WOMAN'S REALM Some of this story is based on real events. Zoë and I sat on the
hillside, looking down at the meandering stream, wind-rustled trees and some
disconsolate sheep. The sun was trying to peer through the rain clouds. I
contemplated my muddy boots. Fortunately not too much had splashed up on to my
tights and skirt. Both were damp from the last shower, but my coat covered much
of my skirt. Zoë was rather more sensibly dressed, in rainproof fleece jacket
and trousers. Some two hours ago, I had watched her put on her waterproofs,
after she had done-up my coat for me. And why exactly hadn't I done-up my own
coat..? Because Zoë had deprived me of my manual dexterity, by means of a pair
of mittens. With the aid of thick tape, she had secured each mitten's cuff to
the corresponding sleeve-end of the long-sleeved leotard which I was wearing
underneath my petticoats, blouse and skirt. An ensemble which is very fetching
on a 28-year-old man..... -----0000-----0000----- The story of Virility's
journey towards Muliebrity began last year. I live and work as a technical
specialist in a commuter town. Work and pleasure take me up and down the
country. Early in January, Zoë - not her real name - and I were both at another
friend's Italian-themed party in our home town. I had gone dressed as a
gondolier; Zoë was pretending to be Lucretia Borgia. Our hostess, Jennifer,
flushed with success at making all these people dress up, suggested that the
next month's party be a drag party. Both she and Zoë laughed at my evident
discomfiture. Drag has a lot of undertones, I'm absolutely heterosexual in
inclination (a great believer in monogamy, too) - and didn't have a single dress
to my name.... However, after that party, at the back of my mind, a small
element of curiosity developed into an ever-increasing frisson. It grew and
grew, until, late one Sunday afternoon, in London's Oxford Street, I bought
myself some medium-sized knickers, several pairs of tights, and a 36B bra. In a
city of eight million, you do periodically cross paths with people whom you
know, but the risk here was small. None of the staff in the department store
knew who I was. My skirt came from Leeds outdoor market: the lady running the
stall was very sympathetic! Some of my other accoutrements came about at Zoë’s
suggestion. I later bought a lovely black-and-white tartan pleated mini-skirt, a
Green Goddess-style cat suit and an under-wired bra, in Clapham. I'm wearing
knickers, tights, bra, cat suit and skirt as I type this. I had known Zoë for
about 18 months. She kindly suggested that I dress-up at her house on the night
of the party, and that we then walk round to Jennifer's - a distance of about a
mile. The idea initially filled me with mortal horror. However, her sweet smile
and the suggestion of a wig and make-up made me begin to realise that on a dark
winter's night, we could probably get away with it. I began to feel a gentle
sense of excitement. When I got up that Saturday - I live alone - I decided to
wear knickers and tights under my trousers all day. (Imitators be warned: I wore
them underneath trousers, to the office, one day in June. This was silly - I was
so hot, it was unbelievable). Knickers, the 'full brief' type, in size 12-14 or
'medium', suit me well. The 70-denier black opaques made by Pretty Polly are
probably the best tights - they conceal hairy legs, which avoids the need for
depilation, and have a nice clinging sensation around the knees (lycra).
Sainsbury's sell them now and Woolworth's sells an acceptable substitute. On
cold winter's days, particularly if you have to spend long periods out of doors
or waiting for trains or buses, tights underneath your trousers really do keep
you marvellously warm. They are also excellent at night if you suffer from a
cold bed! However, it is not advisable to continuously wear knickers and tights
for more than about 14 hours a day. Do also wear them beneath thick trousers,
such as corduroys, or a sharp eye may spot your visible panty line, and
searching questions will follow. It is well-known that policemen, motorcyclists
and soldiers wear tights: somebody should invent a convenient masculine version
- though it would require clever marketing. Anyway, by six o'clock that Saturday
night, I was in Zoë’s bathroom, standing in my knickers and tights, carefully
doing-up my bra. Zoë had thoughtfully provided some water-filled polythene bags
for my bra-cups. Oooh...she'd used cold water.... With practice, I have mastered
the art of fastening the bra behind my back, without using a mirror (I am very
proud of this). Zoë advised me to wear a leotard over my lingerie and lent me
one for the evening. It was a striking shade of electric blue. Then followed a
full-length slip (I prefer these to petticoats, which only hang from the waist),
high-necked blouse (to hide the Adam's apple), calf-length floral skirt, and a
cardigan. After this I was summoned into her "boudoir", hair remover was applied
liberally to face and hands (bad smell!), and I soon became a (bewigged) blonde.
Having first insisted on seeing the make-up remover, I then allowed eye-liner,
mascara and lipstick to be applied. This was a most interesting experience. Nail
varnish followed, and some subtle perfume to my wrists and neck. A mock-pearl
necklace adorned my neck, Zoë produced some matching clip-on earrings, a couple
of rings for my fingers, and a delicate feminine watch. She had no suitable
footwear in my size, so I had to revert to my DM shoes, which, perhaps
fortunately, are now well-accepted footwear for both sexes. When I finally came
to look at myself in the mirror, the transformation was so astonishing, it gave
me a huge thrill. Zoë told me that I must also adopt a female name, and so I
chose Joanna, the name of a nice student whom I had once known in Glasgow. I was
then banished from the room while Zoë donned jeans and a lumberjack shirt.
These did not of course hide all the features of her feminine form. But the
"role-reversal" was fascinating. Zoë had obviously enjoyed helping a man to
dress as a woman. As things turned out, this evening was just the beginning.
We've been having girls' nights in and out together now for months - even going
quite far afield. Her leadership in my masquerades is largely explained by her
job: she works for a large multinational company, placing orders for millions of
"consumables", which warrants many dealings with hard-bitten or hard-biting men.
Some of these misogynists give her a lot of grief - despite her undoubted
intellect and physical attractiveness. To put a man into petticoats is something
that she seems to relish: compelling him to experience some of the aspects of
the woman's realm. The woman strikes back - in a usually-harmless way. Zoë
continues to enjoy this activity, and I remain her willing and happy
collaborator. I am not a very tall or muscular man, which is of course a
considerable asset. And so - back on that dark winter's night, we set of for
Jennifer's party. Zoë had also lent me a coat and long woollen scarf. The swish
of petticoat and skirt around nylon-clad legs is of course completely
unparalleled in the male experience. (The complexities of laundering petticoats
and slips so that they don't cling horribly to your legs...!) Add to this the
restraint of knickers, tights and leotard. The gentle tension on the bra's
shoulder straps caused by the weight of my "breasts". The tightness of the bra
around my chest, particularly under the arms. The earrings gripping my ear
lobes. And the cold air around my legs and ankles. We linked arms and walked
along briskly together. The party itself was great fun, as there were few other
blokes there. There was nodded and embarrassed acknowledgement between us, and I
enjoyed a lot of conversation with the real girls. One of them pinched my
bottom! Part of Zoë’s rationale for my wearing a leotard was so that wicked
women couldn't pull down my tights and knickers! - and also, deliberately, to
remind me who was boss. The clock ticked round till late, and we wended our
slightly merry way home, making jokes about frogs and princesses and who was
which. I slept in Zoë’s spare bed, still wearing make-up.
