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Hi, my name is Gwen, and I'm writing this story more for my own sanity than for any entertainment value you the reader may get from it. My doctor tells me that by writing, some of my anger and frustrations will be vented, which will hopefully calm the rage within me. There was a time, not so very long ago, when I went by another name - Greg, Greg Prewitt. There was a time when I could bench press twice my own weight with ease, a time when I worked in construction, and a time when I could woo most any good looking girl of choice into my bed with little more than a well timed wink, thanks in part to my muscular build, and deep blue eyes. But all that has changed. How it happened is still a complete mystery that one day I hope to solve, though with each passing day, hope fades just a little further away. Was it fate, did someone do this to me, or was it just my dumb luck, I'll never know for certain despite my suspicions, but I'm living proof that it really happened. As best as I can figure it out, it all started during a summer camping holiday. We were two couples enjoying a secluded beach by the shore of Lake Ontario. The days were incredibly hot, by anyone's standard, and we spent hours each day horsing around in the water for the sheer fun of it and to keep cool. Now I'm guessing that it was something in the lakebed I'd stepped on, because I remember an odd pins and needles prickliness on the soles of my feet a couple of times, but then again the others would have stepped on it too, and they were never affected. This prickliness never really bothered me and was gone by the time the trip was over, so I never paid much attention to it. The other reason I have my doubts about it being related to something in the water, is that none of us, including me, noticed any symptoms of any sort for many weeks afterwards. The only clue to my problems (I still have trouble referring to 'it' and 'my problem' in terms more precise or accurate) in relation to the lake, may lie in the proximity of our beach to a nearby nuclear power plant, though if this were true, then again why weren't the other three affected? It was Labor Day weekend as I dressed to attend an old high school buddy's wedding that I first noticed something 'off'. My fine Italian loafers seemed just a wee bit on the loose side. Not having worn them in a while I chalked it up to my choice in socks, which by virtue of being especially thin, made the shoes seem too big. Well I changed into heavier socks and the problem was solved as easy as that. About two weeks later I noticed it again as I laced up my favorite, well worn in soccer cleats before our weekly team practice. This time there was no excusing the looseness on the socks. They were the same high top sweat socks I'd always worn for soccer, yet even after pulling the laces tighter than ever before, the shoes still felt loose. This wasn't just in my head either, as I slipped completely out of a shoe on two occasions, once when I made a quick direction change during the game warm-up, and once again when I kicked the ball during a penalty kick towards the end of the game. Aside from being embarrassing moments, our captain was none too impressed. There was no way to excuse myself, except to promise that new shoes would be had by next practice. That night as I related the game highlights to my flavor of the month - Vanessa, a stunningly beautiful raven haired nymphette, she took it upon herself to comfort me as only Vanessa could. And a fine job she did too! She licked it, nibbled on it, tickled it, and sucked on it with such gusto I thought I'd blow it many times over, but she could sense my level of arousal with such precision that it never quite came to blows. Perhaps she was too good for herself because she eventually tuckered. Well maybe she'd overdone it, but I surely hadn't. In the blink of an eye, in one fluid poetic motion I'd flipped her over and planted myself within her very eager, very snug, and very lubed tunnel. I was pumped! This was THE best sex of my life. She got a right proper reaming from me that night, and when I finally came, well what can I tell you - I very nearly passed out from the intensity. You must excuse me, I'll continue my story again shortly, but all these memories have me all so worked up that I absolutely must do something about it. Sorry about that, but I have fond memories of my past life. In as much as I do truly enjoy what I have now, there are times when reminiscing gets me all worked up. So, as I was saying, it was around Labor Day when things first started happening, which led to the soccer practice. Well I went shopping for new cleats the very next day, and sure enough my feet had shrunk a whole size. Ever since third year high school, I'd worn size twelve shoes, and now at aged twenty-three my feet had somehow shrunk. There wasn't much to do about it aside from pay the clerk for my new size eleven shoes and get on with my day. That night I tried my best to research this phenomenon over the Internet, but came up empty. The next morning, as I dressed for work, I realized that my work boots were a little loose too, despite a second pair of sweat socks and an extra pull on the laces, which stood to reason if my feet had in fact shrunk by a size. Another trip to the shoe store was in the offing. At the coffee break that morning, I wasted no time and booked an appointment with my doctor, set for his very next opening - three days hence. Three days passed without any further cause for alarm with life proceeding as normal, but I was glad when the appointed hour arrived. Aside from the standard doctor questions, a few pokes and prods, and the sucking of blood for a battery of tests I could barely afford, we got down to the reason for the visit, namely my incredible shrinking feet. He asked if I had felt any aches or pains in my feet, to which I replied "none whatsoever." He asked if any family members had ever experienced such a problem or any of my friends or co-workers either, but the answer was always no. He kept me there for a good long hour, asking question after question, but to every one I replied in the negative. Well, not having anything in his files to document the original sizing, the good doctor concluded and tried to convince me that things like this simply didn't happen and that this must have been my imagination running wild and/or a secret cry for psychological help for reasons unclear to either of us. Having gotten about what I'd expected from this trained and experienced professional, this man of higher learning - absolutely nothing, I went back to work. Now if it weren't for the looseness of the footwear, I would have never believed what was happening either. There was never any discomfort and the change was so gradual I was never able to definitively point to a before, for an after comparison. My feet continued to shrink, and by Christmas my latest replacement footwear was another pair of running shoes, only now they were a size nine. Three sizes in little more than three months was disturbing, bordering on alarming, but what could I do about it? About the only bright spots in my life were Judy - my latest red headed bed warmer, steadily improving sex - which may have been to Judy's credit, and just maybe a slight growth in the penile department - which were almost enough to counterbalance concerns of shrinking feet. Work kept me preoccupied thereby keeping my anxiety level in check, with the exceptional flare up each time I walked into a shoe store to buy yet another pair of ever increasingly smaller footwear. By late spring there was evidence that the worst may have passed, as since March there had been no perceptible shrinkage. That is, it would seem that I was now the owner of size six feet, and while I never felt the changes happening, the results were hard to ignore. At six foot tall and one hundred ninety pounds, my child-sized feet were having a painfully hard time of it on the job. Lugging