Frank Weber, 28 years old, was an electrical engineer at Blitzstrom GmbH in a small German town. He earned a comfortable living with his annual salary of around €60,000. His company car, a white SUV with the Blitzstrom GmbH logo, was often parked in front of his apartment building. Colleagues liked him, neighbors greeted him warmly, but no one knew his secret: Frank wanted to know what it was like to be perceived as a woman—a woman who stood out, was seductive, and self-confident. He wasn’t concerned with his identity, but rather with the attraction and feeling of femininity.
For months, he researched secret internet forums and saved up for a special latex suit. He bought it for 4,500 euros. The suit was a state-of-the-art invention: skin-tight, made of breathable latex that kept the wearer cool and dry. It was so perfectly designed that it looked, felt, and moved absolutely realistically, even in bright sunlight or to the touch. From the outside, there was no indication that it was a suit—every observer saw only a female body, flawless and desirable. The breasts were large, an E-cup, and bounced with every movement. An E-cup corresponds to a bust measurement about 10–12 cm above the underbust measurement, depending on the brand, and appears full, prominent, and heavy. Inside the suit, the breasts weighed about 1.5–2 kg per side, a total of 3–4 kg, which represented a realistic but noticeable strain. When ordering, Frank hadn’t considered how heavy this size would be and underestimated the physical strain it would cause to wear it. The hips and legs were perfectly formed. The vagina was functional: a tube inside the suit allowed for urination, and a discreet system left the anus free for the big bowel movement.
The suit was entered through a small opening at the back of the head, hidden beneath a tightly attached blond wig that reached to the waist. The wig was firmly anchored to the suit, couldn’t slip, and looked like real hair. The face mask was made of flexible latex, which naturally mimicked every facial expression, complete with foundation, blush, long eyelashes, eyeliner, and red lipstick. The hands had long, red fingernails that appeared realistic.
The Morning of Transformation
On a sunny, windy Friday, Frank took the day off. He was excited as he took the suit out of the black box. The fabric had a slight sheen, smelled new, felt soft, and looked like real skin.
Putting on the suit was a laborious process. Frank had shaved to ensure everything was perfect. He applied prosthetic adhesive to his forehead, cheeks, chin, and lips, let it dry, and stepped into the suit through the opening at the back of his head. The opening closed seamlessly, and the wig slipped over it, completely invisible. The adhesive held the mask in place so that it moved naturally with every smile, frown, or word. When he spoke, his lips looked real.
The long nails made it difficult. Frank guided his penis into the tube inside the suit, which was odd but practical—he could relieve himself. The suit was tight, but the breathable material kept him cool. He pulled it over his legs, hips, and chest. The E-cup breasts bounced realistically, but their weight—about 3–4 kg total—immediately strained his shoulders and back. Frank felt the strain he hadn’t considered when ordering the suit and wondered how he would make it through the day. The wig brushed against his back. After two hours, he stood in front of the mirror: he looked like a young woman, about 25, with long blond hair, a curvy figure, and full breasts. He twirled, admiring her hips, waist, and breasts, but their weight made every movement strenuous. Even in the bright light, everything seemed real—skin, movement, touch. “Incredible,” he whispered, his voice soft, his lips moving perfectly. His smile was seductive, but his back was already aching slightly.
The choice of clothing
Frank had been searching online for eye-catching clothing. He started with a red lace bra, revealing his nipples. The clasp was heavy because of his nails, and the weight of his E-cup breasts pulled on the bra, making it uncomfortable. He managed it nonetheless. The matching panties were easier, but looking in the mirror, he felt both pride and nervousness. The lingerie was daring.
The thin, shiny tights made his legs look slimmer. His nails made it difficult, but the second pair of tights fit perfectly. He loved the shine.
Black pumps with 12-centimeter heels made his legs look longer, but they were wobbly. He’d practiced, but the weight of his chest made walking even harder. He held onto the door frame, twisted slightly, and caught himself. “It’ll be okay,” he murmured, even though his back protested.
