The Weekly Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 3446 by Angharad Copyright© 2024 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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I was lying in bed reminiscing my episode in which I had remembered how she had verified my breast growth. I had insisted that a woman should be the verifier because I was female myself. It was the first time I had revealed that to Murray, who was to take advantage of it several times. He argued how I could resist his idea for me to play Lady Macbeth, if I was really a girl? He used the same argument when he wanted me to portray a girl in presentations and so on.

Normally, if you need a girl to do something, you ask the girl's school to supply one. Now there was a lot of bad feeling between Murray and the headmistress of the girl's school. It was rumoured that she had been insulted by not being asked to supply girls for the Scottish play, including the main protagonist's wife. Murray, because she had been snotty once before flipped her off, after all he now had his weirdo boy/girl, me. The other girls' parts in the play had been played by young or feminine looking boys, most of which were non-speaking parts anyway.

In trying to keep my father on board with his abusive ideas, he made no mention of my boob check or my claims to be female, of the latter I had made such to my father before but he pooh-poohed them. He shrugged it off by telling me to grow up and try to be a man. I don't know how many women will ever read this but I ask them to think how they would feel to be told such a thing. It's like telling a badly depressed person to cheer up and pull their socks up. Yeah, right.

Like my boob exam, I had nearly forgotten another episode in my life which was far from pleasant. I was a third former, about 13 or 14 years old; I was practically ignored by puberty, with none of the normal signs of the process so my face was smooth, my voice was still soprano or treble and obviously I had no sign of a growth in my thyroid cartilage or Adam's apple. I had not much muscle growth, so still had a rounded rather than angular body shape with my slowly developing breasts and rump with widening hips. I was insensitive to testosterone though this was unknown at the time. Therefore my body followed the female norm from which the male body has to deviate, usually helped by the Y chromosome and the secretions of androgens it causes.

Murray had decided that I should present some visiting dignitary, a female one, with a bouquet when she came. For some reason, the evil bastard had no shortage of contacts among this group of B-listers, why I never did discover. The dignitary was a cabinet minister or something. I had no interest in politics in those days, so the name has escaped me, but she was important enough to require that we rehearsed said presentation.

So for two days running I had to wear the girl's uniform. It was a nuisance to me because I was teased and bullied by the louts who made up a significant part of the school populous. So there I was wandering around the school trying to be invisible because it suggested I might live longer, inured to everyone addressing me as Charlotte but not necessarily treating me as a girl, though some did. I suppose for those with small brains someone with long hair and wearing a skirt usually meant they were a girl. I suppose my controversial dress and general appearance blew what functioning brain cells they actually had, and some actually avoided me, as if I bore some awful disease. I suppose I did, femininity or oestrogen. Some who spared the time to talk with me were often quite sympathetic telling me that they couldn't understand why no one could see I was not a boy but rather a girl. "You're too good at this to be a normal boy, either you're a queer or you really are a girl." I argued for the latter but it was never pursued where it mattered.

I was busy trying to maintain my cloak of invisibility, well, it worked for Harry Potter, when I heard a familiar voice behind me. "Charlotte," (some addressed me thus even in boy form) "take this letter to Mr Dodds, he's out on the training pitches." The voice belonged to Mr Whitehead. "I know if I ask you, it'll get done." In the back of my mind I could hear an argument between my parents and my mother telling Dad, that if you wanted a job done properly, you ask a woman. They were discussing my recent shortening of my dad's trousers that I had had to do for him. He tried to bluster that I was his son not his daughter, so she was talking rubbish, he used to say that a great deal, as if women only spoke dribble.

"But I trained him how to do it, and supervised the task, so it was as if I had done it, but it was his fingers carrying out my instruction, but it was still being done like my mother had shown me, so doubly female." As he couldn't do it himself and alteration tailors were not especially cheap, it fell to my mother to do it, which she used as a teaching project. I had to do it exactly as she showed me, so it was a neat bit of sewing. I even had to press it too, which meant turning the trousers inside out and pressing it on the inside. To practice my hemming I'd had to redo a skirt of hers where the hem had caught on something and was largely down. Within an hour I'd done it and used a proper hemming stitch like she had shown me. Dad wasn't there when she did that and she called me Charlotte, and referred to us as girls for the evening but I couldn't plead with her to take me to a doctor because she'd have ignored me, pretending that I was learning how girls had to do things if I so wanted to be one.

If you remember I re-hemmed a skirt or dress for Stella when we first met or soon after, so it came in handy after all. I trotted off towards where I assumed Mr Dodds was and found him there. I handed him the letter which he thanked me for and then remarked that I even ran like a bloody girl. Fed up with such comments, I told him I was not a bloody girl as I wasn't on a period. The boys around him laughed but he told me to piss off before he thumped me.