-----0000-----0000----- It was mutually agreed that I should come round to Zoë’s
house the following Friday evening, and dress for dinner. Depending on how we
felt, we could perhaps then "make a weekend of it". Needless to say, I could
hardly wait for that week to pass. I left work early on Friday evening and
rushed home to dress. Zoë had phoned on Thursday to say that she had bought me
a frock. My intrigue was considerable. Having been duly welcomed at her house, I
was presented with my new dress, a snip at the charity shop. Zoë had surmised -
with commendable accuracy - that I was suited to a size 16. And so here was a
short-sleeved dress which flared gently into an A-line, with its hem several
inches above my knees. Presently, Zoë zipped me up at the back and lent me one
of her jumpers. Hair-remover, make-up and wig followed, and we returned
downstairs for lasagne. I had been instructed to bring a video for after dinner,
but Zoë insisted the washing-up be done first. Out came a waitress-style white
apron. Zoë knotted it tightly around my waist and handed me a pair of bright
yellow rubber gloves. I dared not make any comments about "women's work"... The
washing-up completed, I took off the rubber gloves. Zoë came up behind me, and
I felt her grasp my right wrist and gently pull it behind my back. The next
thing I knew, she was tying the apron strings around it! I tried struggling, but
she firmly grasped my left wrist, and in a matter of moments, both my hands were
tied behind my back. I looked at her inquisitively. This woman had taken
advantage of me! I felt intimidated. She smiled at me, kissed me on the cheek,
and looping one of her arms through one of mine, led me into the lounge. My
heart began to race. In the lounge, an armchair and a piano stool were
positioned conveniently for watching the TV (- in more senses than one). She
motioned me to sit on the stool, smoothing the seat of my dress for me as I sat
down. The stool meant that I could sit comfortably with my hands behind my back.
She told me firmly that it was imperative to sit with knees together whenever
wearing a short dress or skirt. As she bent down to put the video in the
machine, she complimented me on a pair of long legs and shapely ankles that many
women would die for! And so we sat and watched our video, she later on feeding
me popcorn. Thus I discovered the great allure of wearing women's clothes while
being completely helpless. And so to bed. Separate beds. Zoë is both the subtle
and masterful tantaliser - and the jealous guard of her own honour. I was loosed
from my apron strings, despatched to the bathroom, and told to present myself in
her bedroom, stripped to my bra and tights. A few minutes later, with a slight
lump in my throat, I was contemplating the collapsible bed positioned on the
opposite side of the room to her own bed. I laid on the mattress as instructed,
and watched her come towards me holding some sash cord. One of my wrists was
tied to the bed frame. This left me free enough to scratch or to blow my nose,
but otherwise in her complete charge. She pulled the sheet and duvet over me and
tucked me in. A kiss on the cheek, and she started to undress in front of me. I
couldn't believe it. As she came to unbutton her blouse - click! - she switched
off the light, and before my eyes could acclimatise to the dark, I could hear
her finish undressing and getting-into her bed. My imagination ran riot! I told
her that her behaviour was completely outrageous. She laughed heartily and told
me to go to sleep. She knew the effect she was having. Finally, despite my
state, I succeeded in dozing off. -----0000-----0000----- The next morning I was
released by an already-dressed Zoë. She had tastefully teamed sheer black
tights with shorts and a mohair jumper, and looked gorgeous. Returning to the
bedroom from my ablutions, I saw that she had laid out a full-length slip,
blouse, cardigan and a long narrow skirt. This latter garment, when I had put it
on, came to halfway down my calves. Goodness knows who designs these things or
quite why people choose to wear them. Whilst suitable for a sedentary office
worker or around the house, a pencil skirt severely impedes your walking. You
have to hitch it up to climb or descend stairs too. Wearing a pencil skirt is
another way of being subtly, but effectively, dominated by femininity. Zoë had
also bought me a new pair of black opaques, these with a control top. This again
is something that gives an interesting sensation to the wearer, especially male
ones. Zoë transformed me into what she now called the "blonde bombshell" and we
had breakfast together. Afterwards I had to resume my apron and rubber gloves
for washing the dishes. However, this time I wasn't tied-up. I was then enlisted
as secretary, and we spent the morning working through paperwork, drafting
letters and paying bills. I sat demurely writing, "Dictated by Miss ...... and
signed in her absence". Completely untrue, as Miss ...... was sat there beside
me. After lunch we played board games until the dull winter daylight began to
fade. We watched the street lights come on outside. A man in a greasy raincoat
walked past with a black-and-tan dog (I reflected that he was unlikely to be
Irish). Zoë announced that we too were going to post the letters. I questioned
the suitability of my attire, knowing her to be quite a fast walker. She
insisted I was talking nonsense and should get some exercise. With that, she
went to find our coats. I put on the coat that she brought me - a Burberry-style
one - and manipulated the still-unfamiliar left-buttons-into-right-holes. Zoë
insisted I was wearing the belt far too loose and did it up two extra notches.
