I suppose it must have come as something of a shock for The Boy Next Door. He and his family had moved in only a few weeks before, and when his mother sent him over to borrow a cup of sugar, the last thing he expected to see was a pair of firm, young bottom-cheeks staring him dead in the face.

You see, I was dancing the cancan.

Yeah, I know that sounds crazy, but I've always thought the cancan was an incredibly sexy dance. The idea of whirling across a stage with my skirt raised to my chin made my heart race every time it crossed my mind.

It had taken me a while to assemble the costume, starting with a garish satin dress I found at the Red Shield store. It looked practically brand-new when I took it down from the rack. Grace told me it was an authentic chorus-girl outfit, a hand-me-down from one of the local dance schools. I offered her ten dollars for the dress and a pair of black stiletto heels I'd seen in the window, but she wouldn't hear of it, sending me to the dressing room to try them on immediately. Everything fit perfectly; I literally couldn't believe my luck.

The layered petticoats were a little more difficult to locate (not to mention expensive) but Grace eventually came across a dancewear supplier on the web specializing in music-hall accessories. We had them mailed directly to Red Shield via express delivery, requesting they be shipped in a unmarked container. I literally counted the hours until the package arrived some three days later.

I picked up the lingerie at a Valentine's sale out of town, pooling my allowance for weeks in advance. The sales assistant wasn't sure whether I was a girl or a boy, but she was helpful enough once she saw the color of my money. So helpful, in fact, that I bought four of everything; bras, panties, bustiers and waist-cinchers. Variety being the spice of life, I settled for matching sets of white, pink, red and black.

As for the garter-belts and suspender stockings... well, that's a story in itself, which I'll get round to telling in due course.

The outfit looked absolutely fantastic once I added a cincher-belt and a pair of shoulder-length lycra gloves. I couldn't wait to try it out in the rumpus room (which my imagination transformed into a 19th century Soho music hall). Unfortunately, it had been weeks since I last found myself alone in the house. My bedroom was a little too small to dance in and I didn't want to run the risk of Mom walking in on my performance unannounced. Truth be told, we kept very few secrets from each other, but like any other kid my age, there were certain things I just preferred doing in private.

Anyhow, by the time summer rolled 'round and Momma went to spend the weekend at Grandma's place, I was almost climbing the walls. If you've survived puberty, you'll know how desperate the situation becomes when you're struggling in the grip of raging hormone levels.

Finally having the house to myself, I pulled the ensemble out of its hiding place in the wardrobe and carried it down to the rumpus room. It was large and well-lit, with plenty of space for twirling and kicking. There was a cheval mirror set up to one side of the television. Walking over to the sofa, I laid the garments out in careful order, preparing for the afternoon's festivities.

Peeling off my t-shirt, jeans and hipsters, I stood before the mirror, ready for my transformation. I paused a few moments, allowing the excitement to surge through my system like waves of moist heat. I'd been waiting months for this moment, feeling the exhilaration building up inside me like a slow-burning fever.

Shivering with anticipation, I reached for the lacy, black garter-belt.

It was the sort with adjustable suspenders and a hook-and-eye arrangement at the back. Just looking at the thing made me delirious with embarrassment. Clipping the flimsy piece of lingerie around my slim waist, I picked up a pair of seamed midnight stockings and stepped carefully into them, cautious not to tear the sheer fabric. Adjusting the suspenders to mid-thigh, I turned to pose in the mirror, enjoying the touch of nylon against my bare flesh. My legs looked long and tapering in their ebony sheaths.

Next, I pulled on a pair of pristine white panties, slipping them over the garters with a whisper of liquid satin. Delicate and nebulous, they shimmered like platinum in the lazy afternoon light. The garter-belt was plainly visible through the gossamer material. The hips were decorated with a delicious floral trim. I was blushing at the thought of exhibiting them to my imaginary audience.

I put on a matching white underwire brassiere, adjusting the shoulder straps with vaguely tremulous fingers. My tummy was fluttering with anticipation; the girl in the mirror was tall and slim and quite beautiful. Shining blond hair tied back in a long ponytail, she looked maybe fourteen years old; her large blue eyes and tiny mouth giving her an innocent, child-like appearance.

