The Compulsion
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Under Compulsion free porn video
Under Compulsion
by Princess Pervette
Forced fem...sort of.
May be archived on any not-for-pay, non-membership site
I was ten years old when I started wearing my sister's panties. I was
eleven years old when my dream began to take shape. I was twelve when
it came true.
My sister was two years older than I was. I used to see her underwear
in the laundry basket. Sometimes I'd watch my mother as she sorted
the clean laundry into piles, and there would be Sis's panties. They
fascinated me, because they were so different from the plain cotton
Jockey shorts I wore. Different colors--white, pink, and blue.
Different styles, some plain, some with bits of lace. I remember
wondering briefly whether my own underwear was just as fascinating to
Sis. But I also began to wonder how it would feel to wear hers.
And one afternoon when I was home alone, I found out. I went into her
room and looked through her dresser until I found her panties. They
were all tumbled together in no kind of order, which was handy; it
meant I didn't have to use care in putting them back. I selected a
pair (pink cotton, I remember, with lace), and took them to my room.
I stripped and put them on. It was a revelation! I had never dreamed
any article of clothing could possess the magic they had.
I think my fantasies began with that first time. As I looked at
myself in the mirror, I pretended that they were magic indeed, that
they could somehow transform me into a little girl when I put them on.
And one afternoon I coined a name for my girl self. In school I was
Frank; to my parents and Sis I was Frankie; but when I put on the
magic panties, I was Delicia. How I came up with this ridiculous name
I have no idea, now, but Delicia I was until time came to put the
panties back; and sometimes, going to sleep at night, I would murmur
"Delicia" quietly to myself.
My daydreams changed over time, however. At first, I put on the
panties and was magically transformed: but one afternoon, I happened
to imagine that someone was putting them on me in order to effect the
transformation. That shifted the emphasis, and shortly after that,
magic gave way to coercion. By the time I was eleven, I liked to
pretend that some woman was forcing me to dress up, at first only in
panties, but ultimately in a complete girls' outfit. Sometimes it
was a stranger, sometimes an aunt, but most often it was Mom or Sis.
Or both. I was their unwilling victim, I was at their mercy, and I
imagined myself crying out in protest as they feminized me. "You're
Delicia now, little girl!" they would say, and I would imagine myself
protesting, "No! No! I'm Frankie!" This fantasy was exciting beyond
measure, and with that my panty sessions started giving me erections.
What would they do with me once they had dressed me up? Make me walk
about the house like that, of course. Make fun of me, too. Call me
a little girl. But what else beyond that? What was the most girly
thing they could make me do? Kiss a boy! That was it...they'd make
me kiss some boy!
And finally, one afternoon about a year later, I was caught.
****
I was in my room, lying on my bed, fondling myself through the panties
and enjoying my fantasy, and I had lost track of the time. Suddenly,
there was Sis in the door to my room.
"Frankie, I-I-I-I-I..." Her voice went up like a coloratura
soprano's. Then: "What the hell is going on? Are those my panties
you're wearing?"
She didn't wait for an answer. In a moment, she and Mom were both
back. Sis said, "There! That's the way I found him! He was playing
with himself."
"What are you doing, you little...pervert?" Mom cried. Then she
added, "You stay right there!" and left the room.
I was appalled. Devastated. Getting caught was the ultimate
disaster. What was I going to do? What was Mom going to do? What
would Dad do when he found out? I quickly took off the panties.
Suddenly, Sis was back again. She had a wicked grin on her face.
"You're going to be sorry! Mom is going to make you dress up like
a girl, and you're going to have to stay dressed up like that all
evening!" She disappeared.
Dressed up all evening? *Forced* to dress up? My heart leapt up.
This wasn't a disaster; this was my dream come true! Mom and Sis were
going to force me to dress like a girl, just as they had in so many of
my fantasies.
Then I took thought. I was going to have to be very careful. If they
got the least inkling that I was enjoying this, that would be the end
of it. I was going to have to fake it. I would complain, protest,
object, refuse, stall, plead, whine, cry (how would I manage tears?)
so that Mom would think it was a real punishment instead of the treat
it was going to be for me. Besides, doing that would intensify the
fantasy. I had protested often enough in my daydreams.
Then Mom and Sis were back again. Mom had an armload of clothes. She
looked at me. "You can just put those panties right back on again,
young lady! If you're so keen on dressing up like a girl, you're
going to get your fill of it now! Put them back on! RIGHT NOW!"
"Aw, Mom, I..."
"I don't want to hear any arguments from you, little girl! Put those
panties back on!"
With a great show of reluctance, I slowly drew the delicious panties
back on again. Then I stopped. Mom handed me a bra, one of Sis's old
training bras.
"This, too!" Mom said.
I slowly put the bra on. Nice!