This created a very definite constricting sensation around my waist and I
complained. She then told me to clench my fists, and put them in my coat
pockets. With not a little curiosity, I did as I was told. Kneeling down in
front of me, she then unbuttoned the skirt of my coat, reached inside, and tied
some string around the pocket linings so as to actually secure my hands inside
the pockets. Taking another piece of string, she linked it to the strings round
each of my wrists and tied the loose ends, so that my wrists were secured
together. Zoë was a very "forward" and uninhibited woman. As for me, I was now
most inhibited, with my wrists secured about six inches apart, and I couldn't
take my hands out of my pockets. Zoë re-buttoned my coat, stood up and smiled
at me. As I was now completely reliant on her to untie me, we both knew that I
was at her complete beck and call. However, to any casual observer, I looked
like a woman with her hands in her pockets. Zoë told me to shut my eyes, as she
had a surprise for me. I heard her open a cupboard door, and a couple of seconds
later she had secured a wide strip of carefully pre-cut parcel tape over my
mouth. As she smoothed it down carefully, she told me firmly that she didn't
want to hear any more complaining. I gently trembled with trepidation and began
to think that I couldn't possibly go out for a walk like this. She checked that
I was breathing satisfactorily and kissed me on my impotent lips. My adrenalin
surged. Then she produced the woollen scarf, looped it round the lower half of
my head and carefully tied it, so that the tape was completely hidden. She
stuffed the loose ends inside my coat and then stepped back to contemplate me -
a man dressed as a woman, gagged, bound, and helpless. Finally, just to
emphasise the point, she undid my coat belt and re-fastened it still tighter! I
groaned. She put on her own hat, coat and gloves, and a few moments later I was
standing on the doorstep while she locked up. She looped her left arm through my
right, and set off marching down the front path. I hurriedly started putting one
foot in front of the other, feeling the restraining skirt against my legs, and
very nearly fell over. Fortunately, she prevented me. With a twinkle in her eye,
she slowed slightly, but I still had to take lots of small steps in order to
keep up with her. How she must have been enjoying herself. I was beginning to
enjoy myself, too..... By the time we had walked along two or three streets, it
was completely dark. On one street corner, light streamed from the windows of a
chippy. Zoë asked me if I'd fancy a pack of chips, but as I didn't say a word,
she decided I wasn't hungry, and left me standing outside the shop while she
went inside. I waited very nervously, shuffling my feet, hoping that no-one
would ask me the time or try to chat to me. Zoë deliberately let me smell the
chips and then commenced to munch them as she led us down towards the park. We
walked through the entrance archway and made our way to a bench under a spinney
of gaunt trees. Obviously it was bit unusual to be sat there in the dark in
winter. However there was only a solitary passing girl who momentarily glanced
in our direction. She saw two female figures sitting on a bench, one talking
avidly and stuffing her face with chips, the other silently listening. As I
thought to myself that the teenager couldn't possibly know that the person
wearing the coat, scarf and long skirt was, in reality, a man, it made me
tingle... -----0000-----0000----- We sat on the bench until Zoë had finished
the chips, at which point she said we should return home. And so we wended our
way back. I admired Zoë’s imagination at making me go for a walk in the most
unsuitable attire for that purpose. How many women have to put up with
unsuitable clothes? For a man it was a fascinating insight, and to be rendered
silent and helpless at the same time added a great sensation. My trepidation had
by now evaporated. Zoë decided we should take a detour and have a look at the
river. This necessitated descending a flight of steps on the edge of the park,
down towards the riverside. Of course, my wonderful skirt made the descent most
difficult and Zoë had to hitch it up and hold it for me, while we stepped down
together. Perhaps I should not have been too surprised when Zoë then left me
contemplating the rippling waters while she ran back up the steps! I paced up
and down for a minute or two, as she had disappeared from sight. I didn't want
to hang around down here, just in case other people should appear. So I tried
climbing the steps sideways, but it really was a bit ridiculous. I gave up and
sat down on the steps, feeling slightly angry with her. I guessed she would have
to come back for me - and she did, but only after I had spent several minutes in
silent contemplation. Once we were back at the house, Zoë took off my scarf and
untied my wrists. I was instructed to avail myself of the bathroom, though not
to remove the tape, on pain of death! Presently, as I washed my hands, I
contemplated the gagged feminine figure in the bathroom mirror. I was very
tempted to peel the tape off, but after a moment found myself smoothing it
firmly with my hand. Back downstairs, Zoë indicated that we were going out
again, as it was still quite early on Saturday evening. Two minutes later, my
hands were once again invisibly secured inside my coat pockets. Zoë announced
that we were now going to have a game of blind-man's-buff. The scarf re-appeared
and Zoë covered my eyes with it, tied it once at the back, wrapped it round my
head and knotted it at the back again. Just to make sure that I couldn't rub or
shake it off, she pulled up the hood of my coat, and knotted the hood's
draw-strings under my chin. Sure enough, the layers of material prevented me
from discerning anything. I was completely helpless, feminised, bound, gagged,
and now blindfolded...and loving it. Zoë came up to me, held me by the arms and
spun me round. The she shouted something about coming to find her. She tiptoed
away to a corner of the room. I tottered around, banging into the furniture, and
soon gave up. Then I felt her dragging me out of the room by my belt. We walked
through the house until I recognised the sound of the back door being unlocked.
I tried to resist being led into the garden, but she tugged and pulled until I
followed. After walking a few yards, I heard the sound of a bolt being drawn,
and she pushed me forward. From the smell of slightly damp wood and creosote, I
deduced that we were now inside the garden shed. Zoë pushed me roughly down
into a garden chair. I then felt my ankles being tied together, and after a
moment heard the sound of the shed door being shut and bolted. If I was helpless
before, I was even more helpless now... I faintly heard the house's back door
shutting in the distance. This was certainly a different way of spending a
Saturday evening. How long was Zoë going to keep me captive? Would I be back in
work on Monday morning..? My trepidation returned, reinforced. Wild thoughts of
being kept here for days began to pass through my head. At the back of my mind I
knew it wasn't realistically possibly, but at the same time, I knew I was
completely at her mercy. My hormones, which, not surprisingly, had been in
overdrive, began to steady. I wriggled my feet, and felt the tightness of the
cord round my nylon-clad ankles. I could only move my knees a few inches apart
on account of my skirt. My knickers, tights and bra all felt taut. I tugged my
arms and shook my head. To no avail. I exhaled a long sigh through my nose. I
had no choice but to sit and wait, in complete darkness and almost total
silence. It could have been two hours before she re-appeared. I didn't perceive
the distant sound of the back door, and as a consequence jumped violently when
she suddenly unbolted and opened the shed door. She untied my ankles, helped me
stand up, turned me round, and I felt her hand pass through the back of my
coat's belt. I was gently propelled outside, heard the shed door being re-shut,
and was led up the garden path (literally). A moment later I felt my back being
pushed against a hard object, and Zoë’s arms reaching around me, as if to hug
me. Then there was a tugging sensation on my belt, and I suddenly realised that
when her hand had reached inside my belt, she had obviously looped a cord
through it, and was now tying me to some fixed object. She finished tying the
cord behind me, brought the loose ends round to my front, through my arms, and
knotted the ends around the coat's belt-buckle. A loud whisper informed me that
I was tied to the apple tree. And then the tantaliser leant down beside me, and
began to caress my legs. I wanted to burst! You cruel woman!! I let out moans
through my nose. Then my skirt and coat were gently tugged back into place, I
felt her momentarily lift up the scarf and kiss my taped lips, then she wished
me sweet dreams. I heard her retreating footsteps, and the back door being shut
and locked. I allowed myself to relish the moment. I also imagined Zoë lying in
her warm bed. She had very deliberately, and sensibly, not tied my ankles, which
meant that I could stamp my feet and move my legs. Fortunately it was not a cold
night, but if my movements had been restricted too much, the lack of blood flow
could have led to hypothermia. There was sufficient breeze for me to be able to
feel the hem of my skirt rustle. I leaned back against the tree. From time to
time I moved my legs and feet and shifted my position as best I could. Now at
least I could hear, albeit muffled, the breeze, and an occasional passing car on
the adjacent streets. I hoped the garden wasn't overlooked by the neighbouring
houses. Sleep was of course quite impossible, so I had a lot of time to think.