lumber, assorted other building materials, and tools around a construction site finally got to be more than I could handle. Luckily workman's compensation was willing to cover me even though there was no clinical diagnosis of my condition, and until further notice my career in construction had ended. Working as a tradesman had earned me good money in the few short years since I'd ended school, thanks in part to a hot economy and a strong union. Some of those earnings had allowed me to buy a fair sized condo, mortgage free - the complex housing its own gym and a pool; a good looking moderately priced sports car, my fair share of jewelry, a well- stocked wardrobe, with a few leftover bucks in the bank. Now on forced holiday and with time on my hands, I spent a little more time than usual in the gym working on keeping up my muscle tone and began earlier than usual on my summer tan. I guess that when you see something every day you don't notice the minute changes, like your nails or your hair growing, or in my case - my legs shrinking. Well, not exactly shrunk, but definitely dwindling. It never occurred to me that what had happened to my feet might spread to affect other body parts, especially over such a long period of time, but looking back I was a fool not to think so. The worst part was that it was Judy that pointed it out. She and I hadn't seen each other in a couple of months, and only got together after a chance meeting at a mutually favorite club, to enjoy what we both loved most about each other - the incredible sex. She thought it almost kinky that I'd taken to shaving my legs, but the truth was - that the thought had never even crossed my mind. And, it wasn't just the smooth hairless skin I now noticed, but the skin was perhaps as soft as Judy's and my legs nearly as shapely. Despite this amazing revelation and the instant all consuming affect it played on my mind, our evening of sex lasted longer than any in the past, was more intense and more sensual, and if possible set a new standard for the ultimate orgasm. The next morning after she'd left for work I was able to take a long analytical look at my lower limbs. If one were to see me from the crotch on down only, the obvious conclusion would have been that these were the long slender shapely legs and petite feet of a young woman. How I'd managed not to note the change until now was beyond me. I was in a cold sweat, and despite it being still before breakfast; I took my Scotch straight up. I couldn't think straight; I was in such a panic. There obviously wasn't much more that a doctor could do for me now, than when I'd last seen him for my feet, but to do nothing seemed an even worse option. That morning was spent in front of a full-length mirror as I inspected myself from every conceivable angle. Sure enough my legs had lost a good half of their original mass, though they did seem more in proportion with my now tinier feet. How could I have not noticed? Yet there was more to it than a loss of mass and the loss of hair. The combination of slender, soft skinned, and undeniably shapely legs extending from my very masculine torso, just looked so out of place. Wearing shorts in public was now out of the question. Then it hit me - could this still be spreading? If my enlarged penis and increased libido were any indication, there was little to worry about, though a disturbing little voice in the back of my mind kept asking 'what if'? Here it was mid summer and unless I was wearing pants, I wouldn't set foot out the door. Exercising in the gym was in sweat pants, and swimming was history. Judy was over fairly regularly, though I was beginning to wonder if it was for the sex or her warped curiosity to look at the freak. Perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me, what with all the stress and worry, along with Judy's insincerity, but for the first time since puberty, while Judy was visiting one night, Roger Ramjet couldn't get off the launch pad. Needless to say, I was devastated. Judy consoled me by giving me a memorable blowjob, though it was the last time I saw her. Simple tasks like going to the grocery store began taking on a whole new meaning. Though no one could see what was going on inside my pants, I became suspicious of everyone. The paranoid feeling that people were staring at me, seeing right through my flimsy disguise, and seeing a poor excuse of a she male in their midst, kept outings to a minimum. Even the pleasure of having friends over for a beer and watch sports on the tube quickly came to a halt for fear of someone making a comment I wouldn't have been able to deal with. My days were now being split between self examinations, a small amount of necessary house keeping, web searches for clues causes and cures, and self analyses of when and where this had all started. Lately I'd taken to weighing myself first out of curiosity to see if my shrunken lower body had resulted in any significant weight loss, but now out of concern over the extent of my weight loss, now closing in on fifteen pounds. One theory I'd developed, involved mutant life forms, perhaps as tiny as microorganisms, which had evolved due to some radioactive contamination emanating from the nuclear power plant near to where we had been camping. The theory involved something underwater that I'd stepped on that had caused that tingle in my feet, and since my feet were the first thing to change, it seemed plausible. Perhaps it was an enzyme or bacteria that had entered my body through a puncture wound, that had the ability to modify one's DNA. Why it hadn't affected the others in our group was anyone's guess, but it was all there was to go on. Whatever the cause, the anxiety was affecting my eating habits, and my weight began dropping even further and at a quicker rate. In theory, nuclear plants are well maintained, well managed, and well documented in all facets of operation. With governments and environmental watchdogs insisting on full disclosure, it was only a matter of time before I located web sites filled with reams of data. The theoretical, sterilized for public consumption version of the goings on at a nuclear facility are a far cry from the actual reports I was reading. My suspicions grew. By now nearly a year had passed since that fateful camping trip, with no sign of improvement in my condition. My anxiety level was rising with each passing day, helped along by the constant sight of my silky smooth and oh so shapely legs, my total lack of female companionship, and my paranoia of going out in public. My lack of women at the time wasn't quite as critical to my well being as I should have expected, though that could have been explained away as a spin-off from that disastrous evening with Judy, but I digress. Sears mail order and I got well acquainted, along with a few Internet malls, the local drugstore and the grocery store that offered home delivery. From the safety of home I was able to do all my banking, shop for groceries, and order the odd piece of clothing as need be. As a shut-in there was no going to the stylist, and so my hair grew to shoulder length, which was the least of my worries. By now I'd lost over thirty pounds, with a good bit of it coming from my mid section and where once I'd had a larger waist than hips, now my waist was noticeably smaller. Personal grooming seemed unimportant and without it a fairly bushy beard soon sprouted and my finger nails longer than at any other time in my life. My world came crashing down on me on Friday September 13. I remember it like it was yesterday. Carly Webber, another of my many past love interests decided to look me up - in person, at my door, quite unannounced, and completely unexpectedly. Being another typical day, I'd dressed in a t-shirt and shorts - and barefoot too I might add. At first I pretended not to be home, but after several rounds with the doorbell, I quietly went to the door to peer through the peep hole to see whom this pest was. When I saw it was Carly I took the decision not to let