‘Are you getting dressed tonight’ was the question I asked myself

‘Yes, I am ... but I want to try something different. I want to take one more step.’
That was how this happening happened last night.

So I tried something really different. Instead of my preferred arrangement of bra, cami-top, knee-length dress brushing my knees – I had just panties and a very lightweight short summer dress. And it didn’t feel ‘right’.

What was wrong? I really missed the knowledge that a ladies’ dress was brushing my legs – in a way that trousers never will. I missed the weight of the dress slinkily sliding on my panties.

I missed the bindingness of the bra. Even wearing what I was – there was something missing – and those two were the most obvious. I had never thought I was a pretend-woman. I had never looked at myself as further onto the transgender-transsexual spectrum than ‘I enjoyed the colours, materials, softness and overall effect of what women could wear and men couldn’t. I really thought that relatively minimal dressing was enough.

And yet, and now – I was dressed – and it wasn’t enough.

It made me re-assess what I enjoy about dressing. Clearly just a dress is not enough. Just panties is not enough. Actually, I’m a bit surprised. Having studied, read, agreed, disagreed with what others said, I know that some of my behaviour can be seen as ‘an addiction’.

Do I feel distressed if I cannot dress. Yes

Do I need to do it more and more – after today, I do know that less is not so good.

Over the years, I have gone from wearing panties and nighties to a bra, skirt, dress. A bodyform once – but M&S was too short and too small so it went back. Tights or hold-ups, as garter-belts and stockings never seemed to suit. Shoes – sometimes but a deformed toe made anything but an open-toe shoe really difficult. So, I now prefer panties and bra, with a dress or blouse and skirt. Jewellery rarely – most often a necklace or clip-on earrings. And, I have to recognise – I don’t really want to wear less.

I’ve investigated wigs more than a few times. I love the feel of fluff and weight at my neck and shoulders – but where to hide something so significant and obvious – tricky. So no.

I’ve gone into formal-dress shops three or four times; and they’ve been really very helpful and accepting.

Another ‘are you addicted’ question … Does the need to dress, the desire to dress interfere with my life. Yes

Does it cost me time, money, effort that I cannot spare. Yes especially when purging happens.

Does it interfere with my relationships. Yes.

Any ‘am I an addict’ quiz will ask similar questions. And my answers will be the same. Bother. It seems that at least one of my behaviours is a sort of addiction [weasel-word time].

So I find that what I have done today is not womanly enough. Not trans enough – if that is the right word. Am I more trans that I thought.
Surely just ‘ordinary cross-dressing’ should be enough – if I wasn’t self-indoctrinated after several years of covert dressing to want, to need more. Oh well. Perhaps

Certainly, I’ve just noted as I sat down to write some more that it’s somehow wrong when there isn’t enough material to sweep behind my behind – as all the training stories say girls must.

I think I’m going to stop calling it cross-dressing – it gives me the wrong vibes. I dress. That’s it. I dress – and sometimes it’s in male clothes and, less often, in female clothes.

I’ve said it before – and I’ll say it often. Male clothing is drab, dull, too often black, beige, blue and BORING. I wear a variety of waistcoats as my male plumage. This means I have spoken often and often about it being the only way that men can be colourful. A colourful spread of brocade or silk is so much more than neckwear, however gaudy, and coloured socks are a feeble gesture.

Not once have I seen a glimmer of significant response – the majority do say ‘yes I agree’ but no more. Men or women – it doesn’t matter. If on one or two occasions I have said ‘women have so much more choice of colour, material and all that’ – in the mild hope that this would get a reaction. I remember nothing.

Now, apart from being married to a fervently anti-trans wife, I feel that opportunities must be taken to push the boundary. ‘I may be right, I may be wrong, but I’m certainly willing to swear that when I dressed with gorgoeus hair, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square’

So – what will I do next time. I have actually got rid of quite a lot of clothes – they didn’t fit right, or didn’t match properly. I know you can get a lot from sales and thrift/charity shops – but really the choice is minimal and the likelihood of getting enough for a good outfit is low, very low.

So, a whole bunch of stuff comes and quickly goes. Items which please me stay - in secret places. Have I any concept of choosing or even looking for a particular style or colouring. I do try to be selective - and careful - and small in my purchasing.

Then the wife found a favoured blue dress – and that was fed to the fire. Allowing for at least a little grovelling – stuff went. I’ve never been one for repeat, let alone regular, trashing. I have a few panties and other (hopefully) well-hidden items. But all cross-dressers know that one mistake is more than too many.

But it’s time to get some new things. I’ve decided after enough visits that if I say I want clothes for me – many shopgirls accept the situation as ‘just another sale’. Rarely is there a refusal or even ‘another-girl-will-help-instead’. I want, they have, they present and sell, I try and buy, I leave. The wife is away on a four-day visit. I've decided, I am determined that I am going to have some me-the-woman time.

I've been to the shops. New panties from M&S. a new bra too - the new t-shirt types almost need no chicken-fillet boobage. New stockings to go with the shooes I found a couple of months ago - blue, 2 1/2 inch heel, gold buckle - and astonishingly well-fitting. A new skirt and a new dress and two blouses. All in what I thought was a series of sufficiently matching shades of blue, except the second blouse in crisp white with a frill down the front.

But about tonight. It must be so different when you have someone helping. Perhaps helping wouldn't be the right word for me. Not in any ofreseeable future. The best I could ever hope for would be less than the usual and expected disapproval / unhelping / distaste / anger / aggression and all the other wrong words.

I'm dressing for myself. And I'm going out. After much consideration, I've found a winebar where a local cd group meets. So it's semi-public but allegedly safe. I MUST try this. I need to do this. Estelle (me) needs to find out what the world has to offer.

Back to the beginning - what I was wearing didn't feel 'right'. I said that didn't I?!

So, on with the bra - I wasn't going to try going without again.

And down the stairs. To the door. To the car. OUT.

And a couple of the neighbours, Joe and Anna, .... they waved at me as if there was nothing out of the usual. My stomach lurched. But I knew that making a scene by running back in was, I had been told quite strongly, the most obvious and yet wrong thing to do.

I had no idea what, if any, repercussions there would be.

“Do you like wearing a dress, Daddy?”

“Can you believe it used to be that Men told Women what to do, what to wear, their hair, clothes, everything!!!”
“You mean – we used to be in charge - and that women spent all their time wearing pretty clothes and looking after the house and the men? Weird!”

An AP-500 story
(posted quickly because a recent story got 1000 hits in less than 2 days! Yay!)

---

Daddy smoothed the silk dress he had embroidered and patted my hand. “It was so sudden, really.” He paused.

“The men in charge – everywhere – kept on showing how massively incompetent they were. Greedy, getting fat and sleek on ‘being in charge’. Eventually people realised the unfairness. There was Brexit in Britain - telling the self-elected EU to get knotted because unelected bureaucrats shouldn’t be overrule a genuine democracy. Then Trumpit in America – when so many decided that the white, male, rich ‘elite’ had been cheating and manipulating for too long.”

“Well, anyway. There used to be this group - Bilderberg it was called. They had a reputation, true or not, of being ‘the people in the background ruling the world’. Ludicrous when you think about it. But – things just came to a head when a huge number of these Bilderbergs were revealed to be corrupt, nasty, perverted and generally unsuitable.”

“So what happened?”

“The women who were married to these men – they went ballistic. They were having a series of meaningless meetings nearby – and Mrs Tannon, wife of the President and Mrs Van Kleef just marched in and took over. They had accumulated all the information necessary to, well, blackmail their men into just giving in.”

“Then they announced there would be changes. Instead of being in the background, women would be up-front and open about their aims and intentions. Decisions would be made by women working with men rather than by men ignoring women. Men who were not-contributing would do the background tasks which ‘they’ had said women were stuck with. Cooking, cleaning, child-care and not just tasks beginning with C.”

“Was it they who fixed the Middle East?”

“Absolutely. They said the West were not as bad as they were accused but changes were going to be made. For example Arabs were perfectly allowed to hate Arabs and kill them if they wished. However, they’d get no arms and damage beyond national boundaries would be dealt with by women in a way the men would hate. Testosterone-driven negotiation was no more. It was made very clear that women would not run ‘everything’ as males had their skills. But the male-determined methods of the past were done, ended. Cooperate not Compete, y’know their mottos.”

“But why do we have to wear the dresses now?”

“Just learn the history of costume, Charlie. Male peacockery was supported by women working furiously to make HIM look good. The Change has meant that in households like ours, the woman is in charge. So the woman dresses for leadership. The man, like me, has to spend the time making it easy for her. Part of that is making sure I don’t compete. So I wear the prettier fussier clothes, and it’s a huge effort getting it right. It’s not what I ever expected – but I can cope. Actually, it’s better than that – I love these clothes and feeling so pretty.”

“I do too.”

We hugged. Enjoying the thrill as our lacy frills rustled together.

Another 500-word story - how soon will the wimen be in charge? - A story for anyone to take onwards (and acknowledge)
AP

"Great! Looking great, Grandma."

Following on from the story of my Great Granddaughter, Frances, I was learning some new lessons of my own. Helping her learn to be a teenage girl had strange and unusual side-effects on MY life. [See : https://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/fiction/53268/boy-girl-my-gre...

---

A while ago, my grandson Frank came to stay for a month or so in my sleepy old town of Chichester. He arrived at the station wearing a skirt – which I was more or less expecting because he had come to stay with me in order to learn and practise being a girl, a cross-dressing teenage boy-girl.

I had done some preparatory work and within a few days, Frances had been polished and permed and prettified from toe to topknot. As far as I could tell, I had a great granddaughter. As it turned out, later there were some unusual and inconvenient side-effects.

For some reason, the woman who fitted Frances for her breast-forms promised that she would at some future time get me to try on a bra ‘just so that you know what it feels like’. And some while later, when I went to the shop to tell the proprietor, Bryony, a story about Frances at her new school and the friend she had persuaded to wear a corset. And then some other things. As the comics say ‘Zap, Pow, Kaboom’.

I walked out of there in a bra. With big man-size protrusions sticking out like, well, big tits. Then I had to help my neighbour move some pots before the rain arrived ….. and she rather easily detected that I was wearing unusual underwear.

She was not as offended as I expected.

For the next few weeks she teased me about the bra and the breasts – a lot – and often.

I didn’t know Joan well at all – but the teasing began to build a new relationship. I had been married a long time ago – my wife had died of a short and sudden tropical illness in Malaysia. And I had never found anyone who came close to being a worthwhile replacement. I didn’t want anyone similar to Shirley – but, if I did, I wanted someone as interesting, bright and colourful as she had been. And I discovered that there weren’t many like her – not many at all.

Joan had been ‘just a neighbour’ for some seven, maybe ten, years. I barely knew her. She was a widow, lived on her own with few family visitors. Small, even petite, shortish black hair – and now that I saw her more often – a goodly twinkle in her eye.

We began to see each other or perhaps it was actually notice each other more often. I was the one who first offered a meal. “Sometimes I make a good-sized spaghetti Bolognese. Mostly I freeze a lot of it but would you like to come and share one evening soon?”

