life. It’s amazing how many problems go away by themselves within a few years.

 

If you’re being harassed, don’t worry about it. By the time you’re in college or the workplace, it stops. Other people eventually mature and have other things on their minds–they’re really not much interested in picking on other people.

 

In general, things get better as you get older. Even if all the problems don’t go away, they feel much less overwhelming. You develop patience and even a sense of humor. You can say, “Is life absurd? Very well, life is absurd–maybe it’s supposed to be that way.” And then you can deal with it on those terms.

 

The real problem is that we like to believe life runs smoothely. Then, if something goes wrong, we get upset. In other words, it isn’t life’s difficulties that upset us so much–it’s that our world view of “everything is supposed to be fine” get’s shaken, and that’s what upsets us.

 

About this the Buddha said “Life is very difficult. Once you understand that, life becomes easier.” Accept uncertainty Maybe you don’t know if you are a boy or a girl–or which path to take. And this makes you anxious.

 

Okay. Who says that you’re supposed to know? The anxiety comes not from the confusion, but because you think you’re supposed to have an answer. Accept that you don’t have an answer. Maybe you won’t have one for a while. That’s okay. Suicide A statistical law of the universe is that things move toward the average. That means if things are really bad, they will tend to get better by themselves.

 

There’s no point doing something desperate like suicide. Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Think about that. You are important You were put on this earth for some very important reason. You probably don’t know now what that reason is–in fact, you might never know. But you can be sure that there is a reason. Other people need you–they need your concern; they need your support; they need your help.

 

Understanding that is a big key to life. As long as we dwell on our own problems, we’re never happy. The reason is because as a social species, human beings are designed to help each other.

 

To paraphrase John F. Kennedy’s words, “Ask not what others can do for you; ask what you can do for others.” Once you realize that, a huge and impossible burden is lifted from you– that of worrying about yourself!

 

Nobody can see their own life objectively. However, we’re really pretty good at sensing another person’s problems; and can truly help them, because we’re objective about their problems. Don’t believe everything other people say Black-and-white thinking is a big problem. These days it seems like there are two extreme views about transgenderism. Religious fundamentalists say ‘queer’ is completely bad, whereas most transsexuals and crossdressers say it’s completely good.

 

Most people have the sense to dismiss the first view, but, unfortunately, few see the shallowness of the second view. The view that “if it feels good, do it” has itself become a religion.

 

The truth is that “moderation in all things” and “finding the middle path” are still good ways to go. There’s no need to be all one thing–all male or all female; all hetero or all gay. It’s a mistake to think like that. Taking the harder path

 

Short-term pleasure is seldom the sign of a right choice.

 

So, for example, taking hormones, and plunging into a femme lifestyle might seem very attractive. In fact, it is attractive, in the sense that it offers sensual pleasure. But that doesn’t not make it the right or smart choice. For one thing, as noted above, part of life is to learn that you don’t just exist for your own sake. You’re here for a reason, and a big part of that reason is to help other people. So in making decisions, you have to consider not just what makes “me” feel good now, but what will make me feel good in the long term, and what choice will benefit other people.

 

I don’t mean being a martyr or making yourself miserable by helping other people all the time. No, I’m definitely saying being happy yourself. I’m just suggesting that part of true happiness is going to involve helping other people. Keep your options open

 

However old people are, they feel like they know everything. Everybody is like that.

 

If you look back to yourself 5 years earlier, it’s clear you know more now. The same will be true 5 years from now: you’ll know more, and, looking back to now, you might smile to think how confident you were and how much you didn’t know.

 

That is one reason to be cautious about making limiting decisions. A few transsexuals report being *completely* certain they are a girl from early childhood; but more often, transgenders merely have the intense desire to be a girl. Or some look at their female fantasies, and from these they infer “apparently I am a female and not a male.”

 

In the first case–utter certainty–then perhaps it makes sense to pursue Hormone Replacement Therapy and Sexual Reassignment Surgery. But in the other cases that must be strongly questioned.

 

It used to be that only the first group were considered candidates for a sex change. But gradually the standards have become increasingly lax, thanks mainly to a social climate of laxness. Now some people embark on a change of sex just on a whim.

 

That just doesn’t make sense. Human nature is such that each person has many conflicting desires. One has to balance these desires. When you feel you want to be a girl, that may seem like it’s coming from your very core. However, in a week or two, the wish may be weaker, and other aspects of your personality may be dominating. The fact that a wish might seem very strong does not mean that is who you really are. It’s just one wish among many parts of your personality.

 

Young crossdressers may feel pressured to use feminizing hormones, knowing that the earlier they use them, the more complete the feminization will be.

 

A big problem is that these hormones can and do cause infertility. You may not have an interest in “fathering” children. But as you get older that feeling might develop.

 

Further, you might be mainly attracted to girls. If you adopt a female gender, possibly you could find a compatible woman somewhere. But in truth, your odds of finding someone are much better if you have a male gender.

 

Think of it this way. What attracts you to a girl? Most likely you like a pretty, feminine girl, not an unattractive, very “butch” type. The same works for girls. Most are attracted to male-looking guys, and not attracted to guys who look like and dress like girls.

 

One of the advantages with being a guy, in fact, is that you can meet this need of girls. You can be her “man”, her protector and provider. Self-destructive behavior Many aspects of the TG and gay scene are plainly self-destructive. Consider clubs, for instance. People to go nightclubs where everybody’s smoking and drinking. The drag shows don’t even start until midnight, and people don’t get home until 3:00 or 4:00 am. It takes days to recover. And some people do this more than once a week!

 

This kind of stuff is really dumb. Morality is not obsolete So regardless of what you choose–to be male, female or both; to be hetero-, gay, or both– you need to chose in a sincere way and with an aim to do the right thing. These days people are brainwashed to believe “it’s all relative; there is no ultimate right or wrong.” That’s a self-serving view, used by people to justify their own choices.

 

Morality is not obeying a set of rules. It’s making a concerted effort to find out what is the right thing and to do it. The bigger part of that is recognizing and avoiding self-deception. Counseling Counseling can help. Yeah, I know what you’re saying–counseling is crock! Well, it certainly can be that. But there are a few good counselors.

 

But counselling really works when the energy is coming from you. You have to genuinely want to understand yourself. It takes effort. The counselor is just a tool for you to use to help understand yourself.

 

There are many bad counsellors, but there are good ones, too. You have to be prepared to screen several counsellors to find a good one. If one treats you like an object and not a person, find another.

 

One thing you can always do is to read a lot. There’s almost no limit to how much you can learn about yourself just by reading–though few people take advantage of this.

 

Reading can bring you to the gate of understanding, which a counsellor can help you pass through. But without reading, you don’t get to the gate, and counselling can’t do much except give you emotional support (although sometimes that alone is needed).

 

In fact, reading is probably more important than counseling, but doing both is better still. Enjoy life Well, just so I don’t seem like a wet blanket, I want to emphasize that’s it good and important to enjoy life. It’s true, I limit my crossdressing to part time. But I make a point to enjoy myself while I’m doing it.

 

There’s lot’s of other things to enjoy too–fresh air and exercise, a beautiful day, friends, music, etc.

 

Sometimes we blow our problems out of proportion. Enjoying the good things in life helps us get them back into perspective.



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