"Stand up!" she said. She had a white dress. I recognized it as one
of Sis's. "Hold your arms up!" She lifted the dress up and dropped
it over me.
"Mom, I'm not a girl!" Oh, yes I was. Internally, I was excited as I
had never been before. "I don't want to wear a dress!"
"Frankie, if I hear any more complaints from you, I'm going to make
you wear dresses all week!"
That was too good an opportunity to miss. I threw myself down on
the floor and had a tantrum, as if I were eight years old instead of
twelve, kicking my legs and screaming, "No!! Don't want to! Don't
wanna! Do'wanna! Do'wanna, do'wanna!"
That did it; I was in for a full week of forced crossdressing. A full
week of heaven.
Mom got the dress on me. It was a pretty print with little red and
blue flowers on it and a full skirt that came down to mid-calf.
"Socks next," she said, and she made me put on a pair of little white
socks with lace on top, followed by a pair of Sis's mary janes. This
was getting better and better.
Then she put makeup on me. Just a touch--a bit of blush on my cheeks
and just the merest hint of eyeshadow. But when she got out the
lipstick, I thought I'd better fuss some more. "Not lipstick! No!
Not lipsti..." Mom cut me off by putting her fingers on my lips. On
went the lipstick, and Mom blotted it with a tissue.
She tied my hair with a couple of little ribbons, stood back, and
said, "There! A regular little girl!"
I looked in the mirror and there was a regular and rather pretty
little girl looking back at me. I screwed up my face and cried, "I
look awful!"
"No, you look very pretty. My little girl." She turned to Sis.
"What should we call her?"
"How about Fran?"
"Oh, that's sweet! Fran it is, then." And from then on, I was Fran.
It was a nice name, much more sensible than Delicia. I abandoned
Delicia without a thought and thought of myself as Fran from that time
on.
"Wait till Daddy sees you," Sis said.
Daddy...! Oh, my God! In my excitement, I had forgotten about him.
What would he say when he saw me this way? When they told him why I
was dolled up like this? What would he do? For the first time in
this whole lovely procedure my blood ran cold.
I don't know what happened when Dad came home, because I was in my
room, lying on the bed, faking muted sobbing noises while sneaking
looks at myself in my pretty dress. Looking back and reconstructing
from what followed, I think the exchange must have gone something like
this:
"Frankie was doing WHAT...? I'll beat the shit out of that boy!"
"No, Honey," my mother must have said, "I've got a better way."
And she must have explained about petticoat punishment. None of us
knew that term back then, but that was what it amounted to: shame
and humiliate me to the point that I would never want to wear girls'
clothes again.
She must have talked him around, too, because when I came down to
dinner, all he said was, "My God, you look awful. Just like a girl."
"Dad," I whined, "I can't help it. Mom and Sis did this to me."
"But I know why they did it. Had it coming to you, too. You're lucky
I didn't have my way...."
"Now Roger," Mom interposed, "we had that all out before dinner.
Frankie's going to be sick of dresses by the time the week's over."
No, I wasn't.
The next day saw the beginning of my sentence. It was Summer, and
school was out, so Mom was able to carry out her scheme all day long.
They dressed me in another of Sis's outfits--pink panties, training
bra, and a blue dress. I whined and complained throughout the whole
procedure. Sis was told to answer the door, and if any of my school
chums came by, she was supposed to tell them I had been grounded for
the week.
Meanwhile, Mom went shopping. She returned with bags and boxes, all
of which turned out to be girls' clothes--for ME! It looked as if she
had gotten a six months' supply, not just clothes for a week.
She explained: "Your punishment is lasting for only a week, but I'm
warning you now: Any further misbehavior of *any* kind in the future,
and you're going to be right back in dresses again." Wow!
She unpacked her purchases. Panties (my very own panties! I was so
overjoyed I almost forgot to whine. If only Mom would let me keep
them after the week was up!), a training bra with some cheap enhancers
to give it some shape, socks, a pair of shoes, skirts, & blouses. I
thought sure they were going to shave my legs, too, but at that age my
hair was so fine and light that they must have thought wasn't worth
the trouble.
It was getting tiresome, keeping on pleading and crying, but I knew I
had to do it.
"Now, take that dress of your sister's off and we'll put you in some
of your own clothes." My own clothes...!
The rest of the day would have been hell, if I hadn't been so pleased
with the things she gave me to wear. Sis never tired of teasing me.
"My little sister," she would say. "Wait till the boys see you this
way! They'll be all over you! Maybe you'll want to let them date
you."
And at this alluring prospect I would screw up my face and cry, "No!
Never! I don't want to date boys! I'm a boy myself! Boys don't date
boys!"
And Sis looked at me and said, "You're a boy? You don't look like one
to me! You're a dainty little girl!"
I gasped. "Dainty"! What an enchanting word! I had never thought of
myself as being dainty. Not even when I was being "Delicia." What a
wonderful notion!