The summer dress was white, thin, with short sleeves and a low neckline that emphasized her E-cup breasts. The hem ended above her knees, and the fabric fluttered in the wind. The neckline often slipped, revealing the red bra or parts of it, which was accentuated by the weight of her breasts. In the sun, the dress was see-through, revealing the lingerie, but the suit looked like a real body. Frank didn’t notice the see-through fabric.
Frank had read a lot of advice online from women about what to carry in handbags to appear authentic, and he was carried away by the flood of tips to pack even useless little things. Into his small handbag he stuffed: a rose gold smartphone, keys, a wallet with cash and credit card, a lipstick (for authenticity, although the mask didn’t need it), tissues (for tears or stains), a mini perfume (for fresh scent), a hand mirror (for appearance), a hairbrush (for the wig), a sewing kit (for torn hems), a tampon (for authenticity, although unnecessary), a notebook and pen (for notes), chewing gum (for fresh breath), disinfectant spray (for hygiene), lip balm (for soft lips), hair ties (for the wig), two spare pairs of tights (for runs), a spare pair of black panties (for stains or discomfort), a pack of condoms (for safety, as some women carry), a small nail file (for broken nails, although the suit nails were indestructible), a pack of peppermints (for freshness, because someone wrote they were “lifesaving”), a mini shower gel (for spontaneous Refreshments, a forum tip), a tiny umbrella (for unexpected weather, although none had been reported), a couple of safety pins (for clothing emergencies), a lace handkerchief (because it was “elegant”), a small keychain with an LED light (for dark corners), and finally, after further forum tips, a white, sheer spandex bodysuit with short sleeves, a black, knee-length chiffon skirt that folded up small, and black ballet flats that folded flat in case of dirt or sore feet after wearing high heels—compact and often used by women or girls, for example, in gym class. The handbag was full, almost bursting, but Frank felt ready, despite the pain from the weight of his chest. He practiced a smile in the mirror and left.
The windy way to the train station
At 1:30 p.m., Frank stepped out into the sun. A strong wind was blowing. His company car was parked there, but he left it there to remain unnoticed. The train station was ten minutes away, and the wind made it difficult.
The cobblestones were treacherous for the heels. The pumps offered little support, and the weight of his E-cup breasts pulled him forward, forcing him to concentrate. The wind lifted the dress, and Frank held the hem, often too late—the red panties were visible. An older man with a dog stared. “Nice outfit,” he grinned. Frank pulled the dress down, mumbling “Thank you,” his face hot, his back aching.
Pebbles pricked the sandy path. He shook out his shoes, the wind lifted his dress, revealing his panties. A young woman giggled: “She should wear something longer!” Frank pulled the dress down; the neckline slipped under the weight of his breasts, and a bra strap was visible.
At the station, a gust of wind lifted his dress as he took his wallet out of his handbag. A man grinned. Frank held the hem, feeling humiliated, his breasts pulling at his shoulders. The cashier saw his cleavage and bra straps. “Train to the city?” she asked. Frank nodded, “Yes, please.” He took the ticket and hurried to the platform, where the wind blew his panties away. Two teenagers gawked.
The train ride
The train was packed—rush hour. Frank stood snug between people, smelling sweat and perfume, his dress clinging to his skin. The breathable latex kept him cool, but the weight of his chest made standing painful, and his back arched slightly. Touches were unavoidable: an elbow, a hand on his thigh. Were they intentional? He flinched.
As he held onto a pole, his cleavage slipped, revealing his bra, and his breasts heaved heavily. A man stared. Frank adjusted his dress, his face flushed. As he stepped out, his heel caught, and a young man supported him, staring at his cleavage. “Everything okay, beautiful?” he asked. Frank mumbled “Thanks” and fled, his heart racing, his breasts aching painfully.
The shopping adventure
In the big city, the pedestrian zone was crowded, and the wind was a problem. The dress lifted, revealing her panties, and Frank held the hem, often too late. A man whistled, women looked, the E-cup breasts drew glances, their weight making every step strenuous.
In the department store, he tried on jeans, a black dress, and a bikini out of curiosity. In the fitting room, the neckline slipped, revealing his bra, as the saleswoman looked in. “Everything okay?” she asked. Frank nodded, “Yes, everything’s fine.” He left without buying anything, feeling humiliated, his back aching from standing.