Finally, many hours later, I began to hear birds singing, and - joy! - the sound
of the back door opening. A few moments later I was back inside the house. Zoë
undid my hood and took off the scarf. I blinked in the light and could see she
was smiling at me. I felt like smiling at her too. The tape was painstakingly
peeled off my face, and, with my hands still bound, she kissed me on the lips.
Oh, yet more tantalisation! Then she loosed me from my bonds, helped me take my
coat off, and told me to have a bath and go to bed. I was completely exhausted,
and useless for anything else. -----0000-----0000----- I must have woken up
about lunchtime on Sunday. I ate lunch dressed in one of Zoë’s night-dresses
and a dressing gown. We discussed what we might do the following weekend, and
she said she would phone me on Monday evening with her ideas. And so, it has to
be said, with some reluctance, I resumed my male raiment, and we bade a fond
farewell. All through Monday my thoughts were distracted from my work. I had to
spend the whole day at the office, rather than travelling. Through my window I
can see people walking up and down the street. On this particular day I gazed
out more than usual, relishing the prospect every time I saw skirts and
nylon-clad legs. If only they knew... At last, it was time to go home. Just as I
was having a post-prandial read of the newspaper, the phone rang. Yes, it was
Zoë. Unexpectedly, she asked me if I could afford a weekend away self-catering.
I decided I could. And so it was decided that we should take a weekend away in a
country cottage. The charge was modest at this time of the year. Four evenings
later, I watched Zoë’s car drew up outside my place and saw her get out. She
was still wearing her office suit: a jacket and quite tight knee-length skirt. A
silk scarf was loosely tied around her blouse collar. And, make no mistake, her
legs look lovely. She came indoors, clutching her weekend bag. All my female
gear was packed into this. Just in case of a road traffic accident, it would be
imprudent for me to travel dressed "en fille". (For similar reasons, my skirt,
tights, and so on are kept in a polythene bag in the bottom of my dustbin.
Should anything happen to me, someone else will empty the bin - in complete
ignorance - and no scandal or intrigue will be visited on my loving parents). I
brought a bag with my walking boots and socks. She drove us off into the gloom.
After a couple of hours we arrived at our destination, a village in hilly
countryside. Zoë had stayed hereabouts with friends on a previous occasion, and
knew of a fairly secluded cottage. As a precaution, I donned my wig before
getting out of the car, and hurried inside the cottage. Zoë had told the
landlady that she and "a girl friend" would be staying there over the weekend.
The first priority was to put the heating and the dinner on, and draw the
curtains. Zoë then told me in a firm voice that as a member of the male
species, I was guilty of assisting in the collective conspiracy of denigrating
females, and was to be sentenced to at least 36 hours in women's clothes. There
was, she said, no appeals procedure: all men were irrefutably guilty. I couldn't
argue. Presently therefore, Joanna manifested herself, on this occasion in her
short dress. Zoë expertly adjusted my wig, applied my make-up and nail varnish.
We enjoyed our meal, sitting on tall stools in the cottage kitchen. After
dinner, I was handed the apron and rubber gloves. The washing-up completed, I
took off my rubber gloves and then my hands were once again secured behind my
back with the apron strings. As she tightened the reef knots around my wrists,
Zoë described to me what a shockingly stressful week she had suffered, largely
because of one particularly belligerent man. After she had tied the final knot -
with a flourish - she kissed me on the cheek: imagine my sensations. She then
seated herself on a stool on the opposite side of the table, and we spent quite
some time talking through her frustrations. I described to her some of the
attractive women I had seen from my office window during the week. Zoë
remembered that she had a magazine article upstairs for me. She stood up, and
largely for effect, took off her skirt belt and used it to secure my ankles to
the little crossbar that formed the foot-rest of the stool. This meant that I
was now sat with my feet several inches off the ground. With my hands tied, it
would only have taken one careless movement for me to overbalance the stool and
crash on to the hard floor. Zoë realised that this thought did in fact make me
quite nervous, so she wedged the kitchen table next to me. This prevented the
risk of any accident, but as soon as she nipped upstairs, I was completely
marooned. I cast my eyes downwards at my bulging breasts, the white apron
covering my lap, the hem of my dress halfway down my calves, my legs elegant in
black nylon, and the belt tight about my ankles. I tugged uselessly on the apron
strings, and my heartbeat quickened as I anticipated the rest of the weekend.
Zoë re-appeared, clutching a glossy women's magazine. There was an article
which she said was sure to be of interest to me. She looked at me for a moment,
smiled wryly, and then said that she would read it to me. This was like "Listen
with Mother"..! The article concerned a couple of Serbian refugees, now living
in Austria, who were not-long-married. As with thousands of others, the Balkan
war had driven them from the country of their birth. Their own particular saga
had begun more than a decade earlier. As Yugoslavia fell apart, the Serbian
authorities introduced conscription (as governments do) to bolster the army.