her know I was home, but an instant later a key was going into the lock and before I could react, the door swung open and there she was. We both froze and stood staring at each other, until she broke the silence with the words still burned into my mind to this day "Oh my god, Greg, is that really you? What on earth have you done to yourself?" I began to tremble as I felt the blood drain from my face. She noticed my distress, and managed to grab hold of me as I began crumpling to the floor. If only I could have died right then and there, or been swallowed up by some hole in the floor. Looking up at her, gazing into her hypnotic deep blue eyes, with those luscious shimmering lips of hers only inches from mine, part of me wanted her so badly it hurt, while another part was ashamed embarrassed and sickened by what she must have thought of me. Suddenly I was tasting the bile rising as my stomach began to churn violently. Knowing I was about to be sick, I pushed her aside and darted towards the bathroom. After hurling my guts out, I rinsed out my mouth and splashed my face with cold water, which calmed me down somewhat. Carly had waited patiently for me in the living room while I gathered the courage to open the bathroom door and face her in a less hysterical fashion. "Greg, I didn't mean to startle you. When you didn't answer the door bell, I just assumed you weren't home, and since I still have my key, I figured it safe to grab my stuff and get out without you ever being the wiser." "What stuff? You took everything when you stormed out of here, right after our discussion on us getting married." "I'm looking for a gold locket my grandmother gave me. It's missing and thinking back, the last time I remember having it, was while we were dating." "That was over a year ago, and you're only now retracing your steps? Carly, I hate to tell you this, but I've cleaned the place on many occasions and I've never come across a locket." "Okay then, sorry to have barged in on you. I guess I'll be going then. One question before I go?" "Sure." "What's with the legs? I wish mine looked that good. And while we're at it, care to explain the ponytail and long finger nails? Greg?" The next thing I knew we were sitting down to a supper of salad and pasta she had prepared. My appetite was shot and I barely picked at my food. She seemed truly fascinated by my story, probing me for every little detail, though the fascination eluded me. We talked 'till the wee hours of the morning, catching up on old times, but mostly I did the talking in response to her unending stream of questions relating to my predicament. She offered and I agreed to let her stay with me for a while. Her concern for my well being seemed genuine enough, and I really did need a friend's help through this. I set her up in the spare bedroom, even though the last time she'd been my houseguest it had been to share my bed. Now with a house guest, it only seemed proper to clean myself up a bit, and did so the very next morning by trimming my beard and nails. As the days dragged by I was becoming increasingly restless with the sheer boredom of my life, though I didn't dare set foot outside of the condo. Aside from still losing weight and with it inches from my waist, there were no other noticeable changes - at least none I could see, but then again I hadn't noticed the gradual changes to my legs and hips until someone else had pointed them out to me. I lived in my sweats, and had even begun going commando (no underwear) as the friction of my BVD's against my crotch had begun to bother me lately. Along with the irritation, I'd noticed a definite redness at the tip of my penis, and even a hint of swelling, though as always no pain or discomfort. This in turn was causing my usual fire hose stream of piss to fan out ever so slightly, making aiming into the toilet bowl that much more important if I didn't want to make a mess of the bathroom. Figuring this was nothing more than an irritation and since my sex life had dwindled to nothing; I didn't bother mentioning it to Carly. But as days passed I noticed things were getting worse. The redness had spread, the swelling had increased, and now the little hole in my dick was actually showing signs of opening, or more precisely - splitting. Now I'm sure that everyone can remember exactly the time and place of some momentous event in their lives, like the day the Challenger exploded or the twin towers came tumbling down. Mine came on a Sunday morning when I went to take that all-important morning leak. Pulling down my PJ's, I noticed that overnight there had been a dramatic change south of the beltline. Aside from being the limp noodle I'd been working with for the past several weeks, there really wasn't much to grab hold of this morning. Overnight I'd shrunk. But that wasn't the worst of it. The swelling I'd been noticing was now quite pronounced and that little 'splitting' observation had now developed into a serious crack, oh and my balls looked to be about the size and shape of raisins. Why I hadn't noticed the changes and realized their meaning had escaped me until this very instant. I was losing my penis to a vagina, and as if I needed conclusive proof, there wasn't enough of me left to grab hold of to take that increasingly urgent pee. Perhaps as one final act of denial I tried to take aim and pee into the bowl, but only ended up making a mess of the bathroom and myself. At that point I must have blacked out for only the second time in my life, because the next thing I knew Carly was wiping my face with an ice cold washcloth, urging me in a rather loud voice to wake up. From that moment on my life hasn't been the same. For one thing, all bathroom functions are now done sitting. And just to add insult to injury, Carly came over after work the very next day sporting a grin from ear to ear and two very large shopping bags. As it turns out, they were filled with basic 'girly necessities' like panties and tampons. Her take on this was that my lack of manly parts made my men's underwear pretty useless and that if things kept up their relentless physiological changes - the tampons, panty liners and panties might prove very useful. This incensed me to no end. There was no way that I, Greg Prewitt was about to start wearing 'panties' just because of some stupid medical condition. We got into a rather nasty argument about it, which ended quite abruptly when she stormed out. While a month isn't such a long time, to me it was an eternity. Day after day I noticed ever so slight changes to my shriveling penis and disappearing balls. Day after day my curiosity grew with respect to the untouched bag of underwear, sitting just where Carly had left it. Then came the moment of truth, when my reluctance to wear the damn panties was pushed aside out of sheer necessity. That's the day I got my first period. Looking back, it was inevitable that at some point I'd be getting a period, but along with everything else I'd been denying or fighting, this was something I really didn't want to believe possible. I mean really, perfectly healthy, sexually active, heterosexual males don't just develop vaginas and ovaries, and they certainly don't get periods. But that's exactly what had happened. All the telltale signs of its approach were staring me in the face, from the cramping to the feeling of being bloated right down to an uncomfortable edginess in mood, but not until I saw that red stain on the toilet paper did it all come together. Part of being in denial also precluded me from exploring my new equipment until then, and so with that red smear came the realization that I was about to jam a cork up into a body cavity, that until just days earlier hadn't even existed. As explicit as the directions on the box may be, this is one thing that is better done the first time with an experienced coach. Try envisioning a construction worker's large bulky hands with somewhat longer nails than should have been on hands like mine, trying to delicately handle and maneuver