“That’d be nice. I’ll bring my usually well-received Tiramisu and a bottle, yes?”

It was a good evening. There was a letter from Sara with two pictures of Frances. One in her school uniform and the second in rehearsal for a play where she was a Lady’s Maid. This gave us a useful topic of conversation for a while.

“Martin, are you as fascinated by this whole Frank to Frances changeover as you seem to be? You did put in a great deal of work looking for help and so on while she was over. And then you were persuaded, shall we call it, into wearing your own bra. What happened to it by the way?”

“I had the boxes, so I put them back in. Actually I meant to return them but never got round to it.”

“Ooh, er, Mr Pelly. Would that be a Freudian slip, a deliberate mistake so that they’re still available. I does know all zee jargon.”

“Don’t be more silly than you have to be. Why on earth would I want them? I told you, it was just that I never got round to returning them.”

”Did you pay for them or did Bryony give them to you?”

“How did you know it was Bryony?”

“Don’t be daft. How many breast-shops are there in Chichester?”

“Joan – you asked me about being fascinated by this boy-girl thing. What would happen if I asked you the same question? Are you especially interested in boys being taught to be girls? You do seem to know more than I would expect about the subject.”

“Since you ask, yes. Yes I am interested. I used to work at a school in Dorset, near the cliffs overlooking Weymouth. They were very accommodating to boys with such issues. I would guess that in a school of 300, that is about 60 in each year, there might be as many as 6 to 12 at a time. It was so nice. Some of them were amongst our best girls. Several even became head girl.”

“There was one time, they had a play and all the lady’s roles were taken by new-girls. Purely a coincidence everybody said. But a couple of the real-girls who had to act as boys or men were quite miffed. I think the Head made a suggestion that such complications be avoided in future.”

“Generally it was very well organised. The Head knew of this group called Big-Sisters and they helped quite a lot. They had begun I think in Berkshire or that sort of nearness to London. They began when some parents were finding that their kids were growing up really quite ugly, too macho, too much testosterone, too male. Someone read a Victorian book where Petticoating was used to make a pretty big change in the target. And they thought that Petticoating might work for real as a modern style.”

“So your reaction to me wearing a bra was pretty much a fake.”

“No. Really no. I was dealing with teenagers mostly. There were obviously some of the staff and ancillaries who were on the spectrum. That is to say, some cross-dressed, some had gone all the way to surgery. But, no, it was more that you were the first person I had ever come across who was, er, getting in touch with their feminine side at a much older age. I was fascinated. And, to be blunt, I want two things. I want to know more about the why and I want to actually help with the how. I miss helping my girls. And … well, I just want to help you.”

I was a bit annoyed. “Actually help or is this a sort of ‘playing with a life-size doll’?”

“Oh no. Really not. What sort of woman do you think I am?” She giggled and that made me smile – a bit.

“Now, that is a question I can no longer answer. I really haven’t a clue as to ‘what sort of woman you are’. For all I know you could be …. But I suspect that at least you aren’t a cross-dresser or transsexual of any sort.”

“No. I’m not. But I promise you that some of the girls who left our school – you couldn’t tell and some went on to fabulous careers as women. With never a murmur of a question. I was so proud. I am so proud. We were all so proud.”

“But what’s this Big-Sister group? Do you have anything to do with it or them any more?”

“No. I seemed to drift away when I didn’t have any girls to actually help. I do wonder now and again how easy it would be to get in touch. It made me so pleased to see one of our girls getting to be successful.”

“Are you trying to get me into your tentacles?”

“If I was a bad girl, I’d be more interested in your testicles. How about maybe both? I’m thinking that it would be interesting for me and very interesting for you to examine the feminine side of Mr Martin Pelly.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Well I say how very kind you were with Frances. And I did just wonder whether you did it because you were interested in the whole idea. You were so very thorough. You let the girl enjoy so many feminine opportunities. It was either brilliant research or, I think, an interest in the process. Hmm?”

“Urquhart.” [It’s pronounced Ercot.]

“What are you talking about.”

“It’s from ‘House of Cards’, the lead character often turns to the camera and says ‘You might think so but I couldn’t possibly comment!” It became a family phrase.

“So you’re going legal on me and saying ‘no comment because I might incriminate myself’. Ho Hum.”

“Shit.”

“At least that wasn’t ladylike.”

“Not too bluntly, I’m not a lady.”

“Can I ask a few questions?”

“I seem unable to stop you!”

“When you heard about Frances were you puzzled or what did you think?”

“I was mostly startled. Then I thought if this is so important to Frank then I’d better do the best job I could. There’s an amazing amount on the internet. I’d never thought about the idea before.”

“Never? You’d not been one of the kids who tried on his sister’s panties or his mum’s bra. No high heels? No pantyhose or stocking experiments? Never a smear of lipstick?”

There are times that your own body betrays you. At some of those questions I had blushed. It’s hard not to when you are pressed about embarrassing moments in your life. Even when they had been decades, several decades, many decades in the past.

Yes – I had tried on a girlfriend’s pantyhose and her lipstick. I had found the sensations of each were amazing, exciting, fascinating but at the same time my boy brain had been saying wrong, perverted, improper. Fortunately, Hiroka had insisted on doing it again a few days later. We both blamed the party scene at college which was quite keen on fancy dress and so on. I wasn’t a large boy nor did I grow into being a large man. I was maybe 5 foot 9 and about 12 stone. This made me solid but not fat and I had barely gained any weight in 50 years.

“Your blushes parade some interesting truths. Now, Martin, are we going to do this? You can say no – and I’d be a bit disappointed. Or you can say yes and we can see how it goes. Are we going to find out what Frances enjoys so much or …..?”

“At all times such as this, I adjourn for a cup of tea.”

“Spoilsport.”

We had tea even though it was so late by now. Somehow we managed to talk about other things for a while. We finished the tea and I said, “This has been very … interesting but I’m calling a halt for now. I’m not ready. I’m still not saying yes or no – I shall again say ‘Urquhart’ and ‘no comment’.

“Can I be a bit hopeful that you might say yes?” asked Joan.

“I shall carefully not say no.”

“In that case, I shall go home and see what I can find out about the BigSisters since I drifted away!”

“Wouldn’t the school be able to tell you something?”

“There was a fire and the Head died shortly after. It closed down for that and other reasons.”

“How are you going to start?” I was showing much too much interest in my doom.

“Shops which specialise in ultra-girly are a good place, not the chain stores but the individual shops. Places like Bryony as one example. I’ll drop in and have a chat.”

“Oh dearie me. What is happening to my cosy, comfortable life?”

“You want things to be the same day after day after day – like you’re already dead. How dull. Let’s get something happening, something exciting. Take a lesson from your granddaughter.”

“I really think there’s a lot of other things on my bucket list rather than dressing up as a laydy.”

“Don’t worry. I would never make you look as silly as David Walliams.” And it was undoubtedly a smirk on her face.

“Have you drugged me or something. I seem to be quite amazingly relaxed about this whole new and unlikely arrangement. What can you possibly have done to make me feel so calm about this weird rearrangement of my life. I have never considered that I was in any way like Frances. Why should I be so sanguine about it. I might have taken the alternative route and been bloody-minded and hot-blooded rather than being as I say, cold-blooded and horribly calm. What is going on?”

“Perhaps it’s the potential for something different and exciting. A totally new experience with the advantage of someone being willing to guide you in the complexities of the situation, hmmm? Are you denying that there might be something enticing about a completely new experience at your advanced years. Ask yourself, what could be more different than dressing as a woman, being a woman for as many intents and purposes as possible? To be fair, the generally ascribed ‘ultimate womanly experiences’ are far beyond anyone of your age – female puberty – no, menarche – no, periods - no, pmt - no, marriage – no, children – no, breast-feeding – no, and the end of all that would also now be past with the menopause – which you’re also not going to get. Almost like children – where there is no real difference until puberty, with the elderly too – there is increasingly little difference. Perhaps the biggest difference for real women is the memory of all those maternal and matriarchal feelings, emotions and beliefs. Mind you, there’s enough women who don’t enjoy or even suffer those parts of their life much as well as those who don’t or can’t have children. But there is much still for you to experiment with and experience as much as possible. I’ll help.”

“Put that way, there is something to think about,” I mumbled.

“I’ve watched you over the years, not closely, but you’re my neighbour and you often looked a little lost’”

“Lost! I’m fairly sure that I never felt lost! And I can’t think what I might have been displaying that was anything close.”

“Maybe some combination of alone, puzzled about life, short of excitement …. I don’t know. But I do feel sure that this could be a new and invigorating experience. And you’d learn to be even better with Frances.”

“I thought I did pretty well. Frances seemed to come out of it as the confident and cheerful girl I hoped to bring out.”

“Very much so. You can be really proud of what you did there. But what about you, your needs, your inner person. How are you going to bring her into the open?”

“What on earth are you talking about – my inner woman. That’s getting a bit close to rubbish, neighbour dear.”

“Martin – if you didn’t have at least some girl-type sensitivity then you wouldn’t have been able to help Frances as you did; you wouldn’t, you couldn’t have been persuaded by Bryony to put on a bra. Face a new fact – your complete persona has its yin and its yang. Inside you, just as in every human – male, female, good, bad – is a fragment of the opposite. Let’s have a better look at Martina.”

“No way am I going to allow my female component to have a name as obvious as Martina. No way. Not.”

“Then I’ll use ‘Marta’, my dear. Once we have opened you up to this new world, you’ll be able to choose whatever name you’re comfortable with. Didn’t you tell Frances that ‘the essential thing is to be comfortable and confident’. It’s your turn.”

“But I am comfortable and confident – well, most of the time, I just don’t think about those as components of my daily life. Generally, I would answer ‘life’s pretty good’. “

“You’m a wriggling’ m’boy. You’m not facing up to the truth. I can see, I have seen, you’re bored. Frances gave you the first new thing in your life and, by golly, you did it thoroughly, kindly and beautifully. Why not do the same to yourself? Eh?”

“Why not. First, because it’s such a new idea, such a big idea, so very different. Perhaps I’m not ready?”

“If after all you’ve done so nicely with Frances, you’re not yet ready – then I don’t know what else could make you ready. Doesn’t wearing a bra, a properly fitted bra at that, make you feel different. Doesn’t it make you feel special. Alive to the possibility of something new. I think you’d be silly not to take the chance. And I’m making no promises or forecasts as to what you might get out of it. I do think you’d be better able to do even better for Frances. I also think that our relationship would have to change. Do I mean sex – I haven’t a clue. Do I mean a change to the fairly vague relationship we have already – well, I’m sure there’d be changes. Each time I see you in a frock or dress or skirt. Each time I help you choose what to wear. Each time I go out with Marta and we go shopping or whatever. Each time there’d be more change in our relationship. Where it might end – well that’d be gradually apparent and somewhat negotiated as things progress.”

“You do seem awfully certain that I’m going to go ahead with this.”

“I am actually. That first time in a bra, I thought there was something to build on and share. If I asked, would you be willing to go next door and bring me the bra you were given. I’d like to see it better – I’d like to see you wearing it.”

“I’m thinking not – right at this moment.”