Quite a number of men did not wish to go off on an internecine killing-spree,
and in some places, groups of women had got together to assist the
draft-dodgers. Often this meant concealing them in remote places. The story
described how a 19-year-old, Stefan, was spirited by the sisterhood to a
mountain village, one dark night. He was lodged in the house of a young woman
whose husband had gone off to the war. The hope was that the war would blow over
in a few weeks, and Stefan could then go home. As we all know, this did not
happen. With the passing weeks turning into long months, Stefan felt
increasingly incarcerated. He had to stay inside all day long, so as not to be
seen in the streets and cause gossip (locals wouldn't recognise him and the
police would doubtless be keen to speak to him). Furthermore, to be seen sharing
a house with a married woman would be certain to bring attention in a
strongly-Serbian Orthodox community. Stefan had eventually found himself facing
a number of stark choices. He could give himself up, and expect to be sent to
the front, perhaps after a spell in prison. Alternatively he could leave this
village and go somewhere else to hide: but this would leave him a wanted man for
an indefinite period. Stefan and his hostess, Ivana, discussed this dilemma at
length. Could he disguise himself in some way? Even if he assumed another man's
identity, he might escape imprisonment for desertion, but he couldn't hide his
age, and the army would still want him. Finally, the two of them hit upon the
idea that it would solve a number of problems if Stefan could become Ivana's
"sister". If he adopted women's dress, and was careful, they could live together
openly and arouse little suspicion. The article described how Stefan became
Stefania. His hair had already grown quite long, Ivana dressed him in suitable
clothes, and they contrived that Stefania, a "refugee from the north" should
"arrive" in the village late one evening. And so the word gradually spread
through the community that Ivana's sister, a rather shy girl, had come to live
with her. Stefania was occasionally to be seen in the garden, chopping wood, or
hoeing the vegetable plot. Ivana had to go out to work every day to earn the
money to feed them. As the months passed, inflation rocketed, there were
international sanctions, and food became increasingly hard to obtain. Stefania
took to working at home, sharpening knives and tools for Ivana's friends and
neighbours, in order to bring in a little extra income. This curious existence
continued for a remarkably long time, when news suddenly came that Ivana's
husband had been killed in Bosnia. Ivana had disagreed fundamentally with the
whole idea of a nationalistic war, and this personal tragedy plunged her into
deep depression. During the following weeks she often found herself crying on
Stefania's shoulder. Nature gradually took its course, for Stefania was in
reality "all man", and what had become a good rapport blossomed into something
considerably deeper. However, this created its own difficulties. Primarily, now
that Ivana was a widow, there was nothing to stop her remarrying - except that
the love of her life was "a woman". Additionally, their economic circumstances
were particularly straitened...Stefan had now spent three years in female
guise...so something had to give. They decided to flee the country. Zoë paused
in her narrative. What an incredible story. I contemplated the idea of having to
dress as a woman for three years - when the alternative was being sent to
prison, or worse. This added a whole new meaning to "enforced feminisation". Zoë
meanwhile decided to help herself to a banana, and strutted up and down in front
of me, holding the magazine in one hand, brandishing the offending fruit in the
other, taking bites out of it. I asked if I could have a banana too. Zoë pulled
one off the bunch and waved it in front of my nose, smiling broadly. With a
slight element of frustration in my voice, I asked her if she would peel it for
me. She retorted that I should say "please". Weakly, I complied. She proffered
the bared fruit, and I leaned forward to bite it. Thus she fed me the banana, as
if I were some kind of tamed species - which, in a sense, I was. My
effeminisation, and being so utterly dependent on her, gave me a considerable
frisson. As soon as I had swallowed the last mouthful of banana, Zoë told me
firmly that my tone of voice had been inexcusable. With this, she gently tugged
out the ends of her silk scarf from inside her jacket, took it off, and holding
the ends of the scarf with both hands, she attempted to gag me with it.
Instinctively, I clamped my mouth shut. However, Zoë had only to pinch my
nostrils together and after a few seconds' struggling, I was forced to gasp for
breath - which allowed Zoë to insert the scarf between my jaws and knot it
behind my head. She carefully teased my blonde locks out of the loop of
material, and then tied the scarf as tightly as possible. After making sure that
I was effectively muted, but not in any discomfort, she then gently rearranged
my tresses at the back and over my ears so as to cover most of the scarf. From
behind, she told me, nobody could possibly guess that my blonde locks concealed
a gag. And so I was now secured at the ankles with a belt (which also prevented
me getting-up from the stool), with my hands tied behind me, my mouth gagged,
and all the while dressed as a member of the opposite sex. I could scarcely
contain myself. Zoë momentarily contemplated me - slightly haughtily, I felt -
and then resumed reading the article. By undisclosed means - doubtless they were
protecting other people - Ivana and Stefania had made their way to Austria and
claimed asylum. Stefan, apparently with some relief, had resumed his male
person, and after a period in internment, he and Ivana were granted residence.
Finding work, a flat, and getting married all swiftly followed. And so, it
seemed, they lived happily ever after. Zoë showed me the photos that
accompanied the article - a snapshot of what looked like two women in summer
frocks, sitting in a garden, and an evidently more-recent picture, of a man
holding a dress against himself. However, in both cases, the faces had been
deliberately obscured by the magazine's publisher, because both Ivana and Stefan
still have relatives in Serbia. As with all wars, the consequences are harsh.
Thanks to this extensive narrative and our little games, it was now gone 10:30
pm. Zoë looked at me and smiled broadly. She then left the kitchen, leaving me
once more in a state of curiosity. After a few moments she returned, this time
holding another, dark-coloured, silk scarf. There could be little mistaking why
she wanted a second one, and I did not resist as she blindfolded me with it.
Completely effeminised, bound hand and foot, and now denied both speech and
vision. Zoë’s pièce de résistance came, however, when I began to hear the
successive flops of material and soft clicks from buttons and zips as she took
off first her jacket, and then her skirt, and dropped them in turn on to the
kitchen floor. Taking her blouse off was almost noiseless, and she can't have
been wearing any kind of petticoat or slip, as the next noise I heard was her
taking her shoes off and then sitting down, doubtless to take off her tights. I
heard a deliberate soft "thwang" of knicker elastic, the sound of bare feet on
the tiled floor coming towards me, and the next sensation was the warm frills of
knickers being held against my cheek. A moment later the fasteners of her bra
being touched against my cheeks left me in absolutely no doubt as to how she was
now standing before me. I could only moan - and dribble over my gag. She tutted,
and mopped my chin with a tissue. I then felt her pulling the pantie of her
tights over my head, down sufficiently far that the waistband came to underneath
my chin. This held my blindfold in place, and whilst it was a bit on the warm
side, I could still breathe properly. Then a kiss on my cheek through the thin
layer of woven nylon - oh, you gorgeous torturess! - the sound of bare feet
padding across the floor, the click of the light switch, and the door shutting.
And I was left alone to contemplate my delightful predicament... It was nice and
warm in the kitchen, and I could hear the wind rustling through leafless trees
outside. Presently Zoë ran herself a bath upstairs. It seemed to me that she
was deliberately splashing around a lot. After perhaps 20 minutes or more, the
waters could be heard gurgling towards the nether world, and this was followed
by the thumping noise characteristic of warmed pipes contracting. Some minutes
later the creaking staircase announced Zoë’s approach, and she re-entered the
kitchen. She was no longer barefoot. She came over to me, and taking one of the
loose tights' legs that was draped over my shoulder, tickled me under the chin
with the toe end. I expostulated, and I then felt her raise the tights' pantie
and hurriedly ungag me, apparently fearful lest I should choke. However, once
she had wiped my chin and was reassured that I was fine, she re-adjusted the
tights over my face. This meant that I was now able to speak, but still couldn't
see. Zoë told me it was supper time and asked if I should like to eat
something. I accepted the offer of a bar of chocolate, followed by some tinned
fruit. I heard the sound of a wrapper being torn open, felt the tights' pantie
being raised again, and could smell the chocolate. I took a bite and chewed.
