The Poster

I found it while tidying the attic: a telescope. How it had come into my possession, I could not recall. I've always had a latent interest in astronomy, but never took to stargazing, content to sate that particular curiosity through a page or a screen. Maybe it had been a gift.

Nevertheless, I was now eager to set it up. Fortunately, my bedroom faced a relatively lightly lit valley and I surmised that I could get good views through the window, allowing the comfort of observing the celestial wonders from the inside. The telescope barely built, a strange urge suddenly washed over me. Surely I wasn't going to do it. I did not consider myself a creep, never had a voyeuristic streak. And yet, here was this irresistible compulsion to set my sights lower, at the windows across the valley. It was as if my body itself was directed to peer through that opening, almost as if I was a puppet, merely following the movements of strings my will could not influence in any way.

That is how I found myself in my darkened room, staring at this spectacle: before my transfixed gaze, a woman was masturbating. On her bed she laid naked, legs spread facing the window, furiously fingering herself, in full view of the lens I peered through. Occasionally, her breasts and face came into view as, in the throes of pleasure, she alternated arching and rounding her back. She was undeniably fair: of slight build with generous curves with long flowing blond hair framing a face that looked pretty even through the grimaces of her ecstasy.

Needless to say, I immediately started engaging in onanistic endeavours of my own, vigorously stroking my penis as I admired this stranger through the telescope. As my climax approached, my eyes were inexorably drawn to something else in her room, a poster located just above her left shoulder. On it, a lightly clad figure. As I focused on the poster, a mix of emotions rushed over me: shock, confusion and even dread: the figure was none other than myself, wearing nothing but a pair of white panties. How had such a picture found its way to that woman's bedroom? It was as if this woman had surreptitiously managed to obtain a naked picture of me (for even the smallest detail on the poster matched what the mirror showed me every day) and added a pair of panties to it. But I never took such pictures, and neither had my few sexual partners, at least that I knew of.

That poster had shook me to the core, and yet I felt compelled to keep masturbating. Mere moments later, I was focusing on the woman again, getting more and more aroused as she plumbed her innermost depths. Wait. Had she just winked in my direction? Surely not. It must've been illusion. A trick of the mind. She couldn't know I was watching her. That was impossible. Then again, so should've been that poster. Despite my mind's turmoil, I had kept watching, kept stroking. Soon enough, I was erupting. I was deeply ashamed at what I'd just done, I had just violated a woman's privacy to indulge my baser instincts, yet I had done it. Of course, my shame was tempered by the fact that she must have done something similar to me, although I did not know how. Else, how would she possess such a poster?

Unsurprisingly, my thoughts dwelled on that poster for the rest of the evening, but I could come to no answer and, after much tossing and turning, fell asleep.

The next day, I was able to set aside all thoughts of this impossible poster at work, but, as I made my way home, my mind came back to it. This time, not in trying to unravel the mystery of its existence, but in contemplating its contents. Why the panties? Why did they look so right on me? How would they feel? Where was the closest lingerie shop?

Barely had I made it home that I had stripped off all of my clothing and donned my new white panties. I had not hesitated a second. I had never even thought of crossdressing before, but in that instant, I just had to wear this most feminine of garments. Deep down, I knew this was strange and I felt like I wasn't in complete control of my actions, but I delected nonetheless in the caress of the panties and the taboo of wearing them. I made my way to the telescope, still pointed at that window, and peered, hoping to glimpse that woman. To my surprise, there she was. Just as naked as the prior evening, just as frantically masturbating in front of the window. I wasted no time in moving my panties aside and grabbing my cock. It was not long until I felt the need to examine the poster again, that strange item that had led me to wanking in panties. Another shock welcomed me: the poster had changed! I was still the sole person on it, but where I had been portrayed in white panties the day prior, this time they were black. Where my chest had been bare, it was now encased in a matching black bra. My pose had changed as well. Yesterday, it had been as if I was modelling the panties in a catalogue. Today, they were lifted aside so that my hand could grasp my tumescent member, in a fashion not dissimilar to what I was actually doing at that instant. As before, although the poster troubled me deeply, my arousal was not diminished and it was not long until I shot copious quantities of sperm admiring that woman's frenzied efforts to pleasure herself.

I removed the panties immediately and tried to put what I had just done and the poster out of my mind, tried to have a regular evening. I failed, obviously. I had just masturbated in panties, seemingly somehow influenced by a strange poster that shouldn't exist. The new poster was even more puzzling: how many of those does she have? And does she change them daily, or was this a deliberate change knowing I had seen the previous one? No matter how much I pondered those questions, I arrived at no answer.