But Sis heard my gasp and, misunderstanding it, repeated, "Dainty! A
dainty girl!" And she needled me with that sweet word all day. All
week, in fact.
Every morning Sis and Mom would watch me while I got dressed.
Supposedly this was to make sure I was a girl from the skin out, but
they could have checked easily enough at any time just by flipping up
my skirt. Clearly it was really to provide an opportunity for them to
humiliate me and taunt me over my feminization. Mom would insist on
calling me Fran, and when I put on the day's panties, Sis would sing,
"Pretty pretty panties, pretty pretty panties." I would pretend to
get mad. I didn't go for the humiliation, but their presence and
their pretense of making sure all I wore were girls' clothes fed into
my fantasy of forced crossdressing.
Sis had me read her magazines, too. "Seventeen" and more grown-up
mags like "Vogue." I loved them. The ads were full of pictures of
women in outfits, and every once in a while I'd see an especially
"dainty" one I wished I could wear. I wanted to dog-ear those pages,
but then of course Sis might tumble to the fact that I really enjoyed
all this.
What a week that was! All those pretty dresses! A different dress
for every day in the week. And different underwear...everything fresh
every day except for my shoes. I suppose most girls had as generously
stocked a wardrobe as I had, but for me it was God's plenty. Richer
by far than my boy clothes. And this was supposed to be punishment...!
****
Two days into the week, Sis brought a bunch of her girlfriends over to
see me. That was alarming. Being forcibly feminized by Mom and Sis
was one thing, but to have an audience was quite another--especially
an audience who would probably blab it all over the neighborhood.
"This is Fran," she said by way of introduction. "My little girly
brother. Or sister. My dainty sister," she added, with special
stress on the word.
They broke into a chorus of giggles. "Dainty! Yes, isn't she dainty!
So lovely and feminine in that dress!" I was wearing a sweet yellow
number, with ruffles down the front and lace about the collar and
sleeves. It did make me feel dainty and feminine, and I loved it.
You could just see a tiny bit of my slip under the skirt. But I had
to keep up my act. "Sis, stop it! Get these girls out of here!"
"Oh, no, Franny, you're the main attraction. Twirl around for them so
they can see how your skirt flares out." I twirled. They asked me
how I liked being a girl, and when I had to lift my skirt for them so
they could see my panties, there were more giggles and cries of "Oooh,
how cute!" Then they had me show off my collection of dresses and
underwear for them. When I objected, Sis said, "Girls always like to
talk about clothes and show them to each other!"
One of the girls added, "And they like to try on each other's outfits,
too!" and Sis said, "Oh, yes, Marge! Can we take him to your place so
we can dress him up?"
And off we went to Marge's place, and all afternoon I tried on one
pretty dress after another. I could see why Sis wanted us to go
to Marge's place; Marge had an enormous wardrobe, and I modeled
everything she had while the girls watched me and made remarks about
how I looked. She even had that ultimate in feminine delights, a
petticoat, with tier upon tier of pretty ruffles, and they put that
on me and covered it with a full-skirted gown. I suddenly thought,
this isn't being forced feminization by just two women; this is being
forced by an entire group of girls. I had to conceal my thrill.
The only thing that marred my pleasure in this miraculous afternoon,
in fact, was the that I couldn't share it with them. I would have
liked to smile at them and dance in the dresses, either alone or with
one of the girls--with my hostess, perhaps. I would have liked to
revel openly in the froufrou as the petticoat rustled against my legs
and against the gown. I would have liked to to thank Marge, and them
all, for the unparallelled joy they had given me. Instead, I had to
conceal everything and keep a sullen silence, except when they got out
the petticoat, when I felt that I had better cry out in protest.
Besides the excitement of what I guess you'd call group feminization,
Sis's attempted humiliation had one beneficial side-effect that she
could never have anticipated. The girls started criticising my
deportment: how I walked, how I used my arms and hands, how I sat
down, how I held my head. They were unwittingly giving me a crash
course in femininity, and while I pretended to hate every minute of
it, I was secretly taking note of what they said so I could be more
like a girl. I was a quick study; by the time the week ended, you
could hardly tell me from a real girl. The light, subtle makeup
(which I was beginning to do for myself), the pretty ribbons in my
hair, the mannerisms, all added up to a result I could never have
achieved on my own.
****
But Sis had something else up her sleeve. One afternoon toward the
end of the week, when Mom was out, she had me take off my own outfit
and dressed me in one of hers: a short denim miniskirt, a garter belt,
and nylons. I hadn't worn a garter belt before: what a gorgeous thing
it was, all lace. And the nylons...! What heavenly things nylons
were! And a real bra of hers, not a training bra. She padded it with
some old nylons, finishing off with the enhancers I normally wore, so
I had a pair of cute, well-formed boobs. She had me put on a pair of
her heels. I wondered what the occasion was, but I soon found out,
because after I was all dressed up and heavily made up, she brought
over all her girlfriends again--and a boy!