In a shoe store, he tried on high boots. As he bent over, the wind lifted his dress, revealing his panties, and his breasts almost pulled him forward. The salesperson stammered, “They look great.” Frank pulled the dress down, mumbling, “Thank you.” He bought a handbag, earrings (unwearable), and a sweet perfume for his handbag. The hours passed, and the weight of his breasts became unbearable.
The return journey and the danger
The train back was empty. Frank sat by the window, his handbag on his lap, his breasts pressing heavily against his chest. Two men in their mid-thirties sat down beside him—jeans, T-shirts, beer cans, broad grins. “Well, pretty lady,” said the broad-shouldered man with a stubble beard. “Traveling alone?”
Frank smiled nervously: “Yes, I’m going home.” The men became cheeky: “That dress is hot,” “You’ll turn everyone’s head with that bust.” Frank looked at his smartphone, but the slender man put a hand on his leg and slid it under the hem. “Nice legs,” he said.
“Please, stop that,” Frank said, his voice trembling. The men laughed. The broad-shouldered man reached for his handbag, and Frank pulled it away. His cleavage slipped, revealing his bra. The men grinned. When the train stopped, Frank ran to the exit, the men following. The platform was empty, panic rising, his breasts making walking difficult.
The Tragedy in the Grove
A narrow path through a small wood led to Frank’s apartment. His heels clicked, his chest ached painfully, but the men were faster. The broad-shouldered man grabbed his arm and pulled him into the darkness. “Don’t scream,” he hissed, his beer-breathing. The slender man held him tight, his fingers aching. Frank struggled, but the men were stronger. The broad-shouldered man ripped a piece of tape from his pocket—perhaps from a construction site—and tied Frank’s hands behind a tree. The tape stuck, cutting into his skin, and his long nails made any resistance impossible. The slender man pulled out more tape and tied Frank’s ankles so that he could barely stand, pressed against the tree.
The scene, which lasted a good six hours and didn’t end until after midnight, was a nightmare full of sadistic games. No one disturbed or surprised them in the secluded grove. The broad-shouldered man approached, his eyes glowing. The blond wig glinted in the moonlight, the white dress fluttered in the wind, the neckline slipping, the red lace bra visible. The E-cup breasts bounced heavily as Frank writhed. The broad-shouldered man ripped up the dress, revealing the red panties and torn pantyhose. He knelt, his rough hands sliding over the smooth legs. He pressed his face against the vagina, breathing heavily, licking the surface. His moans were loud, excited, as he traced the contours with his fingers, testing the tightness. The slender man pulled out his smartphone, taking pictures, the flash illuminating the scene, Frank’s panicked face in focus.
The slender man stood nearby, opened his pants, and rubbed himself while observing Frank’s face. The mask showed fear, the red lips trembled, every movement real. He grabbed Frank’s head, forcing him to take it in his mouth. The lips closed, the mask moved in sync, the broad-shouldered man laughed harshly as he continued exploring the vagina. He stood up, opened his jeans, his arousal obvious. Without a condom, he penetrated the vagina with one hard thrust, the tightness enclosing him. He moaned deeply, his hands gripping his hips, his breasts bouncing heavily with each thrust, a sight that drove him wild. The slender man took more photos, zooming in on the breasts, the movements, the dress.
After about thirty minutes, the broad-shouldered man called some friends. “Come here, you have to see this,” he grinned, naming the spot in the woods. The men took turns, the slender one penetrating her vagina without a condom, his movements quick and impatient, while the broad-shouldered man grabbed Frank’s head and forced him orally. The taste of sweat and beer filled Frank’s mouth, the mask holding his every movement. Kurt, one of the newcomers, filmed with his smartphone, capturing every moan and every movement.