Yet, somehow, a night's sleep had again cleared those thoughts and the next workday proceeded unimpeded. Yet, afterwards, I was once again taken over by those strange impulses. Upon reaching home after a quick shopping trip, I hurriedly removed my clothes and put on my new black lingerie: a nice satin panties, bra and garter belt set completed with sheer stockings. I had gone even beyond what my replica had worn on the poster, but if I was going to wear panties and a bra, I might as well complete the look. Again, I rushed to the telescope and peered into its lens. Sure enough, there she was, as alluring as ever, as naked as ever. I wasted no time freeing my penis from my panties and got to town on it, enjoying both the tantalising sight and the sensations of the lingerie on my body. Once again, as I was getting close to finishing, I couldn't resist a glance at the poster. It was yet another one, still depicting me in women's garb. This time, my facsimile was clad in a pink bra and a black knee-length skirt, very visibly tented by the erection raging beneath it. A hint of pink panties peeked out of the top of the skirt, on the left side. For the first time since this ritual had begun, I ejaculated whilst looking at the poster, rather than the woman.

This time, I did not bother removing the lingerie. What would be the point? I had masturbated in female underwear more than once, and was obviously going to do it again. It seemed obvious that I would even buy a skirt on the very next day. Plus, I enjoyed it. Not only did it feel nice, but wearing it somehow made me feel more confident and, somehow, more serene. It felt natural for me to walk around the house in panties, a bra, a garter belt and stockings.

I wore the panties to work the next day. Two evenings prior, panties had just been a masturbatory aid, a kink to be discarded once its purpose was served. Before that, I had no inclination to wearing them at all. And yet, on that day, I deeply desired to wear them all day. It was almost a need. The bra and garter belt would've been too visible through my clothes and the stockings would not have stood up on their own, so I could not wear any of them. The day went very well. Sure, I was distracted at times, but my newfound confidence and serenity were both appreciable social assets.

The shopping session had been long, but enjoyable. Whereas my previous visits to lingerie stores had been rushing, anxious affairs, this time I confidently took my time to browse the wares, in a variety of clothing stores. Women's clothing stores, obviously. As was becoming habit, I rushed to discard my masculine clothing the moment I closed the door behind me, replaced my black panties with new pink ones (pure silk!), put the rest of the matching set on, and gleefully slipped into my first skirt and blouse. The blouse was white satin, the skirt a rather short black A-line number exhibiting my quite frankly sexy stockinged legs. A rush of pleasure washed over me the moment I was done. Being fully clothed in women's garments just felt so right! After a moment's pause, I made my way to the telescope, still in a daze. What I was doing was quite innocuous (it's just clothes, afterall!), yet felt like breaking a major social proscription in an affirming manner.

Unfailingly, there was my muse of sybaritic exploration. For the first time, but certainly not the last, I lifted my skirt and grabbed my engorged organ. I took her image in, her charms unmarred by the repetition of this most peculiar of events. I could watch her a thousand times and still be thrust into uncontrollable lust, still be almost unable to take my eye off her. Almost, as, once more, I scanned the room for its poster. This time, I was represented not standing, but on all fours, facing away from the camera, my short white pleated skirt lifted to reveal some sort of big pink gem adorning my anal area. I'd seen that gem a few days before, in a lingerie store that also sold sex toys: it was the fake gem at the end of some metallic buttplugs. Below dangled my penis in all its hardened glory. My head was turned to face the camera, confirming that it was indeed meant to be me. Despite the humiliation, the sight of myself in that posture, wearing that skirt and a buttplug was deeply erotic and I came on the spot.

Needless to say, I kept the clothes on all evening. In a way, doing mundane tasks in a skirt was more arousing than what had transpired in front of the telescope. I couldn't resist admiring myself in the mirror for a long time, longer than I am willing to admit. I still didn't know how the posters came to be, nor how they influenced me so, but I didn't particularly care anymore. All I wanted right then was to revel in the bliss of my newfound femininity. When came time to go to bed, I changed into one of my newly-acquired silky nighties. The moment I put it on, I knew I would be addicted to those.

At work, I wore panties and a pair of stay-up stockings. It just felt natural to do so. I left work in a hurry, there was much shopping to do. First, I had to stop by a sexshop, to buy a series of buttplugs of various sizes.

Then, I went on a shopping spree, going from store to store, buying skirts (including a white pleated miniskirt, of course), blouses and dresses by the bagful. This time, I was trying the clothes on before buying them, leaving the staff and anyone who cared to observe me under no illusion that they weren't for me. The last skirt I tried on, a light black knee-length chiffon one, felt and looked so nice around my stocking-clad legs that I could not resist going back to the changing room after buying it, to put it on and wear it out of the store and all the way home.