I decided to walk across the pitches rather than trot, the grass was dry and I picked the odd wild flower as I went, trying to identify them as I went and to remember the family they belonged to as well. Botany was never my strong point but I was trying and it seemed to be an acceptable activity given how I was dressed.

As I came back to the school buildings, where we had stores for nets and goal posts, which were almost cellars or basements, being dug under the school rooms proper, in fact I think most were under a corridor upstairs so the noise wouldn't affect the teaching in the rooms above. I didn't spot the person behind me who barged aggressively into me knocking me into the games equipment store. It had a light but was quite dark and full of cobwebs, spiders and general dust from the things that had been stored there and still were.

I was shoved unceremoniously down a line of horizontal goal posts, down a corridor no more than a couple of feet wide, trying to keep my uniform clean but failing miserably. "Right, you bloody queer, you are going to service all of us here, so get down on your knees and get swallowing." Someone pulled the door closed and it was even darker. I could hardly make out the penis draped in front of my face. The repugnance I felt was beyond description, okay so I saw myself as female, but I had no sense of my sexuality and this was gross.

I counted four of them, two held me, one flapped his willie in my face and the fourth was on door duty. I protested that I wasn't queer, but a girl. The answer I received was simple it didn't matter because either way, both groups gave blow jobs to men. I almost laughed at this, men, ha. I tried to point out that If they orgasmed, then they were the queers not me. They replied, that I had a girl's mouth so either way they were going to enjoy me and if I didn't give them all satisfaction, I was going to be penetrated somewhere else. Effectively this was starting to become a serious sexual assault if they continued. I tried to reason with them, aware my tights on my knees had laddered as they roughly pushed me on the ground.

I refused and they threatened to hit my face, I was slapped once which I knew would bruise, but it would be evidence I could present to my parents. All this had taken maybe ten minutes and I was scared stiff. I had been threatened with sexual assault several times but had been able to talk my way out of it, this time that didn't look as if it would. My fear factor reached new heights. Apart from the blow jobs or worse they were threatening, I wondered what they would do to me after when they realised how serious the trouble was they were creating for all of us. They could decide to badly beat me or even kill me, if they did I'd be seriously miffed as well as insulted.

Mr Whitehead, whose class I was missing began to wonder where I was, no one had seen me since I took the letter. He began to worry as he realised how vulnerable I was in such a sea of testosterone. He began to walk down towards the pitches where Dodds had his letter. He was walking back to the school when they met, so they both knew I had delivered it. So where was I? He began to call my name and the boys in the equipment room started to worry. One grabbed my hair and threatened me if I made a sound. Sweat was running down my back and my knees now hurt on the hard ground, a rough concrete surface.

Whitehead was close now and I could hear him talking to Dodds. I wanted to scream but they held a dirty rag to my mouth, but it was probably preferable to the sweaty organ they had previously offered and which still hung near my face. It was so dark I could hardly make out anything, my hands were resting on the floor and I felt something small under my hand, it was like a tent peg they used to hold the goal nets out behind the posts. I grabbed it and as I heard Dodds call my name this time I picked up the thick piece of wire that a tent peg is and stabbed it into the hand that was holding the rag, he screamed in pain and we were discovered. They took him to hospital to get the peg out of his hand.

I suppose everyone is wondering why I didn't stick something else with the peg, well it was so horrible, that I couldn't bear the thought of it, also I didn't want to kill him just make him shout and his hand was close and easily pegged.

The four boys were eventually expelled and nearly faced being prosecuted by the police. If they had, Murray's abuse would have come to light, he used his friends in high places to keep it quiet and despite my ordeal I managed to make the presentation the next day, wearing opaque tights, my knees swathed in dressings where they had scraped on the concrete floor. Fortunately, Mr Whitehead had been able to dissuade Murray from suggesting it was all down to me having unnatural desires that ensnared the boys. One with his penis hanging out of his flies showed Whitehead and Dodds what they were about and my response to it with the tent peg. They could accuse me of much but sex acts and violence weren't my usual thing, the latter came later when I was threatened and forced to defend myself, using resources I learned a year or so after. Even so one against four is not good odds and I could have been quite injured physically as well as mentally.

I woke up trying to forget the incident by thinking of Simon and my girls but I hated to think what my blood pressure was doing, I was just grateful I was rescued. I was surprised when I thought of Whitehead's journal, thankfully it wasn't mentioned in that or Simon may have had four accidents happen to some people from it. I never mentioned it again and I promised myself I never would.