An hour later, three more men appeared, all in their late thirties, wearing worn clothes and with greedy eyes. The first, strong with short hair, called himself “Kurt.” The second, thin with a baseball cap, was “Micha.” The third, stocky with a scar on his chin, was called “Rolf.” They laughed at the scene and took off their jackets. Kurt took more tape from his pocket and tied Frank’s torso more tightly to the tree, making his E-cup breasts stand out even more, his bra stretched. Micha cut his panties and bra in half with a pocketknife and dropped them to the ground. Rolf tore the dress and pantyhose to shreds, the remains scattered in the grass. His breasts bounced freely, glistening in the moonlight. Micha took photos, concentrating on his breasts and hips.
The five men began a long, varied game that lasted six hours. Kurt knelt down, licking the vagina greedily, his hands kneading the hips. Micha pulled an old T-shirt from his pocket, tore it into strips, and gagged Frank, tying the fabric tightly around his mouth so that his protests were muffled. The mask distorted, showing pain, but the lips remained perfect. The broad-shouldered man penetrated the vagina again, without a condom, his thrusts slow and pleasurable, while kneading the heavily heaving breasts. The slender man forced Frank’s head to satisfy him orally, briefly removing the gag, and took pictures of the face. Rolf took a small bottle of schnapps from his jacket, poured it over Frank’s breasts, licking the alcohol from his skin, his tongue gliding over the nipples. Kurt continued filming, alternating between close-ups and wide-angle shots.
The games intensified. Kurt poured beer from a can over Frank’s legs, licking it up, his hands gliding over his skin. Micha found the condoms in Frank’s purse, took one, tied it into a loop, and used it to tie Frank’s elbows together more tightly, the elasticity of the rubber increasing the tension. Rolf poured water from a bottle over Frank’s face; his red lips glistened wetly. He penetrated his mouth, the mask moving in sync, the gag lying in the grass. The slender man took photos, zooming in on his wet lips.
After an hour and a half, the roles reversed. The broad-shouldered man briefly loosened the ankle cuffs, turned Frank, pressed his back against the tree, lifted one leg, barely able to find purchase, and penetrated again, bareback. Kurt rubbed himself against Frank’s side, his hands kneading his breasts, while Micha pressed himself against Frank’s back, his fingers gliding over his skin. The slender man removed the gag, forced Frank to perform oral sex on him before retying the cloth, and filmed the scene. Rolf poured more liquor over Frank’s body, licking it from his hips as he rubbed himself. Micha took photos from behind, capturing his curves.
The second hour brought new ideas. The broad-shouldered man took a piece of cloth from his pocket—perhaps an old rag—and tied it around Frank’s eyes, a makeshift blindfold that increased the fear. Kurt penetrated the vagina without a condom, while Micha rubbed himself against Frank’s back, his hands grasping his breasts, which heaved heavily. The slender man poured beer over Frank’s face, licking it from his lips as he rubbed himself. Rolf tied Frank’s arms above his head with tape to a higher branch so that he hung slightly, his legs trembling, his pumps long gone. Kurt filmed, zooming in on his tensed muscles and breasts.
In the third hour, the games became even more sadistic. Kurt found a handful of soft mud on the floor and smeared it over Frank’s legs, leaving his skin glistening wetly. Micha removed the blindfold, forcing Frank to look at him while he rubbed himself against his face, his mask revealing desperation. The broad-shouldered man penetrated the vagina again, without a condom, his thrusts becoming faster, his moans louder. The slender man pulled on the wig, which was firmly in place, while he penetrated her mouth. Rolf rubbed himself against Frank’s legs, pouring water over his hips, his hands kneading the skin. Micha took photos, concentrating on the muddy skin.
In the fourth hour, they continued experimenting. The broad-shouldered man changed position, laid Frank on the ground, and tied his hands to a low branch with tape so he was lying flat. Kurt penetrated her vagina without a condom, while Micha knelt over Frank’s face and forced him to have oral sex. The slender man poured liquor over her breasts and licked it up, while Rolf rubbed himself against Frank’s legs, his hands sliding over the muddy skin. Micha took another condom from his handbag, tied it into a loop, and used it to tighten Frank’s wrists, the rubber cutting into his skin. Kurt filmed the scene from various angles.