"This is Bart, Fran," Sis said. He's going to be your boyfriend
today."
My boyfriend! Another part of my dream come true. I forgot all about
complaining. I didn't know Bart; he must have lived in a different
school district. He was a good-looking guy, probably about the same
age as my sister. No, not just good-looking: a dreamboat! Slim, with
brown eyes and hair and a smile that lit up the room.
"Now, kiss your boyfriend, Frannie," Sis said.
No-one more eager than I. But what would he think? I expected him to
say something like "I'm no fairy; I'm not going to kiss a boy," but
they must have primed him in advance. He grabbed me and kissed me
just as he would any girl, and I kissed him back--*hard.* The girls,
seeing our embrace, all cried out, "Oooooh!" Lost in his arms, I
pressed up against him, and in return he held me closer. I could feel
his erection pressing against my body. I felt his tongue on my lips
and opened my mouth. The kiss grew longer, and the girls started
making comments: "Whoo-ee!" "They're Frenching!" "Give it to him,
Franny girl!" "Show him how much you love him!"
He broke the kiss and murmured into my ear, "Suck on my tongue, Baby."
We kissed again, and when he thrust his tongue into my mouth, I sucked
on it and drew it in further, trying to get all of it in my mouth, and
ran my own tongue over it.
When we broke that kiss, he whispered, "I've got something else for
you to suck on." Oh oh.
I should have seen that coming. I was old enough to know about blow
jobs, but somehow they had never entered into my fantasies. But if
kissing a boy was girly, how much more girly this would be! "Pull
it out, Girl," he said. I knelt before him and unzipped his fly.
He did nothing to help me but just stood there watching. With some
difficulty, I managed to get his erection out through his fly. A
couple of the girls gasped when they saw me pull it out and realized
what was going to happen.
He seemed so big! I wondered whether I would actually be able to go
through with this. But the moment the head touched my lips, I knew I
wanted it. I wanted to be a girl for this gorgeous guy. He was fully
clothed; I was dressed like a girl and on my knees; it felt right to
be there. This was no time for pretense; I opened my rosy lips into
an O and stretched them around the head. I felt the ridge on the back
of the head. I felt the little V on the underside. I ran my tongue
over it. He was rock-hard now; the blood vessels on his cock stood
out, but over them his skin was incredibly soft and smooth. I could
taste the salty pre-cum that was leaking out of him now. Eager now, I
took as much of him into my mouth as I could accommodate. Meanwhile,
the girls were gathered in a semicircle about us, watching every move
I made. They had never been part of my fantasy, but with a sudden
thrill I realized that it was even more exciting with them there,
having them watch as I performed this ultimate girly service for my
boyfriend.
I drew my head back. I could see that there was lipstick on his cock.
I wondered: had I left lipstick on his tongue? How did it taste to
him? But I wanted more of his cock. I licked its length and then,
unable to hold off any longer, took him back into my mouth. The girls
were silent now, watching. The whole room was strangely still. With
my face buried in Bart's crotch, I couldn't see them, but even the air
in the room was alive with sexual tension. As I moved back and forth
on him, I could feel the hem of my miniskirt shifting against my legs,
and that kept reminding me of how I was dressed and how I must look:
a young teenage girl, dressed to provoke, to incite, giving her
boyfriend a blow job.
"Go on, Baby, suck that cock," he grunted. "You're my girl. Suck it.
That's what girls are for. Take it into your little pussy mouth." I
took as much as I could. I reached up, ny nail polish bright red
against his pale skin, and gently cupped his balls in my hands.
I felt a hand on me. Bart was leaning over, reaching under my mini,
and fondling my butt through my panties. I felt his hand probing the
cleft between my butt cheeks. It made me wonder what it would be like
if he put his cock there. And I started to suck on him as if I had
gone out of my mind.
Back and forth, back and forth, feeling the length of his penis as it
slid in and out of my mouth. Bart panted and groaned. "Don't stop!"
he said. I didn't stop. I went faster. I wrapped my lips around him
as tightly as I could, and as my head went back and forth on him, I
moved my tongue over the bottom of his cock in the same rhythm. It
was getting hot now, and harder still. Suddenly, he went, "Aaargh!"
and climaxed, and I could feel his cum flooding my mouth. I thrilled
to his strong taste. I didn't even think about whether I should
swallow it; I just did. He must have spurted into me half a dozen
times, and I gulped it all down.
He withdrew. "Shit, you're good!" he gasped. The girls cheered.
*I* was good...? *He* was fantastic! A heavenly hunk with a
succulent cock! As I licked the residue of his cum off my lips, I
knew I was going to get myself into trouble, and into dresses, lots
of times in the future!
Hortense
- 03.03.2020
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