robertacrossdresses: degradedsissy1: You had reluctantly…

robertacrossdresses:

degradedsissy1:

You had reluctantly resigned yourself to the reality that the innocent curiosity that impelled you to try on women’s stockings and lingerie when you were younger, and then more and more items of women’s clothing – high heels, bras, nighties, skirts, dresses by blouses – would never be satiated.

Deep down you knew that your were in the grip of a powerfully addictive perversion, which you still tried to rationalise as a ‘harmless kink or diversion’.

It was taking control of your body mind and soul.

The urge to dress in womens clothing was becoming progressively more intense.

You were maintaining outward appearances at work, as well as amongst family and friends, but underneath you were a helpless captive of your sissy urges.

You no longer owned any men’s underwear. You wore pantyhose or stockings and panties, and even bras under you men’s outerwear.

At home you were wearing only women’s clothing – dresses, skirts, high-heels, blouses, makeup, perfume.

After countless failed relationships with women, you’d more or less resigned yourself to a narcissistic existence of making love to the “girl” in the mirror, as you gratified yourself.

The transvestite impulses were now so powerful, they were overriding your better judgement, as you’d begun to take increasing risks in public, wearing girl jeans or plain female tops or exposing your stockinged ankles, deluding yourself that no one would notice, yet paradoxically fantasising that someone would.

You’d even begun going out at night dressed fully as a woman, at first down dark empty streets, but then in full public view – gay bars and fetish clubs at first, but lately even crowded shopping centres and bars and clubs frequented by straights because you craved people seeing you.

You enjoyed the odd compliment, but the derision and insults were petrifying. They reduced you to a trembling, red-faced mess. Yet, strangely, they were also the source of incredibly tense arousal.

You’d even begun to flirt with men. You weren’t attracted to them in any way. Their smell and rough stubble was unpleasant; their demeanour off-putting and their appease anything but attractive, but you enjoyed how girlie their attentions made you feel.

It worried you deeply, where all this was heading, but you were adamant that knew where to draw the line.

Except tonight!

He was an ordinary looking guy. A clean-cut businessman in a suit. But not that you found men attractive anyway.

However, after he’d bought you a couple of drinks, his hand on your stockinged knee, then caressing your stocking sheathed thigh – you felt so delightfully feminine.

The stares is others in the bar, observing your seduction, was a source of highly arousing shame.

When he moved to kiss you, you initially recoiled, but then surrendered. His manly stubble, his forceful tongue inside your mouth – it was not a physically plead the feeling, but again, you were aroused and seduced by your own girliness.

As you accreted his invitation to accompany him back to his hotel room, you knew you probably should have called quits before that point, but you told yourself you’d bring it to an end before it went too far.

Yet, in his hotel room, as he unzipped his trousers and motioned you to your stockinged knees, you merely complied.

Suddenly you had his manhood between your lips and then being gorged down your throat.

This was something you swore to yourself you’d never do. The smell and the taste decidedly unpleasant. Only the new heights of girliness it abrogated in you, were what kept driving you on.

Despite the fact that you were gagging on him, he continued, with no regard for your dignity or comfort, let alone your satisfaction.

As his manliness began to swell in your mouth and the first drops of manly fluids found their way into your mouth, he forcefully grabbed you by your slender wrists and forced you onto the bed, on your knees.

You offered no resistance, as he brutally rammed his manhood into your loins. It was painful, uncomfortable and degrading. You felt weak, helpless and overpowered.

Dressed in the sheer black stockings that so obsessed you, you tight short skirt, you high heels and your pink satin blouse, you were now not merely dressed as the one if the women you’d do fantasised yourself to be, over the years.

You were now being done like one of them. This was what you were never man enough to give them.

As tears streamed down your cheeks and you whimpered and moaned pathetically, and as his manly juices gushed inside you felt the last residues of modicum being pounded out of you.

Suddenly, poof, you were a fully confirmed faggot.

As he pulled out and went to the bathroom to clean himself up, he pushed you contemptuously, face-down, onto the bed.

His juices inside you, some seeping out, your sphincter in pain, you cried uncontrollably.

Your last remnant delusions of manhood had been brutally drive out of you.

You knew, tomorrow, you would get dressed up in men’s outer clothing again, to go to work.

But you knew that you could, never again, look at yourself as any kind of man, or tell yourself any of the lies you used to delude yourself with.

Your future was uncertain, but somehow, you now realised that what had just happened was always going to happen, from the moment you first rolled a stocking up your leg and immersed yourself una world of femininity.

Suddenly you were the girls you desired and tried to dress like and be like. You could never be a real man for them, but now you knew what they experienced when taken by a real man.

Destiny.

I want to be her!!!

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