After I had finished eating this, Zoë walked around the other side of the
table, and I heard the mechanical noises of a can-opener, followed by the gentle
splashing of fruit being tipped into a bowl. Zoë told me it was peaches, and I
could hear her cutting them up with a spoon into bite-sized pieces. She then
came back over to me, pulled-up a stool, sat down - and spoon-fed me. Feminine
dominion was complete. It was now time for bed, and you will understand that I
had been tantalised almost to delirium. Zoë unbelted my legs, and then led me
out of the kitchen and upstairs - still blindfolded and with hands bound. As I
climbed the stairs, with her holding my arm, she told me there was a nice en
suite bedroom and she had - sweet of her! - made the bed for me. I was led along
the landing to the room, and then felt her untying my wrists. A quick kiss, and
before I could rub my wrists or remove my blindfold, Zoë stepped outside - and
locked the door behind her! She called "good-night" to me. I swiftly pulled off
her tights and the blindfold, and contemplated a nice little room with its
adjoining bathroom. A long pink night-dress lay on the bed. There was
undoubtedly no means of escape either by door or window, but Zoë knew that I
could spend the night comfortably, and she could sleep undisturbed.
-----0000-----0000----- Zoë woke me quite early on the Saturday morning, and
sent me to start preparing breakfast, saying that she would organise my day
clothes. A few minutes later she joined me for breakfast. After we had finished
eating and I had washed up, I returned to the bedroom, and donned my underwear
and tights. On my bed that morning lay the leotard, two full-length slips, the
high-necked blouse, a cardigan, and my long, loose, floral skirt. Zoë had also
put out my boots and walking-socks for me. There was obviously the suggestion
that I was going to have to go hill-walking, in winter, in a thin skirt. Would
one extra slip really provide much insulation underneath?! Was Zoë being wicked
again? I put on the leotard - I love the feel of the nylon-lycra material which
both the leotard and the cat suit are made - followed by the two slinky slips
and my blouse. Zoë re-appeared, dressed in thick trousers, shirt and jumper.
She smiled at me. I put on my skirt, buttoned my cardigan, and pulled on my
socks and boots. I grasped my skirt with both hands, and pulled it out sideways,
and asked if Joanna was a pretty girl. She assured me I was. I then asked her if
I was going to be tied or gagged. She said no, for I should need to be able to
breathe deeply while we were walking, and I should also need the full use of my
arms to help me keep my balance on uneven terrain. She did however have one
other little trick up her sleeve - and up mine too. Just as we were about to set
off, she asked me to unbutton my blouse cuffs, and she grasped and tugged hard
on each of my leotard sleeves, pulling them fully down to my wrists. She then
produced a pair of thick ski-ing mittens and told me to put them on. These were
special mittens, she explained; she had sewed-up the thumb compartment, so that
my thumb and fingers had to all go inside the main compartment of the mitten.
After she had helped me pull on the second mitten, out came the parcel tape, and
she taped the cuff of the right mitten to my right leotard sleeve where the cuff
and sleeve overlapped. My left mitten was similarly secured to my left leotard
sleeve. She then re-buttoned my blouse cuffs, pulled down the sleeves of my
cardigan, and smiled at me. Enforced femininity once more. I was completely
incapable of taking off these mittens, and thus quite unable to unbutton or
unzip any of my clothes. This bondage gave me a huge thrill. As I hadn't even
got the use of my thumb for the purposes of gripping things, I was in fact
completely useless for handling any small object. Zoë therefore had to help me
into my raincoat, doing-up all the buttons for me and pulling my belt tight. She
then produced a piece of ribbon in a nice shade of royal blue, and tied my hair
into a pony tail. A close-fitting woolly hat followed, to ensure that I
shouldn't lose those tresses in a gale. She then put on her fleece jacket and
waterproof trousers, and picked up our rucksack of food and drink. We set off,
she, the woman, striding forth in trousers, with me, the man, swishing along in
petticoats and skirt. We both enjoyed this in our different ways, and were soon
walking arm-in-arm. Our plan was to catch a bus to the next village, about 20
minutes' ride away, and then walk back by the shortest route - over the
hilltops, a distance of about six miles. The bus stop was only a few hundred
yards away, and, as ever with Zoë’s great organisational skills, we didn't
have to wait long. Zoë stepped on first and bought two tickets. There were two
good reasons for this: first, no amount of frills or make-up will disguise
Joanna's slightly gruff voice; second, my bemittened state completely prevented
me counting-out money. Zoë motioned me to take a window seat, and sat down next
to me. I sat with my hands resting on my lap, trying to look demure. The bus
accelerated away up the country road. We passed through a wooded valley bottom,
the trees still devoid of any foliage, but the daffodils underneath them were
coming into flower now. A stream cascaded alongside the road. We duly reached
our destination and disembarked on the edge of the village square. This place
was large enough to have a Saturday market, and Zoë insisted we have a look
round. It was barely 10 o'clock, but there was quite a number of people mingling
around the stalls. I couldn't quite believe that Zoë was going to expose me -
my heart began to pound! She tugged my sleeve to stop me hesitating, and we
mingled among the stalls, looking at the various wares. I was surprised, and
hugely relieved, when no-one gawped at me - though I dared not utter a word.
However, most folk rarely contemplate the possibility of men in skirts. We
headed a little way back down the road, Zoë took her bearings and turned off up
a gently sloping path. She led the way. It was a bit muddy underfoot. As we
climbed over a stile I was pleased that I wasn't wearing the narrow skirt. I
then caught this more-flowing garment on some brambles! Zoë had to release me,
grinning broadly as she did so. As we climbed higher and higher, it began to
rain - fortunately not heavily. We carried on, hoping it would leave off, and
thankfully it did. I asked her if she knew that Naismith's rule applied less
favourably to women, and she laughed at me. We were climbing all the time and by
noon had reached the ridge. It was very windy up here. This made my nose run.
