Feathertouch
Copyright © Tracy Lane, 2017/2021.
Note: this story is set in the Tranziverse; the protagonist is biologically male but looks anatomically female.
My Mother started dressing me in girls' clothing from a very young age, long before I entered elementary school. The exact details are rather hazy, but I recall modeling some frilly little outfits she made on her Singer sewing machine. That was her job; Mommy ran a small dressmaking business out of her home, specializing in childrens' wear. She often used me as a mannequin due to my slender proportions and somewhat feminine appearance, so you might say we engaged in a family business.
Her designs proved popular enough to pay the bills throughout my early childhood, by the time I turned five we had our own home a few blocks from the center of town. She converted one of the larger rooms into a studio-workshop where she could complete her orders, and kept me close at hand whenever she needed to check some measurements.
I should mention that pinaforing was still quite common in our part of the country. Lainsbury was something of an anachronism; the last gasp of an era when strict gender roles weren't applied to prepubescent children, meaning it wasn't unusual to see young boys decked out in frocks and flounces. It was sometimes practiced as a form of discipline (both in home and school), but in most cases it was simply the fashion of the day.
After a while, Mommy allowed me to grow my hair out, resulting in long, wavy blond tresses cascading down to my shoulders. Paradoxically, this was considered rather revolutionary by polite society – hair length being one of the few ways to distinguish a beribboned girl from a pinafored boy – but for my Mother, it was a matter of financial expediency. Not long after my sixth birthday, I'd started modeling for our wealthier patrons, most of whom wanted custom attire for their daughters. As I later discovered, there was a growing demand for girlswear, and Mom had managed to corner the market in our district. With dresses outselling pants by nearly ten to one, it made sense to capitalize on my more androgynous features. The illusion was virtually perfect: most of our newer clients never suspect I was actually a boy.
Mommy took it one step further, correcting my posture and training me to walk with grace and confidence about the showroom. Over time, I grew accustomed to my new position within the "company," climbing into a sun frock and mary-janes whenever a prospective customer wanted to see the latest outfit. It turned out to be one of the most lucrative strategies Mom had so far come up with. By the end of that year, she was literally swamped with orders and was negotiating a deal with the Feathertouch Corporation.
Up to that point, I'd had very few objections to my intermittent cross-dressing sessions; after all, it was in the privacy of our own home and I'd been wearing miniskirts for years. Nothing out of the ordinary, from my perspective, and I'd always been well rewarded for my efforts (normally with mouth-watering "bribes" of cake and candy).
All that changed the day Mommy signed her contract with Feathertouch. She was now poised to market a line of designer underwear.
I have extremely vivid memories of the afternoon Mommy called me to her studio to see what she'd been working on. The business had expanded considerably over the past two years; Mom had added two extensions to the original workroom and hired two assistants, both sharp faced, professional women in their late thirties. They were huddled around one of the display tables when I walked in, talking together in conspiratorial tones. Momma glanced in my direction, alerted by my soft-tapping footsteps.
"Allie!" she said crisply, beckoning me closer with her left hand, "come over here, I want you to try something on."
The assistants stood aside while I approached, allowing me to see what was laid out on the table. For a moment, I paused in mid-step, not quite sure what I was looking at. For a moment, I almost drew back in surprise, literally doubting my own senses. I stared up at my Mother in open-mouthed confusion, breath catching at the back of my throat. She wanted me to wear – those?
"Momma?" I asked in growing apprehension, silently praying that she wasn't serious, knowing already that she was.
She ushered me forward for a closer look, a hint of amusement touching her lips. I sidled hesitantly up to the table, staring down at the lacy, delicate things fanned out on the polished surface. A single glimpse confirmed my worst fears. It was underwear. Girl's underwear.
"Well?" Mommy asked, eyebrows raised inquiringly, "What do you think?"
"Momma, I can't wear these!" I gasped, feeling the blood rushing to my cheeks.
"Why ever not?" she demanded in feigned amazement, "you wear skirts and dresses all the time."
"But this is different!" I exclaimed, covering my mouth with both hands, "they're – I'm – Momma, it's not the same!!"
"How?"
I stared wildly around the studio, uncertain how to proceed. I was only eight years old, it was too complicated to explain in even the simplest of terms. I'd started school the previous summer; in the ten months since, I'd endured almost incessant teasing from my classmates. As the moving target of every schoolyard bully in the district, I'd become hypersensitive to the cries of "sissy-boy" and "nancy" that plagued me from pillar to post. Whatever Mommy had in mind was certain to make things a thousand times worse!