a tampon for the first time. Throw in a major dose of nervousness, anxiety, sheer terror, the shakes, and you wouldn't be anywhere near what I was going through as I sat there on the toilet, legs spread wide apart coaxing this 'thing' into me. The deed was finally done, with only a dangling string as a constant reminder. On the one hand I couldn't stand its sight, while on the other - I couldn't stop staring at it. For some reason I couldn't put my sweats back on. The thought of that string dangling around loose in my pants, or the irrational thought of accidentally tugging the tampon out, or the possibility of messing myself from an overfilled or leaky cork prevented me from putting on the sweats. But just as unnerving was the constant sight of that damn string. The least I could do was to get on a pair of underwear, which I then attempted. Having gone commando for a while now, I was suddenly faced with just how much my lower anatomy had changed. My favorite boxers hung far lower on my hips than they should have, and without my dick and balls to fill the available space, they just seemed so wrong. Out of sheer desperation I grabbed a pair of the panties. I had no doubt that they'd fit better, but the thought of me in panties and them so silky and peach colored, was hard to swallow. They slid up my legs and settled over my hips so effortlessly, gently hugging and enhancing my very womanly curves, that I knew instantly I'd been a fool for holding out on this pleasure. The silken material caressed my skin like no other garment I'd ever worn before. And besides, "there are plenty of guys who get off on wearing women's underwear", I told myself, their secret safe within the confines of pants. No big deal. Then, to add a certain safety margin. since I had no way of knowing how to tell when it was time to change the tampon, I went the extra measure of inserting a panty liner. This too emphasized the need for ladies underwear over my traditional boxers, since there would have been no way to properly attach it nor would it have been effective even if I had managed to affix it into the boxers. Add yet another unique sensation as this adult diaper seated itself into place. It was time to phone Carly and apologize. It dawned on me that I missed her and needed her. When I told her what I'd been going through since we'd last seen each other, she felt so bad for me that she insisted on coming right over to comfort me. Maybe it's a girl thing, or just a Carly thing, but her idea of comforting also involves shopping. She tried everything short of physically dragging me out of the house to join her for a therapeutic session at a nearby mall. From my waist on down I may have been female and perhaps not as strong as before, but my upper body was still as manly and strong as ever, and I resisted all her attempts to get me out. The end result was that she again left in a huff, while I curled up on the sofa and did something I hadn't done since childhood - I cried. As luck would have it I was in the can taking a leak and changing my cork when the doorbell rang. Still all thumbs, I rushed as quickly as possible, and finally made it to the door after a third impatient ring. Of course it was Carly, and of course she was laden down with bags and boxes. She had taken the liberty of restocking my wardrobe in a style more to her tastes, perhaps even more to my needs, but definitely not to my liking. Among her finds of the day were more of the practical basics like underwear and socks, which I reluctantly admitted could and would be put to use, all things considered. But aside from that, everything else shouted femininity, to which I nearly went into a rage about, and insisted it all be returned. Carly patiently ignored my rant, and continued to spread out the clothes. As each new piece was displayed my voice rose a notch in volume, but she remained unflustered. Looking back it all seems silly, but at the time, aside from having lost my manhood to a vagina, this was the most incomprehensible earth shattering attack on my sense of maleness imaginable, and I wasn't about to accept it. This woman was doing her damned best to have me join the other team all because of a little plumbing problem, and I wasn't going to go without a fight. My problems were all below the belt, which was no one's business but my own, which certainly didn't warrant the extreme measures being pushed on me. True enough I couldn't be expected to spend the rest of my life in sweat pants and shut out the world forever imprisoned to my condo, but skirts, frilly blouses, nylons, shoes with heels, and of all things - bras, seemed more than just a bit insane. Me in women's clothing - not this boy! Surely if my figure had changed to the point where my pants and shoes no longer fit, and I truly did need new clothes, there must have been more accommodating, perhaps more masculine styled offerings that would have been suitable that she could have bought. But Carly didn't see it that way. Her reasoning went something like this: "After all that's happened to you, all the way from your tippy toes and slowly progressing upwards to your waist, what gives you any indication or reason to believe that this feminization process has stopped? If anything it's sped up lately, and I just thought these clothes would suit you better. Face it Greg, with your wide ass, tight little tummy, and that cute little wiggle to your walk, you'd have a hard time convincing anyone you're 'the man'. One of these days you'll have to leave these confines, and if you keep on dressing your way, people are not only going to stare, they'll probably be chuckling to themselves. At least I'm offering you the opportunity to get comfortable with some more appropriate attire, while doing so in the privacy of your home. At this point if you were to put on a padded bra, brush out your hair and shave, put on a bit of makeup, give those lovely long nails of yours a coat of polish, and went for a walk down the street, I'd lay bets you'd be seen as a much more believable - and pretty woman, than anything you could do or wear to make you look more of a guy." Had my ass really gotten that big? Was she serious that I looked more female than male? Wiggle to my walk? If she were right about the progress of the transformation, then obviously I could expect to soon be sprouting boobs. Blame it on the ovaries, or some other stupid part of a woman's anatomy, but female hormones or emotions were beginning to affect me more than I could have ever imagined. I needed a hug and a good cry. Once I'd calmed down, I actually helped her put away the day's purchases. We had a coffee and talked a bit longer, when I guess she felt my need for a little privacy and came up with some lame excuse to leave. That left me the rest of the day to do some serious thinking, though no conclusive decisions or plans of action came of it, which only had me more confused and upset than ever before. Probably the biggest hurdle I knew I needed to overcome was the concept and vision in my mind's eye of me prancing around in women's clothes and putting on makeup. Being addressed or hit-on as a woman didn't even rank. A couple of stiff drinks later and I was out for the count. Loneliness and isolation can play havoc with the mind. My dresser drawers and closet were just brimming with women's clothes and there I was faced with the reality of a situation that dictated that sooner or later I'd be considering wearing them, or worse yet - I'd have no choice, and would be wearing them out of sheer necessity like the panties. Perhaps Carly was right in her assessment of the situation, and I was being a fool for ignoring the obvious. If I were to grab the bull by the horns and embrace my femininity, the thought of wearing women's clothing wouldn't seem so bad. Curiosity finally won out. Without analyzing what I was doing, I began rummaging through my dresser, grabbing at pieces of the forbidden contents, tossing them onto the bed. She had thought of everything, and bought