Three Fantasies/One Reality Copyright 1999 Seteyan Do NOT read if crossdressing/transgender/bisexual themes upset you! EXPLICIT SEXUAL WRITING! Proceed with caution.
[#1]
I wake up, feeling strange, sheathed in darkness. I am bound, by the wrists and ankles, spreadeagled, unable to move. Where am I? I try to clear the cobwebs from my head. A noise in the darkness - someone else is...near? I move my head and realize I am encased in a hood of leather or latex. I lick my lips, and realize only my mouth is not covered. The rest of my body is similarly encased, in tight clothes and unfamiliar fabrics, even my legs and feet. With a start I realize I am wearing stockings, and fear floods my body. Why am I dressed like this? How did I get here? WHERE IS HERE?
Panic hits me. "Hey. HEY. This isn't funny!" I thrash at the bounds. Someone moves close. I can feel it. A hand touches my lips, silencing me. The fingers are slender but firm. "That is no way for a slave girl to talk." The voice is also feminine, but strong.
I am stunned. I feel like screaming and yelling, but my head is spinning. "Let me up. Let me go!" There is no answer. Then the same strong hands grip my head, and something is thrust into my mouth. It is round and flexible, but silences me immediately. The woman speaks again: "When you find your true girl voice, I might take that out of your mouth. Right now we are going to find out what the key is to unlocking that slave-slut inside of you." Something flashes in the room, and then my blindfold is stripped away. I can see. I am in a room unlike any room I have ever seen. Mirrors line the walls, and here and there whips and paddles hang from hooks. A huge chair sits bolted to the floor, and I seem to be tied to a soft table, especially designed to hold a person captive. And the woman, the source of the voice, is a beautiful, voluptous lady, her incredible body sheathed in latex and leather, her long legs stretching down to a pair of stilleto heels that look dangerous. Everything looks unfamiliar, and dangerous.
She moves to free my hands, and I can see she is holding a polaroid. I bend my neck forward, then, remembering the strange clothing I can feel but not see, and my worst fears (and deepest secrets) are realized - I am dressed in lingerie, and worse than that my body looks like some stranger's, like a woman! Some sort of corset or girdle pins my slender waist in, and a pair of obscene breasts jut forward, hidden in a lacey bra. I can dimly see garters and stockings, and something TIGHT is stretched around my crotch. I grunt useless objections, and try to get free. When I can stand I move immediately for the door, but hesitate when I see my reflection in the mirror. It does not matter, the door is locked, and then she is at my side. I think for an instant she is pulling me to her, but before I know it she has me on my knees, my hands held behind my back by a rope or a whip(!). I feel something stir deep inside me.
Her whispered threats are spectacularly terrifying. She tells me how I came to be here, brought by one of her associates, a man or a woman I met last night. They drugged me, and brought me here, because I evidently confessed my love of womens' clothing. My darkest secret. I do not remember the events of last night. "But", she tells me, "this is your lucky day." She needs more slaves here and abroad, in her work. Her job as a dominatrix. She deals in flesh like mine. She tells me that the unwilling victims make the best slaves, and that all fetishists have a key, a trigger, that can turn them into perfect submissives. I feel the strength flood out of me, as the threats end. She stands me up. I can see my feminine figure outlined in the mirror. My mouth stretched around the ball gag. She can see the flush of excitement as my body betrays me. She smiles and begins. She tries shoes, high heels. Then handcuffs. Bondage? How about a whip? How about a miniskirt of rubber? She makes me try on a dress of lycra, stretching it over my girlish form. I start to react, yearning to touch myself. She shows me other items of clothing, clothing revealing enough to make a hooker blush. Looking into her closet I can already see where this is going. She finally reaches for the sweater, the soft, pale sweater, knit from the purest angora. My resistance crumples. As I ease my head into it, I stiffen, and moan. Soon I am groping myself, sighing. She pulls out other sweaters, and I try them all. And she puts one on as well, to torment me... She removes the gag, and touches my lips with red lipstick. I am a vision, in a bondage hood, and a tight sweater, my huge fake breasts like an advertisement for sex under the wool... I pull on the miniskirt, and the high heels. I walk for her. I talk for her, my voice is not my own. She ties me up, and raises her camera. She will take picture after picture, and then she will teach me, to be her sweater slut...I surrender to it all...