I should've been anxious about wearing a skirt in public, but I wasn't. If anything, this was liberating and I prolonged my shopping session with a smile on my face, enjoying my skirt floating around my legs as I browsed the wares.

Although I got home later than usual, given the duration of my expedition, there she was, on the far side of my viewing device, going at it with the usual frenzy. As hard as the spectacle made me, I couldn't start masturbating until I fetched the smallest of the buttplugs I had just purchased and inserted it, which I did with no hesitation. The plug felt good, there had been no pain at all. It was so exciting to think I was fully dressed in women's clothes and wearing a buttplug.

As I worked my pole, a gentle, diffuse, pleasure radiated from my anus, a constant reminder of its occupant. Through the viewport, a new development: the object of my fantasies grabbed a toy of her own. Until now, she'd stuck to using her fingers to explore her nethers, but she had apparently decided to supplement them with long, thin, pink dildo. The sight of that dildo pumping in and out of that most appetising vagina was deeply arousing and I knew I wouldn't last very long. Just before my climax, the compulsion to watch the poster was back. This time, I was portrayed on my back. Wearing lingerie and a skirt, of course, and in the act pounding the very same dildo she was currently using in and out of my back entrance. I came immediately, wondering how it'd feel when I did that the next day. The idea of not enacting what was portrayed on the poster did not even enter my mind.

On said next day, I wore a full lingerie set to work. Did my bra straps show? Maybe. I didn't care anymore. I, of course, bought a dildo on the way home. I changed and rushed to the telescope, eager to try my new toy. To my surprise, no light shone through the window. Was I early? Was she gone today? Was she doing something else? Should I wait? I waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore and plunged the dildo inside me. The sensation was electrifying! The dildo reached so much deeper than the plug had, and I couldn't stop hammering it in and out of my backside until the moment I deposited my sperm on the front of my skirt. I hadn't even lifted it yet, hadn't even had the strength to grab my penis. I had just come solely from anal gratification.

The lights never came on in her window. As when this had started, I had a litany of questions, some relating to the length of her absence: was she gone for today, for a few days or weeks or for good? Some about my dependence on her and her mysterious posters. Finally, the last question pertained to the influence of those posters: now that I had not been exposed to a new one, would I revert back to my old self? Eschew women's clothes and sex toys? Feel an ever-growing shame at what I'd done and anxiety about people noticing?

Unlike the questions relating to the woman's sudden appearance, I would find answer to all those new questions relatively quickly. I kept living in lingerie as the days went by, and multiplied outings in women's clothes. I particularly enjoyed skirts, and, two weeks hence, would find myself at work in a tasteful black skirt suit. The weeks went on and, rather than renouncing women's clothes, I had done the opposite: I gave away all my male clothing to charity. A few days later, the light appeared in a familiar window. She was back, and back to her usual activities. I watched her for an eternity, delaying my orgasm as long as possible, impaling myself on a big dildo stuck to the wall. As I was about to reach the limits of my resilience, I could again swear she'd just winked at me, and immediately directed my gaze at the poster. Unsurprisingly, I was on it again, in full female garb, with a big toy in my arse. What surprised me was that she, too, was portrayed on the page, in full resplendence, in front of the figure I had recognised as myself, positioned perfectly for cunnilingus.

The next day, at work, I learnt that my intolerant bosses had been working on my termination since the day I had first turned up to work in a skirt. I had been made redundant. Yet, I felt fine. I knew what I had to do. I went home, changed into a nice red pleated jacquard skirt and black silk satin blouse and located the house I had been peering into for all this time. I parked in front and strode confidently to the doorbell. I belonged there, I just knew it.

Moments later, there she was! In all her glory, she towered over me. Wordlessly, she beckoned me inside and I entered. She led me to the bedroom and gestured for me to get on my knees, after which she lifted her skirt to reveal that she was going commando. She spoke her first word then: "eat". I executed the instruction instantly, excitedly lapping at the labia I had lusted after and fantasised about for weeks now.

When she deemed I was done pleasuring her orally, she broke the silence again: "from now on, you will no longer work, you will live here and I will take care of you".

I acquiesced, and enquired at to what I should call her.

In lieu of an answer, she turned her head towards the poster, located behind me. Upon seeing the image of myself, coiled around the legs of her own representation, eyes locked, I instantly knew the answer: "mistress."