enough to stock a store, or so it seemed to this layman. There were the obvious sweaters, skirts, nylons, and so on, but there were also garments I'd never seen before and had no idea of how, when, or why they were to be worn. Coincidentally, sitting right on top of the pile, in bright satiny peach, was the prime example and pure essence of femininity - a bra. All I could do was stand there dumbstruck at the sight of it, trying to envision me strapping the damn thing on. It's funny looking back on that day, how I broke out in that cold sweat as I stood there just staring at it, how my knees trembled when I finally got up the nerve to gingerly reach out and pick it up. I remember it like it happened yesterday, as I watched myself in the bedroom mirror, pulling my favorite sweatshirt off, exposing my very male, very hairy chest, and then positioning the bra across that chest. "No way, never in a million years!" I kept telling myself. Never is an awfully long time, and in my case 'never' turned into about an hour. Like I said, loneliness and isolation can and do play havoc with the mind. As much as I kept telling myself I'd never, ever don a bra, a nagging voice in my mind kept pushing me to satisfy a curiosity just to see how silly I'd look with a peach colored satin bra wrapped around my chest. In the safety and isolation afforded me in my condo, I knew there was no risk of being exposed while wearing a bra. No one would be the wiser. No one would be able to accuse me of being a fag, a queer, or a sissy. But all that aside, even I couldn't fathom strapping the contraption over my hairy chest, which only meant that I ruined a perfectly good razor and emptied out the better part of a can of shaving cream as I clogged the shower drain with my hair. As the fog of a post shower mirror cleared and I saw my denuded chest and clean shaven face, I realized how Samson must have felt when he'd had his locks shorn. In one fell swoop something as insignificant as body hair, now gone, seemed to destroy a good part of my masculinity. It was time to play dress-up. As with the tampon, my white knuckled trembling hands saw to it that I was all-thumbs trying to manipulate the bra. I've got to hand it to Carly though, she managed to buy just the right size, that wasn't overly frilly (okay so peach wouldn't have been my first choice in color), and whose fabric was so luxurious that I broke out in a sweat and goose bumps at the same time as it made contact with my bare chest. Of course this was all done in front of a mirror, because even though it was me going through the motions, I wouldn't have believed this sight in a million years unless I'd seen it with my own eyes. Sure enough, there I stood in my peach panties and bra, staring at the oddest possible sight, for there staring back at me in the mirror was a woman from the waist down, with her shapely slender legs, flaring hips, and minimal waist, supporting a burly male torso with its 44 inch chest and a poorly fitting peach satin bra with nothing in the cups. I looked totally ridiculous, and burst out in a nervous laugh. The bra made the ultimate sacrifice, and got ripped off. It put up a valiant resistance, leaving two deep red marks over my shoulders, but in the end it was no match to the strength my arms possessed. Then and there I vowed to find a cure, a way back to myself as a male, for I surely couldn't bring myself to having to wear a bra again. In the coming days I gradually came to terms with myself. This phase of denial was serving no purpose as Carly had so eloquently pointed out, and finding a way back to full manhood wasn't looking too likely. If this was the deck I was to be dealt, I was going to try and make the best of it. If there was indeed a way to reverse this metamorphosis, it was neither obvious nor about to happen overnight. In the meantime I needed to get on with my life. Though I still had enough money to keep me going for a while, sooner or later work was going to become a priority. Her advise to try the new clothing seemed sensible, perhaps even practical, but most of all, once I'd gotten up the nerve to don a bra - a major thrill. I swore to myself I'd never wear one again, but like I said before, never is an awfully long time, and sure enough I did strap myself into another one. This time it stayed on for a whole afternoon. To add a little realism to this picture, I chose a bra that I guess Carly thought I might need some day, one with seriously large cups, and then went so far as to stuff the bra with a few pairs of sweat socks (sorry, no falsies or water balloons at my disposal). At first I kept twisting and turning to see myself from every conceivable angle, then moved on to adding a sheer silky cream-colored blouse over it. The bra was clearly visible through the blouse, which seemed to thrill me to no end despite the fact that rolled up socks do not make for a flattering bust. For the total effect, I broke open a pack of shimmery nude colored pantyhose, managed to get them on without a single run and finished with a pleated plaid skirt that looked like it might go well with the blouse. I've got to hand it to Carly, it fit surprisingly well, comfortably snug around the waist, flaring wide over my hips, draping down but not nearly reaching my knees. The only thing left were appropriate shoes, which I knew from my many enjoyable evenings with the fairer sex, needed to be heels with at least a three-inch lift. Again Carly had come through, for there in the front of my walk-in bedroom closet were the perfect strap-on heels. I knew full well that this was a risky undertaking, but I had to do it. Without any conscious effort, my body began reacting to how I now looked, not only because of the rush of being dressed as a woman, but looking very much like one too. I soon came to realize there was a dampness in my crotch that made walking a very erotic experience. Okay, so the heels and the sway of the skirt helped a bit too, but none-the- less I was turning myself on. Juices, friction, maybe some hormones, and an overly sensitive virginal clit and vagina were playing havoc with me. This was nothing that I was prepared for, nor anything remotely similar to anything I'd ever experienced before. As a guy, I'd often gotten a boner, a really stiff verging on painful boner sometimes, but at least it was centered in one spot, and could be dealt with relatively quickly and easily. At first I found it amusing, that this was what it felt like to be sexually aroused as a woman, but my body was telling my brain that there was more to this, and that it needed to be attended to. I tried to ignore these signals, but no matter what I did to try and relax, or better yet ignore what was happening, there was this growing nervous energy building inside me, throughout me. I knew it had everything to do with the look and feel of the clothing, and so off went the silk blouse. But that wasn't the answer. I knew down deep that it had little or nothing to do with the damn blouse, but all to do with Greg Prewitt, 'the man' wearing a bra. By now my nerves were so shot that all attempts at removing the bra without destroying it in the process, proved fruitless. I made for the bedroom to grab a nondescript ever so plain sweatshirt to cover myself with, but with each step I took the excitement radiating from my crotch was intensifying logarithmically. With the sweatshirt now on, I headed for the bathroom to strip out of what were surely drenched panties and to wash myself with an ice-cold washcloth. My plan almost worked. Yes I made it to the bathroom without collapsing, and yes I managed to get off the heels, but that's when everything went to shit. The pantyhose had to come off, of course. But as I hiked up the skirt and slid my fingers under the waistband of the pantyhose, I must have inadvertently brushed over my pubic region, for there was a sudden high-energy jolt that blasted into my brain. The dam had been breeched, the floodgates had been opened, and I was a goner. If