Turning around, I looked back over my shoulder, enjoying the curve of my figure; the lush, full shape of my bottom. The panties were a little high-cut at the back, exposing a generous amount of cheek on either side. I wriggled my fanny impishly, smiling back at myself. Raising one hand, I slapped myself, very hard, on the right buttock, leaving an angry red mark. My smile broadened in pleasure. I needed a good, hard spanking; I was an extremely naughty little girl, after all.

Returning to the business at hand, I pulled on the petticoats, their flouncing bulk accentuating the luscious swell of my hips. Two layers of alabaster frills, an absolute pre-requisite to dancing the cancan. Waved above the waistline, the crinolines formed a kind of backdrop for the underwear, a curtain raised to exhibit the panties and stockings.

However, the costume wasn't quite complete.

I drew the satin hemline over my head, allowing the dress to drop into place over the massed petticoats. It was beautifully designed, with a halter top and a full-circle skirt that swept down to just below the knee. The frock was ornate and rather gaudy, red and black stripes ran the length of the skirt. Lace traceries embellished the bustline. I finished my preparations by drawing on the long, crimson gloves and fastening the cincher around my waist. And then I was ready.

I posed in the mirror, stepping forward on one foot and lifting the petticoats to reveal a saucy black garter. My heart was racing in my chest, my eyes twinkled with mischief. Was this how it felt, waiting backstage while the band warmed up its horns and strings? I could almost hear the murmur of the crowd, the popping of corks and the clinking of glasses. In a very few moments, I'd have to run onto the stage with my panties on full display. My entire body was trembling with expectation. Gazing into the mirror, I saw a rich, pink glow suffusing my features.

Snatching up two handfuls of flocked white lace, I conjured up a packed Victorian nightclub on the south side of London. For one second, I could almost see the chandeliers flickering overhead, the coils of smoke rising to the rafters, the dim shape of the audience beyond the footlights. The band had started up with a clashing of drums: I was being summoned out before the crowd. It was time to reveal my gauzy white underwear to the world!

Grinning my most brilliant smile, I raced onto the stage in an avalanche of gossamer frills. I launched into my routine with a series of classic high-kicks, straining my garter-belt to the breaking point as my feet swept towards the ceiling. A vast star of joy seemed to explode in my belly. Heart pounding in ecstasy, I spun into a long, wheeling pirouette, skirts flying out in a perfect circle. I orbited around the room, exposing my panties all the way up to my belly button. Stockinged thighs flashed in the mirror as I swirled past, my hair flailing about my shoulders.

Every nerve in my body seemed to tingle with electric fire. Drawing a deep breath, I pitched forward into a cartwheel, scissoring my legs in mid-air to allow the crinolines to fall away. I paused at the height of my arc; suspended upside-down with my petticoats cascading over my head. Cool air whisked between my thighs as I went over, almost shrieking in rapture. It was wonderful, better than I'd ever imagined.

Landing gracefully on my feet, I whipped the dress back up to my throat and kicked my heels over my head, laughing like a child as I leapt from foot to foot. The audience roared its approval, their deafening shouts echoing about the ceiling. I rushed forward, waving my skirt as high as it could go. I felt sweet, feminine and unbelievably naughty. Tight black garters snapped against my haunches, virginal white panties glared in the mirror.

The performance lasted about ten minutes. Pulse thudding in my temples, I careened through a succession of kicks, handstands and flip-flops, taxing my gymnastic abilities to the limit. My stockings crept imperceptively down my thighs, exhibiting more bare flesh until the suspenders were as taut as violin strings. Wild exhilaration filled my veins; I spun ever faster, giggling and screaming as my petticoats rose and fell.

I finished up with by bending double and tossing my skirts over my back, baring my ripe, pantied bottom to the entire room. Breathless with excitement, I stood with my heels together and my dress hanging over my head. I clenched my bottom-cheeks impulsively, listening to the crowd cheering; thundering for more. I smiled to myself in pure, innocent delight, prepared to stand up and give them the encore they deserved.

Just at that second, someone cleared their throat behind me.

Visit the Transfiction Wiki