“Then tomorrow morning. Come round at about 10.00 and we can plan the day. I’m planning to take my new friend, Marta, shopping for one or two things to help her realize what sort of woman she might be.“

“I wasn’t planning on anything that fast!”

“Maybe you were thinking that perhaps this whole thing will go away if I delay long enough?”

“I don’t think so – but I wasn’t expecting anything to happen so suddenly.”

“Is that the advice you gave Frances? To do it slowly and bit by bit. I think not. Or to have confidence and do her best, thoroughly and deliberately and to ask for help from friendly people.”

“You know I suggested the latter – and I delivered too.”

“Of course I know. Otherwise I wouldn’t have said what I’ve just said. I’m not going to argue. I expect Marta here tomorrow, dressed in comfortable clothes that should be mildly vague and easily changeable. Is that a ‘Yes, Joan’ I hear as an answer.”

“Grumphhh.”

“That’ll do. So, now it’s time to end tonight’s chat. Off you go, Marta.” And she gave me a hug and a kiss such as I have seen women do to each other. This startled me – but it felt kind of nice too.

--------------

And then it was morning. I woke and quickly remembered what I had (more or less) been promised to agree to.

Thinking that I was still being sort of unwilling to go ahead with the Marta project, I did get dressed (perhaps unconsciously) in a shirt and plain trousers plus sandals. What I would describe as summer-minimal. On some occasions, I would have worn shorts instead.

I walked all the twenty yards over to Joan’s house. It might have been twenty miles or twenty years. It was a long way. And I knew, knew with my heart, that each step I made was me beginning to accept change. I was frightened and not-frightened at the same time. I was excited and scared at the same time. I was Martin when I set off but I had a sort of acceptance of Marta by the time I pressed the doorbell. (But I still didn’t like the version of the name that Joan had suggested).

“Morning, Mart…a dear. I’m so glad that you’ve come over. We are going to have a nice time. Not the ‘best day out ever’ – who would be silly enough to promise that. But a nice day out. A day for you to find out new things about yourself. A bit of fun, more than anything else.”

“I won’t say I’m happy about this, or comfortable, and certainly not confident – but I’m ready to go along with this strange, weird and yet exciting idea you’ve got. Where are we going first, to Bryony’s to ……”

“No, no. We’re going to do exactly what you did with Frances. We’ll sit having a coffee while we keep an eye on what you’d be comfortable with. Dress, skirt, blouse – what sort of dress or skirt or blouse. What colours catch your attention. What materials and styles give you some pleasure. Equally, the clothes and so on that you do not like, that you wouldn’t be comfortable in, that you ‘wouldn’t be seen dead in’. We’ve plenty of time.”

I grumphed. “I suppose if it worked for Frances then I can’t really argue about doing the same. There is the big difference. He wanted to learn about cross-dressing and doing it properly so that nobody could tell – and he was miles away from home and potentially critical or teasing schoolmates. I am not as keen about learning, I have much less interest in ‘doing it properly’ and I live here.”

“Marta dear, the one contradicts the other. Living locally means it’s actually a bit important that you do ‘dress properly’ quite early in this project. I can tell you, and Bryony can confirm, that your body shape is not too masculine. Mind you, it’s not particularly feminine either you’ll be glad to hear.”

We did exactly as I had done with Frances. I was given a little notebook and a camera too. We snapped away busily; pretty confident that no one would complain about two elderly people taking occasional pictures of passers-by.

After a while, Joan asked me what I had been particularly attracted to.

“Well, for a start, I wasn’t looking at anything younger than middle-aged. I’m old but there’s a lot of those who look in my sort of bracket that really dress like, what’s the word, dreadfully. It’s as if they don’t care what they look like, they don’t care what others see of them – right dowdy, drab, dull. Mismatched in colour, pattern, material – just dreadful. From that sort of assessment, I went to what sort of clothes would look at least complete and matching at first and second glance. So I got myself looking at dresses and suits rather than trying to make new outfits which might turn out as badly as some that’ve walked past us. When I say walked, I mean also waddled, stomped, clumped and trundled. Not pretty some of them. Not at all pretty – and rarely ladylike or, what’s your key word? – not even ‘confident’.”

Joan smiled. “I’m glad you put it that way. It’s pretty much what I expected you to say. There is one thing that you need to be sure of. Wearing a dress is very much a statement of feminine. So you need to select dresses that really do suit the image you want to have.”

“I did love some of the more subtle patterns and the relatively simple amount of colours. The bold patterns and the garish colours never caught my attention. The monochrome was okay provided there was at least a pick-out colour to catch the attention. There was a black and white dress which had red stitching – that looked good.”

“Hmm, yes, I did notice you noticing that particular dress, good choice. Any others?”

“There were some, like I said, well-cut, simply coloured. I saw a pretty dress in blue, sort of layered from white to dark. I don’t know what the material was. And I thought there were some knit dresses that clung very enticingly. I’m not sure a clingy material would be right though – I don’t have much of a shape for this.”

“Are you willing to be helped around a few shops to get more of a feel for things, so to speak? I’m very willing to be your assistant. I can look at anything you’re interested in. I can give you quite a lot of help as to what will suit what combination. As for shape, you’d be amazed what options there are to assist you.”

“Dear Pushy Neighbour. I’m not at that stage yet. Give me a little leeway – don’t get all sulky and stop, I’m not asking for that either. I’m mildly willing – mostly because I can see that it has been a real pleasure to Frances. I really enjoyed seeing how she came out of her boy-shell and so very much tried her hardest to be as real and confident a girl as she could manage. If there’s something in it for an old codger like me – then as a startlingly new and unusual experiment – I might, repeat might, give it a go. But I’m not ready yet.”

Joan tried hard not to look at all sad.

“I’ll be very generous. I’ll walk slowly past the shops. If I truly see something that, as Frances said ‘calls out ‘Buy Me’, then I’ll think about noticing it. Is that fair?”

“That’s very reasonable. I’ll just have a little hope that something will catch your attention enough to say ‘Coo, pretty.’”

Over the next few weeks, the Marta project went at a speed which was often too much for me and frequently too slow for Joan. Partly this was because she had got back in touch with the BigSisters group she had talked about.

A few days after she had got back in touch, she was almost babbling and bubbling with excitement. The group had got much bigger than before. There were groups in many of the local towns. They had links with schools, companies, shops especially.

But when it went well, it was a lot of fun. I was finding out about materials. I was beginning to enjoy the sensation of silk and satin on my skin. The slick, smoothness of slippery …. ooooh, I was finding there was so much to enjoy compared with the drabness and indeed roughness of what I was used to. Joan asked me what my favourite clothes were – and she was right, they had been worn and worn often enough to give them the feel of new woman’s clothes. And I think the most special ‘first’ thing was when I put on stockings and suspenders. That was definitely a wow.

I was changing. I was loving quite a lot of the new life I was being pushed towards. And I did feel there was quite a lot of pushing from Joan. And actually Frances was quite keen in her own way. She didn’t know about Marta yet, of course. But her pleasure and success as a new-girl was a frequent reminder of what could be achieved by someone looking for such a change. I had never looked for a change – certainly not this one – but I did enjoy a challenge and this was making me feel more alive than I had felt for ages. Not that I would recommend anything this weird to anyone – not never.

There were quite a few evenings where I met up with some of Joan’s new or new-old BigSister colleagues. It was really fascinating. And a thing that stunned me was that I could not, absolutely could not, detect that at least some of them were new-girls. They had been in role for years and even decades. And not always permanently. Several of the ladies only dressed when they felt like it. Quite a number were married to women, a very few were married to men.

The variety of how they lived their lives was remarkable. The variety of how they got in touch with their feminine side was equally varied. What I learnt of the BigSisters was that they basically offered a system for those who needed to get in touch with their feminine side. I did have some concern when I wondered about ‘who decided there was a need’. From the stories, it was sometimes mothers, aunts, sisters, girlfriends, stepmothers always had a bad reputation, teachers too – almost everybody had a different story.

Sometimes I got really interested in the stories the girls told. Stories about sharing a flat with several girls [Training Stories], the cousin who came to stay and behaved so badly that he was treated as baby [Cry Baby] and the boy who was used as a Perfume Experiment [Perfume works on Boys].

Joan offered her own stories too. It was really interesting to hear how different new-girls arrived at the school and learnt their new lifestyle. Some arrived certain that they were female and feminine through and through. Others arrived with considerable uncertainty but with pressure from their mothers, sisters or whatever. I found that I really disliked the idea of anybody pressuring teenagers at a very fragile age and with very tentative psychology.

There had been enough times in my life where I had felt pressured – oh stop beating about the bush – I was bullied, manipulated and pushed beyond my comfort zone too often and too much.

I had been pushed to learn the piano – years of black and white keys, meaningless dots on lines, and ever increasing evidence that I didn’t have the willingness to practice nor any evidence of actual skill. It was the same with singing, drama, horse-riding, sailing, karate and so many more things. Eventually I said that I would do many of the things I was asked to try but – first off – I would give each one three months effort, about 10 or so weekly sessions so that I could get to know the people, the general feel of the pursuit and to get an idea for myself and from the coach about whether I did have any skill or potential.

Mostly, what the parents wanted me to do wasn’t of interest to me. But there was always the pressure to do what they asked, what they paid for, what they organised, what they drove me to (I mean by car not by actual force!).

So I had history in being sensitive to pressure. And I had spent a lot of my life both avoiding pressure and helping others avoid it as well. The BigSisters code was, for me, right on the edge.

Gradually, I got into the habit of coming home and, probably three or four evenings a week, I would dress up. Half of those evenings I would go over to Joan or she would come over to me or, rarely, we would go out. And going out was sometimes shopping and more often a BigSisters meeting or one of their houses.

About four months after I had put on that bra, I had a phone call from my daughter that Frances wanted to come and stay for a long weekend. And if I was willing, could I talk beforehand with Frances and find out if she wanted any appointments made with any of her special shops or with any of her friends. My first answer was ‘no problem’ then a little later I asked why she wasn’t able to do it for herself.

I got a sort of vague answer but got the basic message that Fran wanted me to do it face to face rather than her doing it by phone.

I had a word with Joan. “I’ve got a sort of a problem. Frances wants to come to visit for the weekend. Should I let her find out about Marta? How should I do it? Any advice?”

“There’s a few options. You can pick her up at the station dressed as Marta and then explain that because of her interest in clothes, you’ve been looking and experimenting too. You could as an alternative, blame it on the next door neighbour who is sort of bullying and blackmailing you into doing it but actually you’re enjoying some of it. On the other hand, you could wait until she’s back here with you and then talk to her about either of those two options. You could of course be only-Martin and tell Frances nothing. And on the other hand, whichever one that is, it feels like six or seven, you could tell her on the phone, send some pictures and ask who she’d prefer to meet? I’m sure I could invent a few other scenarios if you wait a few minutes.”

“I think I’ll wait until we’re back here.”

“But if Frances wants to go shopping, and perchance, met up with Bryony and accidentally ….., well, you know, ….. you’d better be prepared.”

“That was a scenario I hadn’t planned for. Yes, I am getting known in several shops – but they’re all really on the ball as regards discretion and keeping schtum when necessary. I don’t think even Bryony would out me for wearing a bra in front of Frances.”