[#2]
I knocked at the hotel door, as arranged, two short knocks, exactly at four o'clock. A voice says, Who is it? I struggled with the words, stuck in my dry throat, held down by a squadron of butterflies who had taken up residence in my stomach. Finally they squeaked out, It's me. Angore.
An-gore-ray. A false name, invented in the middle of an erotic story I wrote for the internet. Who would have thought that I would assume that identity in real life, drawn out by my own perversions, obsessions, desires...
The door opened, the room was completly dark. The voice drifted out, Come in and stand absolutely still. It was a gruff voice, not fully male or female, the voice of my temptress. I took a step in, into the darkness. I still could not see her. The door closed and a bolt was thrown. The voice spoke again, behind me: Put your bag down, and close your eyes. Hands at your side. If you do not obey my every wish, you will be severly punished. Or worse, I will turn you out.
I did as she asked, laying my stuffed duffel bag beside me, closing my eyes in the already dark room. It felt like I could be on the edge of a cliff, and still I could do nothing but comply. Then something soft slid over my head, soft and tight, and I almost panicked. My head jerked up only for an instant - but the voice said nothing, only laughed. Something soft and form fitting closed over my face, covering everything but my mouth. Lycra maybe, or spandex. A collar locked around my neck.
The voice spoke, a refined growl: Now strip. Take off all those clothes, all those male clothes, while I inspect your warddrobe.
I did not hesitate, stripping away layer after layer, even my socks and shoes. I could hear her going through my bag as I fumbled out of my underwear. The air-conditionng chilled my skin. I stood naked and blind in an unfamiliar hotel room; I could not imagine how it looked, but for some reason I became excited, and I tried to cover my excitement as if it could be seen as a transgression. Instead strong hands slapped away my fingers, and gripped my cock with practiced ease. So, she said, this is what you bring me - sweaters? Soft soft sweaters. I held my breath. With her fingers wrapped around my cock, I could do nothing. She turned her hand slowly, and I felt my body rise, weightless. Then she released me, and I felt her presence as she walked around me. She grunted a short appraising grunt, measuring my skinny male body against her desires. I wished I could see her...but she had made sure I would not. Not until she was ready. Something smooth and cool brushed against my bottom, and I tensed involuntarily. Again the short grunt, and then the voice said: You will wear the clothes I choose. First off - put these on. And I was handed a pair of lacey underwear, I recognized them by touch. I found the label, and inserted first one leg and then the next, with practiced ease. After all I was a closet crossdresser for years now. She was impressed as well, and as I eased the waistband up my hips I felt her brush my ass with her hand. Excellent, she purred, and I could feel her excitement.
She helped then, dressing me like a I was a doll. A bra was stretched around my hairless chest, and huge liquid breast forms slid into the waiting cups. Then pantyhose - bodyshapers - that clung to my skin and pulled my ass up, my waist in. I was held tightly - tightly - and beneath the layers my half-hard penis oozed a constant stream of liquid excitement. Then a fishnet bodystocking was pulled up my waiting legs, and across my prenatural bust. The long sleeves touched my skin and I felt the transformation nearing completion. The shoes were tricky and when I stood teetering on them, she marched around me, barking orders to STAND UP STRAIGHT, PUSH YOUR CHEST OUT. I waited in breathless anticipation: Which sweater would she choose? And then what would she do to me?