There was nothing for it but to ask Zoë if she would please find me a
handkerchief. She had not anticipated this particular difficulty, but produced a
handkerchief from her pocket, and then allowed me to blow my nose. I now
discovered that if I stood facing into the wind, my coat and skirt were pressed
against my front, my skirt blowing between my legs and flapping at the back. A
most unusual sensation. And if I turned around, the effect was reversed, and I
could see all these acres of floral material billowing in front of me. And it
was COLD! - my coat, skirt, slips and tights provided little wind-proofing. Zoë
had once again deliberately afforded me an insight into femininity which
involved dressing in the most unsuitable gear for a particular situation.
Imposing such regimes on a man clearly gives her a great deal of Schadenfreude.
I now have great sympathy with every woman who finds herself waiting for a bus
on a windy street during the winter... Lingering on this ridge and getting cold
was unwise, so we descended into the lee. In the distance we could see the
village where our cottage was. Seeing a fallen tree-trunk, we decided to take a
break for some food. Zoë and I sat on the hillside, looking down at the
meandering stream, wind-rustled trees and some disconsolate sheep. The sun was
trying to peer through the rain clouds. I contemplated my muddy boots.
Fortunately not too much had splashed up on to my tights and skirt. Both were
damp from the last shower, but my coat covered much of my skirt. Zoë undid the
rucksack and took out a Mars bar. She gently tossed it at me, but my attempt to
catch it was useless. Zoë picked it up, unwrapped it and started to eat it,
chewing slowly and deliberately, all the while looking me straight in the eye.
She reached for another bar. I couldn't possibly unwrap it, so she performed
this simple operation for me. She held out the chocolate and fed it to me. I
greatly relished the moment.... -----0000-----0000----- When we got back to our
rented cottage, Zoë deliberately did not remove my mittens. Eventually, in a
state of desperation, I had to beg her, on my knees, to be released! What a
relief when she did. She instructed me to go upstairs and then come back down to
the kitchen in blonde wig, bra and knickers, and she would assist me to
re-dress. I duly re-appeared, looking and feeling very androgynous, clutching my
clothes in a loose bundle. I put them down on the kitchen table. Zoë presented
me with a packet which contained support tights. These were, I think, graded as
'firm support' - you certainly know when you're wearing them. Zoë advised me
that these were worn by people like air stewardesses, who spend a lot of time on
their feet. I removed the tights from the packet, pulled and stretched them a
bit, then put them on. I was told to slip my opaques on top, but only to pull
them up to my knees. While I stood there in this curious state, Zoë brought out
the two silk scarves. She knotted one round my right wrist, and the other round
my left. I was instructed to fold my arms, underneath my 'breasts'. She then
proceeded to tie the loose ends of the scarves together behind my back. A few
moments later, and my arms were firmly secured around my body. Next came a white
'body' - like a short-sleeved leotard, but put on over the head, and with three
hook-and-eye fastenings at the crotch. Zoë pulled it over my head and down my
torso, and did up the fasteners. That was very nice for both of us. She then
pulled up my second pair of tights, covering the lower half of the body. There
was also no way I could release myself now! A slip was then dropped over my
shoulders. She picked up my blouse, turned the sleeves inside-out, draped it
around me, and buttoned it up. I was, in effect, a bit fatter now, but the
blouse was sufficiently big to still do-up. I then had to step into my skirt, it
was buttoned and zipped behind, and tightly belted. My outfit was completed by
my cardigan, again worn with the sleeves turned inside out, and
fully-buttoned-up. Zoë told me to step into my shoes, and, wicked woman, she
tied the laces together so that I could only take tiny shuffling steps! I was
then ushered into the hall to stand before the mirror. The armless (and
harmless) female figure presented a curious sight - my bound arms were further
restrained by four layers of clothing, so I was completely unable to help
myself. I could still gently wriggle my fingers, and swing my hips to swish my
skirt. Zoë cooked us a late lunch and fed it to me. This was an utterly
fascinating sensation. After lunch, she taped my mouth, led me into the
corridor, and then shut the kitchen and lounge doors. There was nothing to sit
on, and even if I had succeeded in sitting-down on the floor, standing up again
would have been extremely difficult. There was no way I could open the doors or
climb the stairs. I spent the rest of the afternoon standing, restrained, silent
and feminised, my support hosiery gripping me from toes to waist, shuffling
around, contemplating the wallpaper and the few paintings on the walls. She
could have kept me a prisoner like this for weeks, if she had wished. Zoë spent
a pleasant afternoon in front of a warm fire, and came to release me as dusk
fell, knowing that I had my limits. I was told to go and have a hot bath.
Waiting for me in the bathroom were warmed towels, and clean lingerie, plus my
cat suit. Once I was suitably clean and dry, I put them on and went downstairs.
Zoë then told me to accompany her back upstairs, and we went into the bedroom
where I had slept the previous night. I was told to slip off my cat suit, and
lie face-down on the bed. Zoë instructed me to bend my legs at the knees, so
that my feet came up to my waist. Taking the cat suit, she then pulled it on me,
up one doubled leg at a time, and between us we then pulled it up past my waist
and slid my arms into the sleeves. My feet were thus held securely against my
back. She then tied my wrists together with a scarf, and also knotted the loose
leg-bottoms of the cat suit, so that I couldn't move my knees apart. She told me
I looked like a curled-up green caterpillar! I spent only about half an hour in
this bondage, while she sat talking to me. I marvelled at her inventiveness.
However, before too long I had got cramp and she swiftly released me! As a
treat, I was told, I could wear whatever I pleased for the rest of the evening.
I decided to revert to blouse, skirt and cardigan. I was specially permitted to
suggest what Zoë should wear too - so it definitely had to be sheer black
tights, short skirt and mohair jumper. We spent a pleasurable evening watching
videos, chatting, and eating and drinking together. We had some more fun the
next day, including an episode where I was "maid" - but that is another story.
-----0000-----0000----- Zoë and I have had many adventures subsequently. My
summerwear was generally a long summer dress teamed with black opaques - not too
unusual a combination, when looking around, particularly with the cooler weather
prevalent. We spent one - rare! - hot summer's afternoon in a forest clearing,
me secured to a tree by my dress ties, in "helpless heroine" guise, while Zoë
sunbathed in her swimsuit in full view of me. This dress also allows her to keep
me under her thumb by tying a slip-knot in the end of each dress-tie, making me
cross my arms across my stomach, and slipping the loops over my wrists. Once
each slip-knot is tightened, my right hand is held to the left side of my body,
and my left hand to my right side. It is impossible to escape from this -
pulling on the ties only tightens the slip knots, and your hands cannot reach
far enough behind your back to untie the knot on the other wrist. I can still
walk, talk, jump, even run, without difficulty. Provided she releases me
occasionally I can - and have - spent a whole day cross-armed in my dress.