“Bryony would probably be the only one who might – but then she knows both of you in both your personas. She might be naughty but it wouldn’t be meant in a cruel or nasty way.”

“I think my first idea is the one I’ll go with. Perhaps you’d like to join us for lunch if it’s that time of day that she arrives – as I expect.”

“Can I take on the role of the ‘One who drops you in it’?”

“It would do my confidence no good if you did do it and I think I’d be pretty certain that it wouldn’t help our relationship in the slightest if you started trying to be clever or manipulative. No way, thankyou. I’m sorry of that came across as a bit blunt or stern or over-the-top or whatever. I’m very grateful for your efforts to help me with this, er, experiment. But let’s keep it cool, calm and play it by ear if we have to. I’d be happier that way.”

“You weren’t overreacting – just being firm. And I was probably getting over-excited too. I should apologise and I do - so, I’m sorry that was inappropriate of me’.”

“Don’t make such a song and dance about it.”

“Actually I’m just remembering and acting out one of the standard apology examples that the BigSisters made their LittleSisters perform when they needed to do so. If it’s good training for them, then I should be doing it to.”

“Are you getting back into your BigSister frame of mind? You’d better talk with me if you’re planning in any way for me to be your target. I’m not thinking that way, I’m just playing around with the idea.”

“Don’t fret. I haven’t even had any feedback as to how or even if it’s reached this area. And if it has, then what are the local hotspots and places of interest. That’s not unreasonable, I hope?”

“I’m a bit sensitive to all this. It’s new. It’s very different. It’s potentially damaging to my reputation – and to yours. Cross-dressing still doesn’t have a loveable image. There’s a lot of people who hate it and tell you very publicly. Why take risks when it’s not necessary?”

“Can’t argue that that’s being sensible. After all, you’ve barely been out in public except for that one time when we went to the pub. But that did give you the certainty that most people weren’t taking even a second glance at you as ‘ooh look weirdo in a dress’. All the glances you got were as a perfectly normal, competent, confident woman. I was proud of you. But, yes, why make things deliberately complicated.”

So, that Friday evening, Frances skipped off the train and strolled all teenage-girlish towards me at the barrier. Not a trace of boy was evident.

“Frances, sweetie, you look fabulous. Such a pretty dress. You look so super in it. But, and I say this as a slightly disapproving grandparent, what on earth is that perfume that you’ve been swimming in. It’s so overpowering. Really not suitable for a girl your age.”

Frances giggled. “Isn’t it horrible – but it turned out for the best. I got changed in the department store near the station. As I passed the perfume attack-zone, one of the girls swooped and the top came off the bottle. I got drenched. There were screams of OMG and all that, so a manager came out to sort it. I had to catch this train so there was no time to change into the new outfit they offered me or to have a proper wash either. So I’ve been a stinkpot all the way here. But, they did promise me a massive discount or bonus or deal, whatever, when I go back next week. I rang Mum and she’s willing to be the outraged parent to see if we can boost them a bit. I mean really, if it had been a perfume that was mildly pleasant – but this – yukk.”

“I think a letter from me as well. Saying how many people had commented about your problem and how much I admired your avoidance of blaming the shop for it. You could have given them some dreadful publicity and you didn’t. People forget that for every one person who shares some good news or advertising about a product or shop, about 10 times as many share bad news. It’s really unkind but that’s what people do. And you didn’t – so they really should reward you significantly.”

“I like the way you think, g’dad. But I really impressed that you can still talk the talk about the clothes I’m wearing. I’d’ve guessed that the Frances project jargon would have worn off by now!”

Was this the opportunity to tell young Frances about the G’dad Project which was beginning to take shape. I paused and by then we had walked to the car.

We set off and passed the end of the road where Bryony’s shop was tucked away. Fortunately it was late and Frances made no effort to persuade me to drop in so she could have a chat.

I had set up a snacky late tea rather than the supper I would have made in a couple of hours. Frances fell on the available items like a neat-eating vulture. Her lady-like habits already well ingrained. She never actually had food in both hands and in her mouth all at once, but it looked like a speed-eating contest of some sort. I slowly and sedately ate a few morsels before they disappeared from the table.

“So, young lady. You passed a remark about ‘whether the Frances Project and all I learnt from it had completely worn off or not’. I have some startling news about that. You remember that woman Bryony made a joke about ‘me finding out about a bra someday’. Well, I made a big mistake and dropped into her shop to give her the news about you and your friend with the corset. I thought it would entertain her. Instead, she took the opportunity and pretty well forced me into trying on a bra and, worse, wearing it out of the shop until I got home.”

Frances giggled and slipped a hand under her blouse to tidy her bra straps in some unconscious response to the word bra. “You didn’t.”

“Well, yeah. I mean how successful were you in avoiding that woman. I mean – she’s determined, really very determined. She might have begun it as some silly little joke – but by the time she’d measured me to, fro, round and sideways and then put about three different bras on me ‘to check the fit’ and then filled them with bloody great lumps of fake boobage – it wasn’t much of a joke anymore. I couldn’t believe how weird it felt. Having these straps across my back and round my ribs and shoulders as well as the complete change in my eyeline. As soon as I looked down, there were these two big curvy things instead of what I was used to.”

“Did you get used to them if you had to wear them all the way home. I mean, G’dad that must have been nearly 10 minutes you were wearing a bra. Wow, gosh, awesome.”

“Do not be a bold and impertinent child, you mere thing you. And by the time I got home, I’d probably been wearing a bra for some 25 or 30 minutes, not a mere 10. It wasn’t too bad. Well, not until …dot, dot, dot, dot, …….”

“Oh, don’t be a tease. What happened in the dots?”

“It was about to rain and my neighbour, Joan – you’ve sort of met her a couple of times – asked me to move some things so they didn’t get wet …dot, dot, dot, and she noticed I was wearing a bra.”

“And, and, and … qu, qu, question?”

“She’s got rather keen on me finding out more.”

“What she wants you to dress up as well. Like me?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“When do I meet ‘G’ma’, then?”

“Really? You’re not a bit weirded out by this?”

“Why should I be? I’m a boy who loves to wear pretty dresses and makeup and be as much girl as I can be. I’ve even got a girlfriend now who loves me whether I wear a dress or not. I couldn’t be happier with how things are. Why wouldn’t I want to share this with my G’dad?”

“Maybe in the morning.”

“What, you’d just show me in the house here, or you’d be willing to come shopping with me into town?”

“I wasn’t really offering going to town.”

“I promise – if I think it’d be fine and like you told me ‘you’d be safe with me’ then I’ll be completely up front and truthful. Trust me, I’m a lot more savvy than I used to be. And this town is not and never will be a hot-bed of, well, it’s never going to be a hotbed of anything. But I’d love to help you experience the kindness I got in this town. It might be fun for you too.” Frances smirked and went on. “So, how big a wardrobe does G’ma have then. Is she a girl for skirts and blouses or for dresses. Frills and flounces, petticoats, what sort of girl are you?”

“So, we’re going to have a whole few days of ‘You did this to me so you’re doing it back to me now’.

“No, no, no, no, no, yes. Well, maybe, but probably not. After all, when you did it for me, I was in a different town and yet, here we are in your home town so we’ll have to do it differently, more cautiously.”

“Now that I’m not going to argue with. But I’m still very tentative about all this, very slow-and-steady.”

“Don’t worry so. I’ll track down a really pretty tortoise dress for you.” And there was that giggle again.

I didn’t realize until the next morning that I was already getting quite used to dressing as Marta. I got up, shaved including under my arms as I often did. I put on my panties, bra and inserts with no feeling of wrongness, then I selected a cream blouse with blue trim and a blue skirt with a flukily matching cream trim. The finding of the skirt was a complete miracle. Joan told me that normally a woman would choose such a skirt and then look for the blouse to match; this generally being the easier sequence. But the blouse looked so right to me I decided to buy it and I assumed that a plain blue skirt would be quite easy to find. Well, most women know that sometimes a match is easy and sometimes it just never happens. I was learning.

I put on a touch of makeup. Not the full conceal-every-male-shadow that I thought was really necessary but a ‘sufficient to look womanly’ version. My eyebrows had been shaped, so with a little eyeshadow and so on I knew my eyes looked nice. A touch of foundation and powder and a well-chosen lipstick. Earrings dangled. The casual glance would say ‘woman’. That was my intention.

I went down to breakfast and forgot that my shoes clip-clopping down the wooden stairs would alert Frances to something kind of unusual.

“G’dad, sorry, G’ma, you look so neat. That’s a really pretty combo you’ve put together. And I like the shoes too.“ I couldn’t avoid noticing that Frances was smiling with pleasure.

“Well, y’know. If we’re going out ….. I thought you’d better see the new version.”

“I do, I like it. You look very, let’s choose the right word, very real, very comfortable, very G’ma. I love this new look. And you, do you like it or love it – your new style?”

“How much I like it, that I’m still not sure about. Joan keeps pushing me on the lines of ‘this is something new, different, take-a-chance, get-a-new-life. Well, actually, one of her last comments when I was balking at something she suggested was ‘stop being a dull dead male’. That, I thought was a bit over the top. But once you get to know her, Joan is over the top quite a lot of the time. It does add a certain spice.”

Fran smiled, “G’ma – which is it that adds the spice, eh, the dressing or the over-the-topness?”

“Tread carefully, youth, for you tread on her schemes.”

“If you’re going to mangle a quote like that, G’ma, I suppose Shakespeare is a good starting point.”

“Not Shakespeare, dolt. It’s not actually true that every famous English quote is either the Bible, Shakespeare or Churchill. That one is by W B Yeats. And he’s Irish. And I do know the proper quote is ‘Tread softly for you tread on my dreams’. I was just making it obvious that this is being pushed more by Joan than by any active or long-standing wish of mine own.”

“Whatever.”

“Ghastly child, use not that teenage cant with me. I like it not.”

Fran just giggled.

I smiled back enjoying the antics of the young girl sitting at the table. And, by now, she was exactly that. A girl. Not a pretend-girl or anything like that. Not a boy-in-a-dress. Not a tomboy either. This was a young girl fully aware of herself, confident in her pale blue frilled sundress. I could see the soft swell of her small breasts. I admired them. But to my amazement, not in the usual male way. I admired them because it proved she was a girl. I guess the only word that fitted was ‘maternal’. I stopped, stunned at this new thought.

Exactly how far was I going to go with this?

I looked out of the window. It looked like a beautiful day. Fran did the same.

“Oh, golly, G’ma. It looks super. After we’ve been to town for whatever, can we go to the beach?”

I turned and raised an eyebrow. “And exactly who would be taking one of my famous beach picnics to the chosen strand? We’ll come back and I’ll change.”

“Erm, sorry. I wasn’t thinking it through. Would you like to come to the beach as G’ma?”

I began “But I haven’t ..” and the smirking child joined in with “got a thing to wear.” And we both burst out laughing as hard as I’ve laughed in years. I did enjoy my new granddaughter. As I’ve said before she’s great.

“I’d like it if you did.” Fran watched me. “Please. I’ll help with the picnic. And I’ll help you choose a costume.”