It was the soft black rollneck. And the grey pleated skirt. She tore away the hood as I stood transfixed by lust. I saw myself in the full-length mirror. Big breasts strained at the soft wool. And then behind me I saw her: Misstress Skintight, her body wrapped in a latex catsuit, offset by a big black wig. She had wrapped a soft grey angora cardigan around her impressive bustline. She laughed at me, at my rapture, then she barked out her commands - WALK FOR ME! CRAWL! ON YOUR KNEES! I walked like a streetwalker in the high heels.... I crawled like a slave to my lust, my sweatered breasts trailing along the ground. I kneeled between her latex covered thighs. She said that she would strip away the layers between my legs and expose me for the creature that I was. She tied my wrists behind me and then...and then...and then...
[#3]
I must have dozed off, I forgot for an instant where I was. But the soft restraint of the stockings brought me back. I was tied down, spread eagle, on a bed in a strange apartment in New York City. I knew that I was still dressed in the pantyhose and the lingerie of my captor, the woman who had turned me into a sweater girl. A soft angora cardigan was loosely buttoned over a stuffed brassiere. My tired cock lay limp within a pair of her lycra panties. She had enjoyed the sight of me dressed this way, and she had tied me down and fucked me. Until she was satisfied. Then she had pulled a tight lambswool sweater over my head, and left. She would return, with more demands, more clothes to wear, more desires. I could see dimly the outlines of the room through the weave, the room were I was effectively being held prisoner. Hard to believe this normal looking bedroom, in this normal Manhattan apartment building, could be my cage. The people on the other side of the wall had no idea, no idea what had happened in here. And it was all my own fault.
I had put an ad in the NYPeople personals section, under the Different Interests section, the section that usually catered to TVs, sado-masochists, people actually not that different than me. But my ad had been different - WANTED: SWEATER GIRL. SWM iso F who loves sweaters, who understands my addiction to angora, and who might torment me with cashmere, make me wear mohair. Older women ok, Big Breasts a plus. I will serve you in wool.
I did not think it would lead to anything. I had just been harboring these fantasies, fantasies about sweaters, and big tits, Mrs. Robinson in cashmere, the woman from Amarcord- these things had been buzzing through my head for years. So I had placed the ad. And Mrs. Robinson had called. But her name was Mrs. Saffi, and she seemed to understand my sweater fetish. I met with her, in a bar, and was surprised at her appearance. She was in fact an older woman, maybe 46, or even 50, short, slightly overweight, but she was cute. I mean she had a cute smile, a shock of black hair carefulled coiffed, and pair of tits that looked great under her blouse. She might not have been what I expected, but after a few minutes I was hungrily imagining her in a tight sweater, and black stockings. She was European, her voice lightly accented. Her face reminded me of Sofia Loren, it was angular and tan. And her body, well, I could see she would have been quite a beauty as a young girl, probably got alot of attention with those breasts. Probably too much attention. Now her hips were wide, her bosom soft and gravitating down; her legs still looked thin and trim, widening out as they got to her waist. She kept brushing my shoulders with her hands, touching my knee, all in the friendliest way. She would lean in conspiratorily and whisper, Look at that young woman over there, in the cashmere sweater? Do you find her attractive? She was also very pushy, which I liked, and she made it clear when we would meet, to 'play' as she called it.
So the next weekend I arrived at her apartment building, the doorman buzzed me upstairs, and I knocked at her door. In my bag were ten or twelve sweaters. I hoped she would try them on. I had this vision of her wearing an old cardigan, asking me to drink tea, and that would be it. But then she opened the door in her robe and I thought, Uh-oh. This is not what I expected.