one light accidental touch had been that electrifying, I just had to find out what a deliberate caress would do. I'm sure my eyes rolled backwards in their sockets and I know my heart skipped at least a beat if not two as I slowly stroked my middle finger up my thigh and across the tightly stretched nylon of the pantyhose covering my crotch. The pantyhose went off in a frantic rush as I fought to gain better access to my dripping pussy. For some reason my legs wanted to separate, to give me better access. As a guy this had never crossed my mind, probably since my dick did all the thinking and automatically rose to the occasion. My body was screaming 'stroke me, fill me, help me get that orgasm I so desperately want' while what little of my rational brain waged a war that was screaming equally as loud 'Greg, don't do it. Greg, you're a man. Greg, be a man'. And then there was the irrational emotionally driven side of me that was actually verbalizing, or more accurately panting 'Oh Greg, oh Greg, please,....' And more I'm sure, but after that all I can remember was the strange and wonderful sensation of being penetrated, hesitantly and cautiously at first, then eagerly, repeatedly, and most vigorously soon after. Oh what a sight I must have been, sitting on the toilet my legs spread wide open, one hand stroking in and out of my pussy, the other holding onto the towel rack for support, panting like an animal in heat for what seemed like forever, until only minutes later the fire in me erupted into my first female orgasm. My entire body went into spasm, and my mind went blank as it luxuriated in this bliss, yet my newfound friend wasn't finished, and it wasn't long before I enjoyed a second and dare I say, a third orgasm before I no longer had the energy to keep going for a fourth. I don't know how long I sat there, eyes closed, my head resting against a wall, panting, enjoying what I now know to be the afterglow of sex. The musky odor of a woman's love juices penetrated my nostrils, bringing me back to reality. Those were my odors and my juices, and I was the woman who'd just been finger fucked to her first orgasm. And for the first time since this ordeal had begun, I smiled and I felt good. The only thing I'd really wanted to get off was the damn bra, and there I was smelly and sweaty, wearing nothing else but a bra, a bra with no purpose and nothing to give support to. I finally removed it, and as it came off I gave out a loud sigh. Knowing I needed to clean off my cum and sweat, I did as I had since a pre-teen, and took a steaming hot shower. Big mistake. This afterglow thing, or this female all body orgasm experience had left my skin hyper sensitive, bordering on painful especially when the shower spray hit my nipples or crotch area. Now I did something else I hadn't done since a child - I turned off the shower in favor of a bath, and it felt great! As much as I'd enjoyed the day's experience, I neither put on any other bras, nor diddled myself for quite some time after. By giving into either was to play with fire, and tacitly be acknowledging my femininity, which was not an option. Oh sure I was wearing panties and women's pants and tops, but I regarded these as necessities which neither gave me pleasure nor excited me. The days passed with very little excitement or for that matter any excitement, with the walls of the condo seeming to close in on me more with each passing day. Each day I contemplated leaving my self imposed prison, but one look in a mirror nixed those thoughts as soon as I saw my undeniably male face, arms and chest atop my equally undeniably female waist, hips, and legs. I shaved less frequently than once upon a time, but not out of laziness, rather due to a lack of hair. Then one day I while shaving, I decided to do my arms too, in hopes it would leave me looking just a bit more feminine and maybe presentable to the outside world (just in case I found myself out and about), but no such luck. Can you imagine, I was actually trying to look female? The best I could muster the courage to do, was to sit out on the balcony late at night, when I was least likely to be seen. It must have been two or three days before my monthly, when I noticed a distinct tenderness about my nipples. 'Finally I'll get this over with. I'll sprout some boobs, I'll start to look more like a woman, and I can finally get on with my life.' Or so I thought. What ended up happening, was that my nipples did swell way beyond those of any normal male, and I did detect a certain small amount of swelling of my chest, but no more. Like any pre-pubescent girl beginning to bud breasts, the area became quite tender, though I didn't know if this was due to the activation of dormant breast tissue cells, or fluctuations in hormones from my period. Showers were out, as were all my t-shirts, leaving only the loose fitting, ultra smooth silk blouses. Yet as easy as this solution was, it only made another situation worse, in particular my extremely erogenous nipples. It seems that the feathery friction of the sheer material across my nipples was causing an intense erotic stimulation, something I didn't need while on the rag. I knew the solution was at hand, but after the last attempt at wearing a bra, and the end result of that exercise, I wasn't sure if the cure wasn't going to be worse than the problem. By the second day of that period I couldn't take it any longer, and went for another bra. Rifling through the dresser drawer, I found a silky beige one with barely any cup - perfect. Aside from being looser and easier to strap on than the last time, which meant my chest circumference must have shrunk, it was very obvious that the cups were actually serving some purpose by molding themselves to what had to be the beginnings of breasts. It was about a week afterward that I noticed that I hadn't developed any more, but then again the swelling hadn't gone away either. By now I'd grown somewhat accustomed to wearing the bra and the protection it gave to my still tender nipples. Carly came by on occasion, but was kind enough not to make fun of me, though the grin on her face still spoke volumes. My intention was to wear a top that would hide the fact that I was wearing a bra, but her reactions told me that she'd seen right through the disguise. Her visits were always marked by the new items of clothing she'd bought me, and the insistence to join her outside the condo for a change of scenery. The clothing was her treat she insisted, the least she could do to comfort my sagging spirits. And each visit ended with her leaving upset at the fact that I steadfastedly refused to go out. Days passed very slowly, filled with exercising in the early morning, some careful self examinations afterwards, a long hot bath while reading the morning paper, followed by a light breakfast. Then I'd get dressed, usually in pants and a blouse, brush out my hair which was really showing potential, and finish the morning doing laundry or some house cleaning. In my construction days a typical caloric intake would average about 5000 daily, excluding the beer, and I never worried about gaining weight. Now semi-retired and totally inactive, I consciously cut my food intake way down to stave off obesity. I mention this because as part of my new daily routine lunch, my most favored and biggest meal of the day was now reduced to rabbit food, also known as salads. As tasty and enjoyable as they were, they were no match for cheese burgers and fries. Afternoons were the worst. With little to do, I'd taken up reading, and watching television. My selection of books focused on action and adventure, but being stuck indoors for so long, I became frustrated with the story lines so filled with what I could no longer do. Afternoon television was just as bad with its soap operas and game shows. At least with the soaps I could relate to a certain continuous melancholy tragic chain of events. More than once I found myself in tears, chastising myself afterwards for watching this