“A costume? I was only talking in terms of a sundress or something suitable for the beach. I’m not exposing this badly shaped carcass to public view.”

“But you do love swimming,” said the persuasive imp.

I gave in. “We’ll see what there is. But I’m making no promises. But we’ll get the stuff for a picnic and then see what there is. And don’t push. Or I’ll change your name to mini-joan.”

“Did I hear my name being mentioned critically?” and the official holder of the name came in. These days we both went to and fro in each other’s houses almost at will. We knocked sometimes but less and less frequently.

“I’ve asked G’ma to come to the beach. He’s being resistant, currently.”

Puns leapt to my mind – what, resist, conduct, fuse and similar - rather than dealing with the manipulative pair in front of me. Trying to push me faster and further than I was comfortable with.

To my amazement, Joan did not agree instantly with Frances. “You mustn’t leap in like that. Your granddad is only just getting involved with this whole idea. To push him to go to the beach when he isn’t comfortable with the idea – you don’t do it that way. Did he push you like that?”

Frances blushed and paled simultaneously. “No, he didn’t. He was really so kind to me.” She turned to me, “Sorry Gdad.”

“Don’t, so to speak, get your knickers in a twist. No damage done. Picnic still on. Visit to town still on. Let’s have a nice day.”

You know what I’ve said about a dress or a skirt or blouse ‘calling to you’. Talk about getting the timing wrong. We were in one of the lingerie departments looking for new bras for Frances when there it was. A swimsuit exactly matching in blueness and creamness and style to the outfit I was wearing.

Joan noticed it first. “Marta, stand there for a moment. Frances, turn round for a moment. Is that or is that not exactly the right thing for Marta?” and she pointed to the rail beside me. I couldn’t see it without turning round as I was some two foot past it.

Frances grinned. “Oh, yes. No choice really. G’ma – it’s there for you. Really just the exact thing. Please.”

So I turned. And I looked. And I gave in. And I picked the right size off the rail. And I tried it on. And I bought it. And I knew I would be wearing it to the beach. And the matching one in green. And the matching sarong-wrap for both. And the matching scarf for both. Expensive. But I was finding out day by day and shopping trip by shopping trip that Marta was an expensive pastime. And she did choose the more expensive clothes, shoes, makeup and so on.

And I was beginning to love the whole experience. It really helped to have Joan being so supportive. And now Frances, the girl I had helped release, was keen as well.

Back home, and I hadn’t had any time to think about how far I was going to go. There was a picnic to prepare. Marks and Spencer had provided some quick and easy options but I still had to make my standard summer recipes. Gazpacho done my way takes about 20 minutes and Coronation Chicken about the same; mind you for those timescales you need cold stock and cooked chicken ready and available.

Cucumber, ½ onion, 2 tins tomatoes, oil, vinegar, tabasco, salt etc – whizz whizz - add to the stock and put to cool for a bit longer.

Chicken, mayo, curry powder, raisins or grapes or whatever for sweetness, flaked almonds – stir and taste and ready-to-go.

The rest of my ‘instant picnic’ depended on what was available – fresh bread always, good crisps or nibbles, lettuce, new potatoes, warm hard-boiled eggs, smoked salmon, dips etc. If you can only cook to a strict recipe or routine then you’re losing half the fun.

It was almost too hot by now so I insisted on cool drinks and a sitdown before late picnic lunch in the garden. I offered to bring a late afternoon tea picnic instead. There were grumbled agreements. And I also calculated that a little later in the afternoon there would be fewer people on the beach to take any notice of Marta.

I felt that by buying so much swimwear I had, in effect, promised that it would be Marta going to the seaside.

It was enormously different being out in the open dressed as a woman. Knowing that a casual glance from others on the beach would see an elderly woman with large breasts in a modern one-piece swimsuit. Hopefully looking no different from any of the other similarly aged women on the beach. Looking ordinary. Being comfortable.

And I enjoyed it. And it was exactly as Joan had been saying. I was taking a risk. I was accepting that this was something I could do and was going to keep doing.

On the way back home I talked about my ideas for this new larger riskier future.

“I’m close to deciding to go with this whole Marta thing, y’know.”

There was a squeal from the back seat. And a quiet noise from the passenger seat which might have been ‘yep’.

“I’m not certain sure of this, but the more this has gone on for, the more I’ve realized that I do need something bigger and bolder, something to give me a reason to be alive more than just keeping on with the same old same old like I have been doing. For crying out loud, most of my friends I’ve known for some fifteen, twenty or even thirty years. I have hardly ever been beyond their kitchen for a coffee or their man-shed when that’s relevant. I don’t think I’ve been invited for meals or an evening’s entertainment outside of these ten or so mates for ages. That’s just another version of being dead really. It’s not good enough. Something must be done. Who said that, Frances.”

“The Prince of Wales, the one who nearly was Edward VIII, in about 1930. When you were young.”

“Rude child. And you know I wasn’t even born then.”

“But you said you’re nearly dead, so you must also be really old.”

“Don’t get snippety with me, Miss Smarty-pants. I remember when I had to smack your bottom. I’m perfectly willing and able to do it again.”

“You wouldn’t smack my bare bottom, would you.”

“Well, and who moved it from ‘bottom’ to ‘bare bottom’, huh. You’re getting a bit too bold, too adventurous maybe. It’s not proper. I don’t approve. Enough.”

“Sorry, G’ma.”

“That’s enough and we won’t do that again, will we, young lady? Or do I make you wear the clothes you left behind last time.”

“No, no. I’ve promised myself never to wear boy clothes again. Don’t make me.” Fran was almost in tears.

“Well, don’t push and don’t be rude. You knew where you wanted to go when you came to stay with me. You knew who and what you were and that you had to make people see the inside-girl. I’m not like you. I’m older by decades and I’ve had a lot of my life. I never, truly never, have had the urges and needs that you held inside yourself. Never put people into a box, it’s cruel and basically wrong.”

She snuffled, “I said I was sorry. I said I wouldn’t push. I did.”

“Okay, darling. Let’s forget it for the moment. I’m going at my own pace. And some of the steps I’m not sure about and some of the steps are quite, er, um, nice.”

“Can you tell me some of the nice? And perhaps we can work on some of the less nice becoming better.”

“That’s a sensible suggestion. You’re getting closer to being an adult if you can say things like that.”

“I am nearly sixteen.”

“Oh, honey, adulthood isn’t an age – it’s a state of mind. It’s the ability to listen, to think of others, to do the right thing. Some people never become adult – they just get old and nasty.”

“But what do you like best about the new things you’ve been wearing?”

“It’s not actually anything to do with the clothes. Actually what I like best is being treated as a confident woman. I do the confident man thing – that comes naturally. But it’s what people expect. They treat me as just another bloke who has the advantage of many years at the university of life. But when a woman displays that level of confidence – people treat me so much better. They listen to me in ways that men never listen to other men. It’s wonderful.”

“That’s one of the good bits about being a confident woman. You taught me that. You also told me that the majority of men are amazingly willing to do what a confident women tells or asks them to do.”

“I’m not sure I put it that bluntly. Did I?”

“I don’t know who else I could have learnt it from. Daddy treats me mostly as a girl but makes mistakes. Mummy loves having a daughter but does wonder about the long-term effects of all the chemicals I’m going to haver to take. And both of them worry about how I’ll cope when I do get outed. Even if I do the outing at a time and place of my own control. They’ve read about how nasty people can get. How intolerant, ugly, vile. The stories about mental and physical abuse, even the deaths. And we’re all aware of the suicide rate. I know they tell me that I have their support and that’s got to be the biggest factor in not going down the suicide or self-harm route. But hat doesn’t stop them worrying. And that worries me. And the cycle begins so easily. So trying to be confident has to be the best choice. And I do think I’ve got you to thank for pushing me to think like that. Thanks G’ma.”

“Oh, honey. That’s so kind.” And I leant over, hugged her and kissed her cheek.

“And I like that too. It’s one thing that G’dad could have done but it seems you hug and kiss more easily. I like that improvement. It’s an extra sort of love. Thanks G’ma.”

I smiled. And I said so. “Thanks darling. What you said made me smile deep inside. Perhaps I’m growing up as well.”

There was a giggle. “If you’re growing up so late I still won’t tell Mummy and Daddy.”

I smiled even more.

How was this going to turn out?

I told myself - do what you told Frances. Be Calm, Confident and Certain. If you behave like a woman, expect to be treated as a woman, look (sufficiently) like a woman - then people will treat you as a woman.

"He's gone. I'm going to be ME!"

Sometimes taking that first step is as big as 'One giant step for Mankind' and I've always been a woman. Haven't I?

Previously this was titled "I’ve done 25 – will I get to 26? Is it over." The OLD subtext said 'If these were lyrics they could be better – but I’m doing this My Way – or the highway – or the low way. And sorry – it may sound like this is going to be a suicide story – but – nope – not this time.'
I think it wasn't being read because of the bad vibes. I was trying to be punny about the number of 500-word stories. And jokes suggesting suicide don't work. Sorry.

The 25th AP-500 story - and none has, yet, been borrowed or adapted - come on, folks and folkesses,

---

Are you wondering why so many of us T-people don’t live long. Because we never get to live at all. The statistics are there for anyone interested to check. Even though the antis lie, exaggerate and twist. We probably do some of that too; saying we’re no longer a tiny minority – when actually we are a tiny minority. And the antis want nobody not-like-them. No ripples enough to touch THEIR lives – thank you.

I’m 25. Like I say, I’m not going to get to 26. During the next 365 days I’ll be getting rid of all of me – the OLD me. It’s time for a change. Ooops – Rewrite – It’s time for Change and THE Change, the ME-Change.

I seem a completely average bloke. Probably less exciting and less interesting than many. The skills I have are hugely gender-neutral. I like sports a bit – preferring team games where there’s cooperation rather than the one-on-one competitive stuff. I get emotional, passionate, excited, excitable, -which some attribute more to women. I like to dress well – some men do but all women try. I’ve taken tests – and I come out just that bit feminine.

And I feel better that way. I’m not going to sing the Sinatra version – but my future IS going to be MY way.

I’ve been labelled in various ways throughout my life. Baby, child, teen, man. Bouncy, lively, graceful, adventurous, excitable, then studious, bookish, geek; as well as kind, generous, friendly then quiet and careful; interested, interesting then withdrawn and watchful.

Did you notice the change? Are you wondering when it happened? I know. I know exactly.

It was the day I read about people like me. The days after I was labelled ‘different’. The days after the bullies began to target me for not fitting their prescribed and proscribed boxes. Nasty-minded monsters. No, no – that’s my label for them; not their’s for me.

Gay, ponce, poofter, homo, faggot, fairy, girl, and so many other words. Freak, wazz, words which were local or school slang. I got them all. And that was just the verbal abuse. I had no friends; certainly nobody who would stand up with me or for me. I had no secondary status which might have protected me. I wasn’t ‘the best’ at anything. Some other freaks avoided the worst by being ‘The Chess Club star’ or ‘that Kid who …..’. Not me.