She said Come in, and literally pulled me into her apartment, checking the hall carefully. She said, Don't say a word, unless I ask you a question, and do not question me. Do you understand? I said, Yes. She took my hand and dragged me into the bedroom, and sat me on the perfectly made bed. The whole apartment was spotless, and innocous, like a clean motel room. Then she said, Wait here. She smiled, her thick lips wrapping around her sharp, tan face. I watched her legs as she swayed out of the bedroom, and noticed that she had on black stockings, and those house slippers you see in movies, the kind with the soft marabou thingy. I felt vaguely aroused by that. I put my bag down, then decided to open it, and put my sweaters out on the bed... I was almost done when she reentered the bedroom. She was stunning, decked out in black stockings, heels and garters, an intricate pair of ruby red lace panties pulled over the garters, and her black bush visible. And on top, on her jutting breasts, a white angora sweater, tight and soft, her nipples visible, the outlines of her huge globular breasts framed in a white halo. The sweater ended in three quarter sleeves and a graceful v-neck. I was bowled over - it was like a vision from my dreams.
What do you think, she asked, smiling broadly, Not bad for a woman my age? And she raised her sweater to reveal a matching ruby red bra, the kind that a burlesque performer might have worn in the fifties, the kind of bra that suspended the breasts on a shelf, exposing the nipples and the tops of the breast, for evening gowns I supoose. I imagined that her lingerie was just that old, but the effect was dazzling. I tried to answer, but my throat was dry.
She smiled again, then swayed over to me. Her ass moved gently, side to side; she was as wide in the chest as she was down there. She said, Take off your clothes, and I did so immediately. My cock hardened as I removed my underwear, and she smiled again. She said, Ah, youth, and walked around my naked body. I wanted to touch her sweater so badly, I swayed towards her as she passed. But I could tell she wanted control. Lie down, she said, and put this on. She handed me a condom, and I lay on the bed, nervously unwrapping th rubber. Mrs. Safi turned out the light after I had finished. Then she crept up on the bed, slowly straddling my body. I felt her weight on my legs, the softness of her fleshy thighs. It was daytime, so I could see in the half-light of the closed blinds, her sweatered breasts undulated towards me. She smiled down at me and said, Do not touch me, lie there and do not say a word.
So I lay there, as Mrs. Safi slowly rubbed herself, her own sweatered body, her bushy pubic mound, rocking lightly on my thighs, slowly working herself up over my rigid cock. I was entranced. Finally she slid her panties down and slowly eased her vagina over my penis, she was so wet, and big, I slid in easily. SHe moaned some more, still touching herself, whispering quiet foreign words, her dark eyes closed. She breathed deeply, rubbing her big breasts from side to side, in her own private ecstasy, but she was driving me wild. IN the half light, the edges of her breasts seemed to be pushing the sweater almost to the bursting point. In a few minutes, I could feel my balls aching, I could feel my load building. I tried to think of something else. But it was too late, the sweater was driving me crazy. I exploded, gasping for breath, reaching for her breasts Mrs. Safi awoke from her reverie, her eyes flashing, quickly pulling my cock out of her, and backing away. She looked angry now, angrier still as my cock withered in the cold apartment air.
She shook her head, reproachfully. Ju think you are finished? Clean that up, boy, and then come back in here. I felt miserable, ashamed at my lack of control. I went to the bathroom, and peeled the condom off. I wanted to go home, maybe I woud just make my excuses and leave. But when I got back into the bedroom, she would not even let me speak. She raised a finger, the manicured nail a perfect red, and wagged it at me. No, no, no.
Turn around, she said. I did, and she tied a black stocking around my head, in my mouth, gagging me. I stifled a moan. It was too late to complain, too late to leave. Too late, I asked myself, wasn't it?
She said, I noticed you have alot of sweaters, alot of the womans sweaters. You like to wear these? I shook my head, unconvincingly. She laughed. At least you are thin, you can do so, passably. Do you think so? I grunted a non-answer, as she tied my hands together in front of my body. Have you ever dressed up like a girl, she asked, that is what I think you do? I shook my head violently, but again she did not seem to believe me. I looked down at her soft angora bosom, and wondered if I would ever escape...did I even want to?
comments/realities: nais@hotmail.com