drivel, but I kept coming back day after day for more. Another three weeks passed, and I could tell another period was fast approaching by the typical female pre-menstrual cramps and bloating, but also in my case the addition of slightly more swollen nipples, larger and darker areola and a little more swelling of the breast area in general. I'd asked Carly over to discuss these new developments and to find out if this was normal, whatever 'normal' was, only to find that she was expecting this, and in anticipation had bought me a new bra with a slightly larger cup size. When she arrived I was barely able to get in a word edgewise, over her gushing about how great I looked. I felt like shit, but she was right in her observations that my arms and face had lost some of their mass and that the circumference of my chest had reduced by a good two inches. For the record she insisted on taking my measurements, not only for curiosity sake, but also to help her on future shopping expeditions, and to build her case regarding my joining her on an out-of-condo adventure. The tale of the tape read 42A, 27, 34, which on any other woman wouldn't have been an embarrassment, but it was enough for me break down and cry. We didn't go out. As with the month before, no more development occurred beyond the end of my period. Going without a bra was now no longer an option. My nipples were far too sensitive to any sort of friction to go braless, and the distraction of the slight bounce to my chest as I walked and sight of swollen nipples atop breasts on my very own chest, made going completely topless no better an alternate. The pattern was evolving, that changes were tied to my period, and over the next few months whatever was left of my rugged male looks melted away, leaving behind the sweet innocent face of a pretty young woman. Even my arms and hands had transformed themselves, so that there was next to no trace left of the guy who used to go by the name of Greg Prewitt. It donned on me one day, that I was beginning to look an awful lot like one of my all-time favorite Playboy Playmates, Gwen something or other. Being a typical pack-rat, and avid collector of Playboy, I made a beeline for the dusty boxes of magazines. Sure enough I found her, and sure enough I did resemble her in many ways, from her long wavy auburn hair, to that pert little button nose, right down to her warm inviting kissable lips. For a brief moment I actually wondered if a bit of makeup would make me look as pretty as her. What was different though, was below the neck, where she had substantially larger breasts and a much tinier waist. There was an interesting thought that flashed in my mind's eye, that if things kept up at their current pace it wouldn't be long before I caught up to her, which wasn't an altogether bad thought any more. So if I was to look like her, and with my name a close male equivalent, I decided to adopt her name too, and I became Gwen. Carly's next visit started off like any other. She brought me two new bras, in a size 38B, one a relatively tame under-wire model, the other a very revealing lace trimmed demi-bra. As I began my usual protests, the doorbell rang. Carly jumped to answer it before I could react. Without even screening the visitor, she buzzed them through the lobby entrance. No one but Carly had seen me in months, she being my sole source of food, clothing, sanitary supplies, and companionship - and I wasn't about to let this change. She had other plans, and proved for the first time just how much of a woman I'd become, and just how weak my body had become. There was no way to stop her from opening the door to her friend, and another of my former love interests, Ashley. Obviously Carly had filled her in on everything, but her entrance was still dramatic, effective, and totally embarrassing. Shortly after the bugged out eyes and the floor hitting jaw, she began giggling. Somewhere between fits of the giggles she still managed to comment "Oh Greg, you're lovely, I mean pretty, no cute. The guys will just eat you up. Oh Carly, he's even better than you described. I can't wait to show him, I mean her off." That's when it hit me. Carly had invited her over to double team me, and force me out with them. This time there was no way out. Giggles aside, they soon marched me into the bedroom whereupon they went to work on me. It started with a shampooing of my hair, followed closely with a shaving of legs and armpits. It seems that Ashley was somewhat of an expert in hair care and cosmetology, and I was to be her showpiece. While the hair was still wet, she went to work. At first it was just a combing, but then she put on the gloves and started applying some foul smelling chemicals which did their work at giving me blond streaks. My fingernails were then trimmed shaped and finally painted a sparkling deep red as were my toe nails of all things. Then as the lacquer was drying she went back to my hair, first by rinsing out the chemicals, then on to styling and drying as I watched her turn plain old me into a very cute new me. Carly was busying herself with selecting my dress for the evening, which would see me in black lace trimmed underwear, a long sleeved body hugging knit blouse complete with very plunging neckline and a far too short midriff, faded stretch culottes, and open toed three inch sandals. My protests fell on deaf ears as first I was stripped naked then forced to put on the all too revealing and sexually provocative clothes. Granted I looked hot, but that was exactly my objection. My ass was made to look outrageously large, my legs impossibly long, my belly button way too exposed, and my breasts far too pronounced, but they seemed thrilled at how I looked. But wait, worst was yet to come in the form of makeup. Ashley then went to work on my face by first plucking my eyebrows, then smearing and brushing on creams and powders as would a master artist working on a great masterpiece. The final touch was her application of a thick coating of a matching sparkling shimmery deep red lipstick, which gave me the feeling of having fat heavy lips and slurred speech (which by night's end that little problem had vanished). Earrings, bracelets, and a ring rounded out the package. Cute had now become ravishing. A clutch was stocked for me with all the essential repair tools I'd need, which included lipstick, hair brush, and perfume and I was declared fit and ready for action. I'd been so focused on myself that I'd failed to notice that both Carly and Ashley were now both similarly dressed. My stomach was doing summersaults as they ushered me out the door. Three pairs of heels clacked down the marbled lobby floor towards the front door and a world beyond that I hadn't set foot in, in nearly a year - and it terrified me. The doorman greeted us as 'ladies' and held open the door, as did the taxi driver. It seemed that the world was conspiring against me by assuming that I was a lady, and insisted on reminding me at every opportunity. The restaurant valet attendant went so far as to lend his hand as we exited the taxi, as if we were incapable or too frail to do it on our own, and the stupid grin plastered on his face as he got in the cheap thrill of looking down my cleavage would have cost him a fist between the eyes were it not for Carly's quick intervention. This concept of being the weaker, fairer, and prettier sex came with so many new cultural formalities that it took some getting used to. The list seemed never ending, from the patronizing maitre d, to waiters that held our seats, and this was only within the first hour of leaving home. A sparkling wine was ordered to celebrate the occasion, though I really couldn't see anything worth celebrating. But it was alcohol, which at the moment seemed a necessity. There was a few minute calm as we read over the menu and waited for the wine to arrive, and for just a moment I was able to unclench my stomach muscles and take a relaxing deep breath. The wine arrived, a toast was made in my honor, we took