But just days before my 14th birthday – I read this amazing article at the dentists. And, suddenly, I wasn’t alone and secondly, I had a new label that fitted me. I was a girl – with a plumbing problem. Wow!

It’s taken just over 11 years – but any moment now, I’ll be ending this job and starting another. I’ll be clearing my apartment and moving into a new house (small but mine). I’ll be closing all my web-accounts – and opening new ones.

No more Miles Andrew Jacobs. I will be Melissa Jay Andrews. Double-Wow!!

I wanna be FREE. I will be ME!

As per above - this is the 25th AP-500 story.

---

Actually I have written a few more. One idea is to keep going until one, just one, has been taken by Ann Author and manoeuvred into a story of their own. But it doesn’t seem to be happening. I may stop at 30 or on Christmas Day (if a Christmas story comes to mind. Then later I’ll move them all into a sub-page. I am working on some longer pieces – but all 3 are at a slow point. )

Only one of the previous 24 has done far better than the rest; 3 are slow (maybe because their subject is clearly unkind). Still none has been begged, borrowed or stolen. I’m about to re-read and see if I want to do some self-building!

How could I have known what would happen?

I wasn’t expecting this – not even in my wildest dreams.

Hard and rough, not so tough, – new and trendy – now it’s Wendy.

An AP-500 story.

---

My auntie’s voice was calm. Remarkably calm in the circumstances.

She had come home from her Friday night out and found me lying asleep on the sofa. Not that unusual. But wearing a nightie. Not so common – not for a young man named Randall.

“Randall, dear, would you like to explain now – or in the morning?”

“Um, er, “…… silence.

“I guess you’d like to leave this to the morning. Will I be expecting you to breakfast in that nightie or do you have a negligee too, or perhaps a dressing-gown to suit. Mmmm?”

More silence.

“You’d better have made your mind up by breakfast time. I’m not that worried if you like to wear pretty clothes. I like to wear pretty clothes. But I’m not so keen on messing about and pretending half of the time one thing and then another. Goodnight, Randall dear.”

I had no idea that my aunt was so liberal in her attitudes. I really didn’t know her well. She had stepped in with an offer of looking after me for the summer and to Christmas while my parents took an academic sabbatical in Europe.

But – wow – she didn’t blow a gasket at me wearing a nightie. Wow. What sort of future could I look forward to? I fell asleep wondering.

I dreamt of all the pretty things I could wear – if I wasn’t just over six foot tall and quite broad at the shoulder.

I woke.

I heard Auntie downstairs and knew I must hurry to breakfast. I hesitated. I dithered. I decided.

“That is quite a pretty nightie, dear. When and where did you get it?”

By now I had also decided to be up-front and open. “I bought it last week.”

“Really. Was it an effort to go into Marks, I recognise the style, or was it easy?”

“If you go in looking as if you know what you’re doing, it’s just another sale.”

“Mmmm.” There was a pause. “Be careful with the honey, if it drips you’ll have to deal ..”

Too late.

“Well, just look at that. Quick, sponge it off or run and get changed. Have you anything to wear instead? And I mean as a girl, unless you want to go back to wearing boy clothes.”

I wasn’t sure I was hearing right. “D’you mean that Auntie?”

“Randall – clearly not y’name when you’re dressed – yes dear. I mean it. If you want to dress up then I won’t be upset. I will ask questions as to intention. Short-term and longer-term. It’s obvious you’re not doing ‘drag’ so it’s more on the cross-dressing or transgender spectrum. Yes?”

“Now, scoot off and get changed. Do you have anything pretty to wear? And I want to know your real name.”

I had very little to wear that was even adequate. I did my best with one of my two skirts and a badly-fitting blouse. Panties and cami but no bra.

“Well, well. We have a lot to do! Don't we ………?"

“.... Wendy.”

This is a 500 word story (basic text) and available for anyone who wants to take it further. AP

How dare you. I’m not gay!!

I knew at school that I was different. I was called ‘gay’ just for being different – cruel, ugly, untrue. Although I’d admit to being a bit puzzled about, erm, some aspects of life – yeah, alright, sex. Then things really got strange when I was at college and stayed with Aunt Maddie. And I learnt more than I ever expected about girls – in a new and different way. A story in two distinct sections.

---

It’s hard at school when you’re different. And the Big-O’Bigots come on the attack almost every day. I call them the Big-O’Bigots because they’re Big; they’re mostly Irish – so the O and they’re Bigots.

There’s things you can do to retaliate – but it’s best to be far away when the O’Bigots realize that something they don’t like has happened. I was there, albeit well out of range, when Charlie Foster delivered his most famous piece of revenge. Oh, it was just ….. special.

It was the day Charlie was leaving with his parents to go abroad – far out of reach of the nasties. During classes, he painted the cars of the three ringleaders pink. Bright pink – with extra lettering in red. Not all messy and splashy but neat, careful calligraphy. Stylish. He wrote ‘They call people gay; methinks they protest just tooo much’.

He’d obviously used a stencil – and he’d practiced too. But the slur stuck. Lots of the pupils who’d been hassled and abused by the senior O’Bigots wondered out loud, just enough to be obvious, ‘d’y really think it’s true?’ or other not-quite-below-hearing comments, ‘Was Charlie right about them’. Subtle. Exactly the sort of intelligent attack that confuses the average thug.

The O’Bigot leaders were furious and wanted to take their rage out on somebody, anybody. By next term – it was me.

And there’s the Gobits too. Yeah, I know – making jokes again – but they’re the God Bigots.

And after both of those nasty little-minded people – there were the ‘ordinary’ bigots. And aren’t there a lot of them. Too often they just don’t realize they’re being crass, unkind, stupid, ugly or plain nasty. It’s just ‘their way’ of wasting their lives.

But this term, I was suffering. I wasn’t gay or whatever word you prefer – but I was different. And golly, didn’t the nasties make me aware of their disapproval.

On and on they went. All the ugly words. And not just words. Pushing, shoving, knocking my books to the ground. Stealing my clothes during gym. Messing up my desk and my locker. But the teasing was never-ending. Pink paint all over my books was beyond a nuisance. Hacking the school records – we all knew who was the only one capable – so my name was changed to Philippa Gay. Only a few letters away from Philip Jay – but the school IT manager said he couldn’t change it back without a system restore and that would cost time and money. For the next month, all my files would come out as Miss Philippa Gay. Including any university applications – and the deadline was getting near. I guessed that the school hacker had done it.

My parents weren’t happy.

So I went on the attack – sort of. If ‘they’ were going to attack me for being gay then go beyond gay to girl or tomboy. I learnt that from Charlie. Be subtle. And Subtle could be Bold.

I began to dress much more borderline, edgy, or actually girly. I wore girl-cut jeans and blouses instead of my usual (and acceptable) uniform. I wore a necklace and a bracelet. I wondered about piercing my ears (not by me – getting them pierced! Silly.) It was quite fun going a bit over the top. And I actually liked, even enjoyed, some of things I allowed myself to wear.

I did explain what I was doing to my parents. They were a pretty laidback pair, having grown up in the sixties. Experimenting with clothes, appearance even behaviour wasn’t out of their range. They weren’t exactly happy with my choice – but they didn’t say no. And Mum helped by coming shopping a couple of times and showing me some tricks.

She said, ”you’d do better with that crowd or what you say about them anyway not to be openly gay – but let’s go with confusing them.’ If they’re that stupid …. who knows?”

Some time later, I was in the town centre and having a coffee. The BH (Bloody Hack) came up to me with an ugly sneery smile.

“Having a nice day, ‘Philippa’?”

“Not really. I’m trundling along with my daily life trying to keep a low profile, waiting for the right girl to turn up – and someone keeps telling lies about me. And two weeks ago, someone, I can’t guess who,“ glaring at him, “has screwed me up just that little bit extra so that my name comes out on all the college databases in an ugly twist on my proper name. Admin won’t or can’t be bothered to fix it – so my end-of-school documentation is all set to come out wrong. Whoever did it is nasty, abusive and god knows who else they have or will humiliate for their ever-so-clever reasons. So I’m trying to undermine the situation by pretending to wear a new camouflage – I’m hoping to distract some of the nastier criticism.”

BH looked amazed. Something seemed to have surprised him. Then he brought his ugly little mind back in line. “Whatch’er mean ‘the right girl’? Who’s going to be interested in a woofter like you.”

“Tedious though it is to tell yet another person who won’t take any notice – I’m not gay. I like girls. The last boy who pestered me got a knee in the bollocks, okay? I agree that I don’t love sport or cars or vulgarity or farting or leering at women or lesbians or BDSM or porn in its thousand different varieties or playing with my pecker the way that too many of my fellow ‘males’ like to do – but that doesn’t make me less male. Perhaps it merely makes me better educated. Or intelligent.”

“But everyone knows you’re gay!”

“Clearly I’m wasting my energy here. Who is likely to know better than me? Have you any evidence to prove that I am a liar? Have you got anything to prove that ‘they’ – whoever ‘they’ are – regularly tell the truth about any of their victims? You know their style. They casually pick on a target and then systematically bash it, bully it, harass it until it gives in. I’ll go a step further. I repeat what I just said – perhaps that makes me different from my so-called peers and equals. But does that equate to ‘deserving-to-be-bullied’. I think not. I suspect that many of those who are labelling me have some secret that would make them too ‘different’ if it was known. Some might even be judged unacceptable. Mud sticks. Remember the kid who was abused by his parents – is it your view that he ‘asked‘ for it. Idiot. The red-head who ran away in the middle of games rather than be hit ‘accidentally’ again - didn’t he ask for it? The kid who’s that bit stupid until they find he needs glasses – everyone knew he was the school idiot. Oh yes? Nasty vicious prejudiced – hateful.”

BH almost had a look of shame – but it soon faded. The sneer began to return.

Then I pushed a bit harder. “So what’s the secret YOU don’t want anybody to know?”

BH shuddered as if I had….... I don’t actually have the words for his expression. Then he leapt to his feet and he ran as if I had turned into something so vile, so horrid, so threatening that it was unbearable. He ran as I might if my nightmares were chasing me. Or as if he now had a nightmare of his very own. Retribution and her name is Nemesis.

That evening, all my records were corrected. A number of emails went out to the administration about misdemeanours and misbehaviours of various sorts. Not me. I truly didn’t do it. I didn’t have the skills. I still think it was BH unloading some of his past onto those who had made him or paid him to do whatever.

Various of the nastier nasties were ‘asked to visit the Head’. Overall, some twenty students decided to take a break – the rumour was that they could return next year provided they had demonstrated ‘better behaviour’. There was considerable amazement at some of those who were selected. Often it seemed it wasn’t the leaders as such but their number-twos; hitting the slimy Iago-types rather than the Othello-types.

BH disappeared too. And at times, as my life trundles slowly and hiccuply, sometimes I wonder what was so terrible about his secret that he couldn’t face it. I recalled a version of ‘Fly – All is discovered’ being attributed to Arthur Conan Doyle in about 1897; but the web (ever truthful) suggests the Boston Investigator, 23 August 1876 as the current earliest known source. Personally, I can’t believe there’s not a Roman or medieval version.