Another day Zoë made me wear the blouse, dress and tights, and told me to put
my hands in my dress pockets. By means of cords, in similar manner to the
Burberry coat, she secured my hands into the pockets. Then, taking some cotton
wool and parcel tape, she carefully taped over my closed eyes; this was followed
by a pair of dark sunglasses, to hide the tape. She practised leading me around
the house, her arm looped through mine, so that I could walk around blindly.
After a bit of practice, with her guidance, I could walk fairly confidently.
Once Zoë was sufficiently assured, I was led into the garden. I could feel that
the sun was shining. She led me, in a slow zigzag path, to the end of the
garden, and positioned some garden chairs in the sunshine. We both sat down and
she talked to me for a while, and then I heard her get up, say she thought she
heard the phone, and run indoors. Once again, I was marooned: I couldn't
possibly find my own way to the back door. I just had to sit in the sun. With my
black opaques on, I began to get hot legs. I was hot under my wig. I must have
sat there, apparently sunbathing, helpless, alone, feminised, for over an hour.
After Zoë came to rescue me, she told me she had enjoyed watching me from the
back-bedroom window. For my birthday, Zoë bought me a pair of cami-knickers.
However, instead of wearing them under my other clothes, I was told to put on my
bra, ordinary knickers, support tights, control-top opaques and then the
satin-pink cami-knickers. This prevented me taking my tights off. However the
satin material felt lovely. Zoë then did my wig and make-up, and told me that
as a special treat, she had hired a corset from a theatrical costumier. A
corset! This wonderful garment was partly-laced, so she helped me into it, and I
allowed her to do me up. With a lot of tugging and pulling, the breath was
gradually squeezed out of me. She tied the laces at the back, brought the loose
ends round to the front, and knotted them again, which still gave about ten
inches of loose laces. She gave me my blouse to wear, buttoned it, and pulled
the loose corset laces out through a gap between the buttons. I then stepped
into my pencil skirt, and she did up my shoes, as I was now incapable of bending
down. My outfit was completed by my cardigan, again with the loose corset laces
pulled out. Zoë then used them to tie my wrists together in front of my
stomach. I was now in a state of complete restriction from toes to torso due to
my female underwear, and utterly unable to take of my female outer-wear. She
proceeded to feed me a nice meal which she had cooked for the occasion. Never
had I experienced such an evening. Zoë has imposed many other régimes of
womenswear on me. We have deliberately not experimented with leather and rubber,
whipping or handcuffs - a bit too severe. (Though we are fond of each other and
share a number of interests, our relationship remains - perhaps surprisingly, in
the reader's view - chaste). During the autumn I have tried the new M & S
"breathable" opaque tights - they sounded like a great invention, but you still
get hot under trousers: disappointing. And the new fashion for long skirts has
its moments. Zoë bought a three-yard length of nylon net curtain, of four-foot
"drop". Wound tightly round legs and waist, and tied around my middle with
string, this makes an extremely effective "hobble petticoat". I have been made
to wear a long skirt to conceal it, and then taken on shopping trips, my every
step invisibly restricted. One day she agreed with my insisting that she wear
the same, and we minced around a provincial town together. An alternative to
this is to use an ordinary curtain, measuring about five foot in length and six
feet across. Holding one bottom corner of the curtain under one armpit, wrap the
curtain around yourself with the upper hem of the curtain at the bottom, and the
curtain lining facing outwards. Wrap it all the way round - it will go two or
three times. Do a belt up loosely round your waist, to hold the curtain in
place, but so that you can pull the material upwards through it. Pull until
there is only 8 - 10 inches of material below the belt, and then tighten the
belt. Them, tug the bunched-up material downward, and it should look like a
wraparound skirt that reaches almost to your ankles. Except that, as it's two or
three layers, as soon as you try walking, you find your steps are
quite-effectively restricted. The great beauty is that this 'skirt' can be
adjusted to any length from knee to ankle, depending on how the mood suits you.
It can also be folded-up and stored in a cupboard, completely innocuous. Another
variation was getting completely dressed, including a thick skirt and the
Burberry raincoat, ready to go out, on a cold day a few days ago. Zoë gave me
blue opaque hold-up stockings, to wear, ad told me to wear NO KNICKERS - in
other words, beneath my skirt I was completely bare from thighs to waist. We
were travelling by train that day, and I shall never forget quite how cold and
drafty railway platforms are! Zoë of course was well wrapped-up! Wicked woman.
Zoë has even bought me a pair of trousers - women's trousers, oh yes, with the
zip and fastener at the back. I have been allowed to wear my normal male jumper,
but teamed with blouse, knickers, thick woollen tights, and these trousers. When
taken out somewhere for the day, the woollen tights appear as socks to any
casual observer, and with a sufficiently-long coat on, no-one can see that I am
wearing women's trousers. The tights are made of merino wool, and imported from
New Zealand - and they are SO scratchy on the legs! I pity the unhappy
Antipodean farmers' wives, standing on windswept hillsides in the winter,
wearing these unfriendly garments. Perhaps they, like me, resort to wearing a
pair of sheer tights underneath them. I wonder if the woollen ones were designed
by a man...! If Zoë wants me to behave, she has only to suggest that I should
wear the woollen tights without sheer ones, with leotard on top, and then put on
day clothes... Zoë has also occasionally made me wear my cat suit over knickers
and tights, then wear either male or female outer clothing. If the catsuit's
legs are rolled-up to the knees, it can be worn invisibly beneath a skirt or
dress - although wearing tights with it can get a bit hot. Zoë knows that the
cat suit régime imposes major inconvenience on me, and it is only employed
occasionally - if I have 'misbehaved' in some way! The cat suit beneath male
clothes is an extreme form of being dominated by femininity. The big question,
of course, is why I enjoy the desire for female clothing, and indeed so enjoy
being compelled to wear it. Is my mind diseased? It does fly in the face of both
our culture and the Old Testament - though I mean no dishonour to God or Man. I
know that men have been delivered from these desires, and that is - some would
say - my challenge, having slid so far down this slippery slope. Most blokes
would call me a wuss (or worse!); most women would presumably regard my
dressing-up as a complete turn-off. For a man to wear women's clothes is
escapism, yes; a foible arguably less harmful than drugs or alcohol, but it is a
practice that can still destroy relationships and ruin careers, if found out.
Discretion is vital, though I have in fact confessed to several people, openly
bought female clothing in several parts of London, Leeds and Wakefield, and have
even paid for certain related publications by mail order. I don't like explicit
porn, as it really is an addictive, costly and ultimately unfulfilling poison.
Which is why this account leaves a lot to your imagination...
Skirt-lover