a welcome sip, and there it was - a lipstick print. That was all it took for me to break down in tears. Greg Prewitt tall muscular and virile male, reduced to a whimpering wine sipping woman. Ashley had the honors of escorting me to the ladies room to calm me down, repair the damage to my makeup, and to tell me in no uncertain terms to "buck up, and show some Prewitt backbone." The meal from there on went reasonably well. The food was excellent, and the three bottles of wine and the after dinner drinks definitely calmed my nerves. I would have liked to have eaten more but I was stuffed all too soon. My appetite sure wasn't what it used to be. Before moving on to a movie, we took the obligatory ensemble visit to the ladies room to empty our miniscule bladders and repair our faces. Even I stood up to the mirror and fished out a tube of lipstick with minimal coaxing, though Ashley did have to stop my inexperienced attempts and do it for me. Surprise, surprise, we didn't go to a movie. Carly handed a slip of paper to the taxi driver that I assumed was the address of a nearby theatre, but as I'm sure you've guessed, turned out to be for one of the city's hottest clubs. Of course three unescorted women went straight to the head of the line, and as customary there was no cover charge. Carly led the way to a table where someone familiar to her was waving frantically. It was another setup. He wasn't alone. Carly paired up with Chuck, Ashley settled in beside a guy named Brent who it turns out she knew too, and I was introduced to Trevor. It was one thing to dress me up and haul me out of the house. It was quite another to set me up with a blind date. Carly could see the lightning bolts I was shooting her, but I had to be polite and go with the flow. A waitress appeared and I needed my Scotch. But before I could say that single word, Carly had caught her attention and was ordering us a pitcher of Margaritas. At least it was alcoholic. Over the noise of the music we did our best at making small talk. Aside from having absolutely no interest in guys, Trevor seemed to be a half decent sort. He had a degree in Civil Engineering, worked in construction, took his body building quite seriously, and had all the right SINA (Single Income No Attachments) toys. Once upon a time we could have probably been best friends, but now he was looking at me the way I used to look at women - as another notch in the belt challenge, and I wasn't about to let that happen (yuck!). A popular techno song with a riveting beat came on and we all decided to hit the floor, that is until I remembered who I was, who I was paired with, and last but not least - the high heels I was wearing. It was a fast beat which meant we'd dance alone, so I relented figuring I could get by. All was going along smoothly until I stumbled. Whether it was my unaccustomed high heels or too much to drink, the next thing I knew Trevor had me in his arms. He towered over me, so I had to lift my head to thank him for saving me. He didn't miss his chance. Just as my head tilted back, his lips were on mine. The thought of actually kissing another guy seemed so utterly repulsive, yet being held there in his firm grip seemed surprisingly comforting, bordering on enjoyable. My resistance to his kiss was token at best, and for some reason the sound of the music was being drowned out by the thumping of my heart. We did manage to close the bar, but I also managed to end up at home in my own bed - alone. Sure we had traded our co-ordinates, but he was a gentleman enough not to push the envelope on this first 'date'. The next morning I woke up with a major hangover, and as the fog in my head lifted I was able to recall the events of the night before. I'd gone out and had a good time. I'd met a man and enjoyed myself - and more importantly I'd kissed him, and even agreed to see him again. What was wrong with me? The answer was simple - nothing, and I was content. I must have been either very tired or had drunk way too much, or was still unprepared for all that it was to be a woman, since the woman staring back at me in the bathroom mirror was a true horror sight. Not only hadn't I gotten undressed before collapsing on the bed, but I hadn't thought to remove my makeup. One long shower to scrub clean followed by a luxurious hot bubble bath later, and I was a new person. My days of wallowing in self pity were at that moment over. After a simple breakfast, I headed back to my room to find some appropriate business attire, which ended up as a blouse, skirt, nylons and pumps. That was the easy part. Once dressed came the hard stuff, namely applying my own makeup for the first time. I tried to draw on Ashley's work of the day before (especially since she'd stocked my vanity with everything she'd used on me and then some), some hints I'd culled from a few magazines, and even a pointer or two from a television show that was airing at the time. Several miserable attempts later, the results started showing improvements. By late morning I was happy enough with my looks that I was actually prepared to risk venturing out on my own. My intention was to give some purpose to my life by getting a job. That lasted until I reached my car. That's when it hit me - I had no license, no identification, no history, no work experience, no references, and no r?sum?. About all I could do was go for a walk to think this through and maybe come up with an idea of how to get a life again. I wandered around the neighborhood for a couple of hours, got honked at more than once, whistled to, and even propositioned to, but still managed to make it back home unmolested. Creating a new identity was not all so difficult, all it took was time, patience, a considerable amount of money and the co-operation of a lot of people. According to my new driver's license I was Gwen Prewitt, female, aged 21, five foot six, blond haired and blue eyed. According to Trevor I was stunning, stacked, very knowledgeable for a woman (when it came to construction and sports), and a terrible sexual tease. During the waiting period I worked on a new r?sum? that was long on generalities and qualifications, but woefully lacking on specifics that could have been cross referenced. Still, it was good enough to get me several interviews, none of which I found acceptable. One look at me and I was being branded blond bimbo, even before the r?sum? had been read. After a week of pounding the pavement, I'd been offered three secretarial jobs at minimum wage, and a sales position for a new condominium project. Trevor went to bats for me, and with his backing I landed a job for the company he was working for, in job costing. All things considered, this was probably the closest I'd be getting to a construction site. Trevor and I were spending more and more time together and as much as I didn't want to believe it possible, I was beginning to develop feelings for this man. Carly saw it written across my face and was getting a kick out of watching me primp before our dates. It made me feel good to dress up for him and put extra effort in styling my hair and doing my makeup because I knew how much he enjoyed it, and that was important to me. She kept trying to pry out the details and extent of our relationship, but most of her efforts were directed at finding out how my love life was. While it was true that our friendship was developing into something more serious, I simply wasn't able to fathom the concept of anyone, not even Trevor getting between my legs, though the thought had crossed my mind on many occasion, and it was an image of him that filled my mind's eye as I masturbated more and more frequently. Then came the night I finally gave in. It had started out like any of our other dinner dates, with a fine meal and a tour of his latest construction project. Not too romantic you say? Well I loved it, and on this particular night we were touring a nearly completed luxury hotel that overlooked the ocean. Here I was walking around a construction site in a slinky