But along with this trundling, there were changes. Bullying reduced considerably. In fact, there was generally less nastiness. I didn’t get barged, shoved, pushed into lockers, knocked over. I was called names less often. And the few I did talk with – all in the ‘Different’ category – said that they weren’t being harassed as much as before.

The staff noticed too. Even the Head, Mr Joffrey, made it clear that he had noticed a ‘general improvement in the feeling of the school’. That’s what he dressed it up as at the Morning Meeting a few weeks later. Mr Tombs, our arts teacher, gave us the actual words from the staffroom. He told us that ‘Old Jaffa said at least the bullyboys and the bigots aren’t bashing six hells out of anyone they don’t like as much as they used to.’

This led to someone commenting that it was a bit strange that it wasn’t all the leaders who got the push. Gravestone (Mr Tombs) said ‘Should it have been Othello who got the criticism for being the manipulating bullyboy or Iago? Think about it.’

There was a mumbled chorus from several of us – especially those of us who’d read Othello. Henri asked why I grunted as if I understood. ‘What was with this Ofello guy?’

“Dur, Othello – it’s a play by Shakespeare, he was a black general in the Venetian army, he married a gorgeous white girl and his chum, a lying twisty toad called Iago tells him lies big enough and often enough that he gets jealous and eventually kills the girl. He’s manipulated into jealousy and rage. Perhaps the Head was smarter than we guessed.”

“Wha’?”

“The head got rid of the manipulators not the leaders who had been manipulated. He’s not so stupid, Our Mr Jaffa.”

“Unh.” Clearly Henri now understood.

A while later, just before the end of my last term, the head called a school meeting. “I’m pleased, no, I’m very pleased that there seems to have been a change at this school. For reasons unclear to me, a whole group of bullies as well as many of their nastier supporters have, um, decided to leave. Perhaps having video of some of their deeds passed to me might have something to do with it. To be blunt their behaviour was vile, evil if you prefer the stronger word.”

“You’re not alone in being bullied. It happens in the outside world too. I know this from my own experience – at school, at university and even in one of my sports clubs a few years back.”

“I’ve been given this pamphlet, and yes, as I often do, I’ve tweaked it. If ANYONE wants to take this and spread it wider then please do so. I have emailed it to every one of you. In a week or so, I will email it to your parents. There may be some who do not wish this – if so, then speak to me. I don’t like my flock having that sort of a problem.”

“As teachers, we care for you greatly. Overall, teachers care for you for some 200 days a year for more than half your day. It adds up to a lot of care. It is certain that some of us could do better, that some staff-pupil relationships could work better. But we will continue to try – because you are the future.”

--------------------------------------------------
Abuse happens too often. It is wrong.
Please talk to someone if you have been or are being hurt or damaged by another.
I have recently learnt more than I ever wanted to about abuse. Abuse is when one person causes pain, hurt, suffering or damage to another on purpose. Abuse can be physical, sexual, emotional or mental or even financial. Abuse can be done by action or by lack of action or by words or lack of words.
Abuse includes bullying, sarcasm, cruelty, nastiness, hitting, ignoring, teasing, coercion, forced obedience, ‘keeping secrets’, threats, violence, beatings, deprivation and so much more. The mother who never says ‘I love you’ causes hurt and suffering.
The person who is abusing is by definition uncaring about the victim. Until everyone tells the truth it will be impossible to know how much pain and suffering is happening - but there are some figures which offer a ghastly picture. And I repeat these two key facts – You are NOT alone; Your abuser doesn’t care.
Some research suggests that as many as 5 people in a hundred will at some time in their young lives be sexually molested, abused, mistreated or inappropriately cared for by parents, siblings, uncles, neighbours or their good friends. The law in Britain is that no adult may commit such behaviour on anyone under 18 even though the ‘age of consent’ is 16. But 5% is JUST the sexual abuse, abuse of power by adults for their sexual intent.
5% - it may not be true to say firmly that 5 people in each year at this school may have suffered in this way –but it is unlikely to be none and it is unlikely to be the ‘full’ rate of 10 out of a year-group of 200.
But we need to add Emotional Abuse – the parents who bully, the uncle who can only make clever-nasty remarks, the sarcastic teacher. There are all too many adults who can recall the nasty, vicious, unkind remark which has sunk deep into their heart. You may think of it as Mental or Psychological Abuse. It’s Abuse!
In one case, a man was told by his aunt, ‘you’re ugly, stupid and worthless. I wouldn’t waste spit on you’. Sometimes being called ‘stupid’ can be forgotten in a moment, but such a vile remark is designed to scar the soul. There are few figures for emotional non-physical abuse – but there is too much of it and it lasts longer than ‘mere’ physical abuse.
So - Physical Abuse as well – there is data from hospitals and police although cases reported to the police are well-known for being only some of the cases that do occur. Reading the literature, a figure of 3% does not seem unreasonable or 3 out of every 100. Even if some are double-counted because they are sexually abused too – this is far too many. And there’s the other damage from just living in a dysfunctional family.
If we add these varieties of abuse – we will see that parents or close relatives or carers or neighbours hurt as many as one in 10 children and that they do this on purpose or - at the most generous - they do it without caring, carelessly and casually. And it damages lives. It can damage lives for years and it can damage future generations. Abuse hurts.
These numbers mean that in every class of 30 pupils, there is likely to be one who has not been dealt a kind hand. In addition, there are those who have dealt with death, divorce, disability and just difficulties. And any time now, it might be YOU needing help, support, a kind word or a good deed.
Abuse is done by people to other people. It can be done to boys or girls by men or by women – even if there is evidence that much of it is by men to girls; especially so for sexual abuse. But emotional abuse is not gender-related. Mothers can do it to sons. Wives can do it to husbands. Physical abuse is not gender-related; Even if the common view of domestic abuse is that it is drunken husbands beating their wives who need refuges to go to - this does not explain the wife who pours boiling water on her husband. Whoever commits abuse – it is wrong. It is also wrong to ignore or condone. It is certain that some of you abuse in some way.
I referred to parents several times in this talk. I offer a startling notion – I am confident that almost none of your parents ever had a single lesson in ‘how to be a parent’.
If they were really lucky they only learnt good things from their parents. But my research makes it all to clear – parents almost never get taught how to be good parents. The parents who do think about going to such a class are probably already lined up to do the job quite well. The parents who really need help never even think of doing so.
When the time comes to think about being a parent – please ask for help.
The 6th of the 10 Commandments is ‘thou shalt not murder’ – well I believe that while murder refers to the body, so abuse is murder of the soul and abuse of a child is murder of their future. The deliberate causing of pain, hurt, damage or suffering is wrong.
Despite the newspapers preference that abuse only happens in poor families , this is not true. Abuse happens at every level of society. There are probably Peers, MPs, accountants, lawyers, priests, plumbers, bus-drivers, shop assistants and bartenders who do it. And of course the majority of these groups and members of these groups DO NOT commit abuse. But remember – in a big enough group there will be people, maybe even you or your friends, who have been hurt by the deliberate nastiness of other people.
If you have only learnt to relate to other people in nasty ways and have thereby hurt others – then that was wrong and you should face up to it, stop it and do better. People can help with that too.
The last days at school offer a wonderful opportunity. You are at a turning-point in your lives. If you have been hurt or damaged in any way – there are many people eager and willing to help you stop it NOW. They can help you get rid of any poison which has grown in the nastiness forced into you.
YOU are not to blame for any of the hurt done to you. Never say ‘I’m not worth it.’
As soon as you leave school – the big wide world is waiting for you. It knows nothing about you. It cares not whether you are a bully or a victim or neither or both. You have the opportunity to change what you have been and become new for a new challenge.
If you need help to do so – then ask. If you can’t ask your parents then speak out to someone you trust.
Believe me, I can promise that going onwards as a victim - as if with a label of ‘I’m a failure – beat me’ - is a horrid waste of years of your life. But I’m doing better now.
For those who are already hurt or are being hurt every day – it is almost impossible to mend yourself without facing up to what happened and moving past it. This will take time and it will hurt – but it will hurt differently – more like picking a huge raw scab. And because it is easier to get help when you are young & flexible - please ask for help.
If you have a friend who you think needs such help, lead them gently. While it is true that an addict can only become clean when they are ready, so also a victim can only break free when they are ready. If you need help, please ask.
You are not alone – others have been and are being abused and brutalised – like you.
Write down what happens, keep a diary, the law loves documents more than words.
Please ask for help now if you are being hurt by anyone.
Please ask for help if you are so hurt that you have to damage other people.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Become Free and Talk to your most trustworthy teacher - Your best friend -
or even Childline NSPCC …..or Samaritans – if you are feeling close to suicide.

II (Read aloud to an assembly, this takes some 6 or better 7 minutes.)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I don’t want any of you to read too much into my reading out this pamphlet and making this announcement. It’s not my idea – although I approve. The district has been given some strong legal advice about how it should make everyone aware of the law and the guidance about every variety of abuse. I’ve been asked to start the ball rolling here at this school because of the noticeable change in the feel and morale of the school in the last weeks. I’m proud of how the school has altered – even if I have to be grieved that the school needed to change. But change was needed. I have to confess that I could not make it happen until new and better information was provided to me. But it was, I acted, and we know how things have changed. “

“I am telling you that there will still be unkindness, nastiness, rudeness, incompatibility, differences of opinion and alarming misunderstandings – but I hope none of this will be deliberate and none of it will be malicious. It is the deliberate planned nastiness which so easily escalates into abuse. I will not have it.”

“If anything occurs that a victim does not like then it is their perception of abuse that is the key to any action that I take. It may be that their perception needs to be helped along to a better understanding but their first reaction has to be a taken as a big signal.”

“I do not know the author – but from their language and phrasing, I guess, and it is a guess, that they are like me – male, middle-class, well-educated, probably white, probably English and likely to have avoided direct discrimination towards them. But, just to make it clear, most forms of discrimination are actually a form of abuse. And ALL Abuse is wrong.”

“Thank you for your time. I will be asking as many of you as possible to contribute to a small booklet which we shall publish – abuse I have seen or suffered.”

‘Well’, I thought to myself – that was a surprise. I also thought it impressive it was that the head had said both that he had suffered from bullying more than once even after leaving school. But I felt most pleased at the strong agreement that the tone of the school had improved ever since the Bloody Hacker had delivered his information and disappeared. I wondered, just a little, what had happened to him – but I was more glad that the Nasties, and the O’Bigots had mostly gone.

It was true what I had said – I wasn’t gay. I might have begun to wonder if I had some other issues. I didn’t feel like the average boy that girls and boobs and thighs and hoping-to-kiss and lying-about-fondling and boasting about, well, everything of that sort was THE main topic of conversation. I really wasn’t that interested. To be blunt, I didn’t understand many of the average male’s interests. I wasn’t a poof, fairy or anything like that either. I certainly didn’t fancy any bloke. Not my idea of social activity. I did like girls – but I understood them even less. In the simplest terms I was a very late developer.

I really didn’t have a clue. I had read about the recently identified category of ‘asexual’ and I did wonder if that might be a box that would fit. But I don’t and didn’t like boxes or labelling. Like I say, the most important box was for me ‘I’m not gay’. Beyond that I had little interest. If I had known about the label, I’d have probably called myself asexual.

