Date: Thu, 22 Jul 1999 21:45:16 PDT
From: Sian Seteyan <nais@hotmail.com>
Subject: Three Fantasies

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