The fifth hour brought further humiliation. The broad-shouldered man tied Frank’s legs apart with tape and secured them to two trees so that he stood spread-eagle. Kurt rubbed his breasts, lightly biting the skin. Micha poured beer over Frank’s back and licked it up, while the slender man rubbed his hips. Rolf sprayed some of Frank’s miniature perfume from his handbag onto his skin and licked it off while rubbing his legs. The broad-shouldered man smeared mud over Frank’s hips, his hands sliding over the surface.
In the sixth period, the games became even more intense. Micha rummaged through Frank’s handbag, found the white spandex bodysuit, and grinned. “Put this on,” he growled, briefly loosening the restraints so Frank could slip it on. The thin fabric clung to his skin, accentuating his E-cup breasts, which bounced vigorously without a bra, his nipples showing through. The men laughed as they retied Frank: They tied his arms behind his back with adhesive tape and his ankles to a tree so he was standing. Kurt took some caution tape out of his jacket—perhaps from a construction site—and used it to tie the wig to Frank’s feet, pulling it taut so that Frank’s back was arched backward as far as possible, his breasts pushed forward inside the bodysuit. Rolf pulled a ring gag from his pocket, seemingly having brought it with him, and forced it into Frank’s mouth, securing it with a strap. Frank could no longer close his mouth, saliva dripped, the mask showed despair but remained perfect. The slender man took photos, and Kurt filmed close-ups of his face and body.
The men turned Frank on his side and laid him on the ground, the restraints holding him in a bent position. The broad-shouldered man poured beer over the white bodysuit, the fabric becoming transparent, sticking to his skin. Kurt smeared mud over Frank’s legs and hips, while Micha took the condoms from his purse, untied them, and used them to tie Frank’s knees closer to the tree, the rubber bands stretching taut. The slender man poured liquor over Frank’s face, the ring gag letting the liquid run into his mouth. Frank gagged, unable to swallow. Rolf opened his pants and let a stream of urine run over the bodysuit, the fabric soaking up the liquid, becoming heavy and wet. The others joined in, their laughter echoing in the forest as they smeared Frank with urine, his bodysuit now soaked through, mud, liquor, and beer mingling on his skin. Micha took photos from all angles, Kurt filmed nonstop.
After a good six hours, the men reached their climax. The broad-shouldered man came first, a hoarse moan as he squirted into the vagina without a condom, cum dripping, glistening on the skin. Kurt followed, his moans loud, cum splattering onto the breasts, running down the white bodysuit. Micha came on Frank’s legs, his cum leaving stains on the muddy skin. The slender man squirted onto the mask, cum remaining on his red lips, dripping through the ring gag. Rolf came on Frank’s back, his cum glistening in the moonlight. The broad-shouldered man opened his pants again, letting a stream of urine run over Frank from head to toe. The others joined in, their laughter echoing, the white bodysuit soaked, cum, urine, mud, liquor, and beer mingling. Kurt filmed the climaxes, Micha took final photos.
The men cut the tape, the knotted condoms, and the caution tape, removed the ring gag, and threw it into the bushes. They emptied Frank’s purse, scattering its contents on the grass, laughed, and disappeared into the darkness, leaving a sense of power behind. Frank was left behind, a miserable heap in the grass, his white bodysuit wet and dirty, his wig firmly attached to his suit.
The way home
Frank lay shivering, his handbag empty beside him. His clothes were completely destroyed: his dress, bra, panties, and tights were cut or torn, unusable. His white bodysuit was soaked and stained, but he had no choice. In the darkness, he crawled across the floor, gathering what he found: his black chiffon skirt, his spare pair of panties, his ballet flats, his lipstick, his mini perfume, his hairbrush, a hair tie, his spare pair of tights, the remaining condoms, his nail file, his peppermints, his mini shower gel, his umbrella, his safety pins, his handkerchief, and his LED light. In his panic and exhaustion, he forgot about his smartphone and left it in the grass. He put on his black panties, then his chiffon skirt, which barely covered his hips. The white bodysuit stayed on, although wet and dirty. Without a bra, his E-cup breasts bounced violently with every movement, his nipples shone through the fabric, their weight tormenting his back. The ballet flats, flat and soft, barely fit; his feet ached from the night. He hobbled home, his handbag