Like many people, almost every boy and I believe some girls too, I had looked at porn and learnt (possibly badly) about the incredible range of strange behaviour singles, pairs, triples and groups could indulge in. Did I understand much of it – no. Did I get interested in much of it – no. Did the basic act of penis into vagina enthrall me – not much. Like I said – little interest.

I knew the statistics say at what age the girl or boy becomes sexually active, and I know the there’s still 10% inactive by the time they’re 21. To me, there didn’t seem much problem yet. Hopefully the passing of time and the arrival of more chemicals would see to the necessary.

There was really nobody I could talk to about this. My parents were mildly incompetent as far as giving advice on that sort of subject. I think my father’s main effort was, “Girls and things, I guess you know everything you need from the web-thing and what others tell you. Do I need to add anything?”

What was I supposed to say. I just thought ‘how can you not be grown-up enough to talk about these important things. Aren’t you lucky that I’m not really interested’. Of course I should have said something, asked questions. Perhaps even how do Love and Sex interlink – that would have been enlightening. It might have even given me some insight into their marriage.

------------------------------------------

How life can change!

Some months later I went to spend a week or so with Aunt Maddie. My parents were going on a break to Austria and Aunt Maddie made the offer for me to stay. She and I were the misfits in the family. She was about 5 foot three, I was about an inch shorter but slowly growing – everyone else in the family was nearly six foot, including my mum or well over. At seventeen, I wasn’t expecting to grow much more – but I could hope.

Anyway, it was pouring the day I set off on the train. When I reached the coast and got off, it was still bucketing. I set off to the cottage, because I knew the way and it wasn’t very far. But I was drenched within a few yards. I had a faint hope that Auntie would pick me up – but no. So I stomped on through the rain and now hail to the bottom of the hill. And fell over. I didn’t care what happened to the suitcase but scooped it up and tried to run the last hundred yards or so to the cottage.

Steaming faintly, Aunt M and I looked at the damage.

“You are a mess, young Philip. Upstairs w’ you and get dried off.”

I slithered wetly upstairs to the room at the left. I dried off and opened the suitcase. It was a modern one, all cloth and no strength. It had leaked. What clothes I had were soggy or drenched.

“Auntie, I’ve got a problem. Can you come up.”

Fortunately, by then I was wearing the dressing-gown that had been in the bathroom. Not really boyish but not too girly either – pale green with wavy dark green lines. It was all there was – so I wore it.

“Oh that was sensible of you,” said Aunt M. “I did wonder how you would cope.”

“It’s not the usual thing I would wear.” I grinned as I said it. “For verily ‘tis a garb over-feminine for aught but an emergency.”

“And so I must agree. That this is indeed an emergency. You wot not of the condition of thy remnant remnants. Drab and soiled and beyond the possibility of adequate condition for, yay, some 24 hours or more. What durst we do.”

Yeah, too much Shakespeare was read in both our houses. And equally yes, this was my forced introduction to 24 hours of auntie’s clothing. What she offered was a pair of panties, no surprise there, a pair of popsocks to wear in her old ballet-flats, some shorts – without a fly again no surprise, and a blouse.

It was the blouse that made me say, “well, I suppose that’s really pretty good seeing as you likely have nothing boy-suitable in the house. But, no T-shirts, I’m surprised. Does it have to be this?” and I pinched the material between finger and thumb to indicate my, um, disdain.

“Nope, not a clean T in the house – so that’s your lot. That’s as good as I can manage – and I see little to complain about. You don’t look too bad. Have a look in that mirror.”

I looked – and looked again. I didn’t really recognise the person in the mirror. Not the normal image I was used to - but somehow it felt wrong too.

I don’t know what expression I did have when I turned to see what Aunt M’s expression was. She had her chin held by her hand while she was obviously thinking hard. “How do you want to play this, honeychile?”

“Moving from Shakespeare to Blanche Dubois, eh? Don’t know. It’s your house, your rules.”

“I remember you talking last year and saying how little knowledge, how little experience, you had with girls. Would you like to understand them better? I’ve got a cunning plan.”

“Ah, so, Mistress Baldric – and vot is zis cunning plan?”

“If you like and if you feel comfortable with the idea, we can go down to town, look around the market, have a coffee and a sandwich – what d’you think?”

“What, today, dressed like this you mean. As a girl, I don’t think so.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you – and you certainly don’t want to be showing up as anything like a girly-boy or sissy or whatever. I can set you up so that no one, not even your mother, would recognise you as Philip. Want to give it a try? You don’t know anyone here after all – not this far from home. And you would have a wonderful opportunity to girl-watch. As well as learning what some of our clothes feel like.”

“There is truth in what you say. Let’s have tea and a biscuit (the family cure for all problems) while you persuade me.”

Truly, my dear, twill take but a touch of lippy and eyeshadow, a tousle of your hair into a more feminine style, mayhap a necklace and some fancy gauds – and Snap – thou wilt look goodly girlsome.”

“Let’s see what you deliver before I consent. Mayhap thou hast switched places with my loveable Aunt Maddie and become a nameless hag concealed ‘neath a camouflage of beauty. Akin to the foul, fell red toadstool which can rip apart the life of mortaL being.”

Aunt M put on her hag-voice, Don’t you trussssst me, little one.”

I did (enough). She did enough. We went out more than enough.

Aunt M had said the market and the coffee-shop. But not all the shops. Nothing about buying anything for me. Truly, I thought she was buying for herself. Dumbo. How did I not guess. Because I was a boy – just pretending for a day because I was in femme-camouflage.

At the coffee-shop, Aunt M met some of her friends. Again, hindsight tells me that she expected to meet them. There was a lot of lady-like 'hello, hello, how are you, fine, and you etc etc.'

Then Auntie started introducing me. ‘This is my niece, Philippa. She’s staying for a day or so. Don’t stare, Mandy, be nice. She doesn’t look nearly as much of a tomboy as your two did last year. There’s a lot to be learnt as a tween and teen about being a girl.”

I didn’t have a clue.

Because there was a kerfuffle at Dad’s work as soon as he got back and he was working stupid hours, and Mum too for different reasons – there was an agreement that I stay with Auntie for a few more weeks. By the end of this I knew a lot more.

I knew for instance that I enjoyed being dressed up – I especially enjoyed sundresses with their bright colours and light flippy cool style. I loved panties rather than pants.

I knew now that Mandy’s two children had never been tomboys. They had been BOYS but now they were, um, let’s say, more flexible. I first met them properly after about two weeks of tuition from Auntie. It was at the salon where I had agreed to get my hair cut into a more femme style; pixie it was called.

They were there too. Their hair was longer and they had many more choices. I thought they were looking rather pretty and their new hairstyle looked lovely; and I said so. They were so pleased. Jackie squeaked, “It’s so lovely to be told we’re looking pretty. So kind of you. And that style really suits you too.”

Andrea was the quieter of the two. “Thank you, Philippa.”

For some strange, even stupid, reason I said, “Isn’t it funny how we all have names that are sort of a variation on a boy’s name.”

“Philip-pa, didn’t you realize, we’re boys. I’m Andrew but when I’m dressed up I’m called Andrea. And Jackie is either Jac or Jacqueline, depending. Are we going to guess that you’re the same.”

I couldn’t answer, I was alternate shades of scarlet and white.

“Don’t be so silly dear. You’re not alone. There’s at least seven others our age in this town alone.”

I felt my eyebrows disappearing into the top of my head as my eyes went wide. “What? Really? How? Why? I can’t believe it.” Looking back, I’m shocked at how minimal my reaction was.

“It was Sandy’s mum who started it all. Sandy was being a real pest. On her way to juvenile prison or even real prison in a few years. Not just teenage pranks, but unkind things, nasty stuff. Damaging property and cars and stealing. Really bad. Then she got caught by Jenny’s mum – with a pair of expensive earrings. Major catastrophe as far as SHE was concerned.”

“Both the mums knew of something on the east coast called the Sisterhood. They had this system for teaching macho boys about how damaged they were with testosterone and how exposure to the feminine side would allow them to rebalance themselves and become sane again. They treat excess testosterone as a sort of poison – and dressing up and being as real a girl as possible is one antidote. It’s working for us. So the near-criminal Alexander became Sandra now Sandy, Patrick became Anya, Andy is Annette or Annie, I’m Andrea, and here’s Jackie, oh, and there’s William now Wendy and his brother Ken is Camilla. I’m pretty sure that our neighbour Ben is going to be Brenda the way he’s been carrying on. So there’s lots of us. And did you say that you were a boy too, I wasn’t listening. But it’s such fun. I do so love my dresses.”

“So how badly were you behaving?”

“Not as bad as Sandy. But we were slacking a school, failing to do our homework. Pestering the girls. All sorts. Maybe not so bad – but we are learning and doing better. Otherwise we wouldn’t be allowed to come to this salon.”

The lady dealing with Jackie murmured, “How right you are, my pretty girl. Nicely said – but perhaps a little too informative to someone you’ve not met often before. Eh?”

“Do you think your mother would approve of how you’ve been talking?”

“Oh, please don’t tell on us, Mariette.”

I echoed this. “I already knew most of this. I only didn’t know that this was quite a long-term thing and that there were as many as seven others.”

“No, no, Philippa – seven of our age. There’s lots of others. Not so many younger – but lots older.”

Eyebrows were now reaching the back of my head. Mariette saw my expression and said to Andrea “Bad girl. I said you were taking a risk, that was a warning – and you open your silly mouths more. We all know the cure for that, don’t we?”

Jackie giggled and whispered to me, “we get put into ultra-girly outfits for a while - but we have to be careful not to show we enjoy them - as some of us do. Wendy's mum made him eat a piece of soap for some of the things she said.”

I interrupted, “Oh, Mariette, please don’t do or say anything. Please. I’m sure they meant no harm.”

“Ah, yes. Meant no harm – but were careless with their thinking and their silly little lip-flapping. Alright, girls, you are saved – a bit.”

“But Mariette, only us boy-girls get that …… Oh, Oh my, do you mean really Philippa IS one of us. Oh great. That’s wonderful. I was only joking earlier. I was perhaps hoping that Philippa could join us. It’s been such fun the last year or so.”

My interest was at an all time high. “So what’s been the best bit?”

“It took time – but the best bit is realizing that we are becoming nicer people. We both want to go back to being men – but we love the idea of being able to dress up now and again. Well, rather often actually. It’s been fun a lot of the time. But there have been special times. I remember my first stockings after my legs had been shaved – oh wondrous feel of slide and slither. For Jackie, she loved her first bra more than anything else. Mind you, not the baby-bra things which are little more than strange-shaped vests but when she was allowed her first expensive boobage to put into a bra. 30-B wasn’t it, sweetie?”

“30A and you know it. But I love petticoats too, the way they make my dress billow and flow. Such fun. And I love having long hair. That’s probably the bit I like best now,” was Jackie’s response.

“I never knew anything about this. I had this accident running in the rain to Aunt Maddie’s and all my clothes were completely soaked and muddied. There wasn’t any choice, I had to wear whatever she offered. It’s not as if there were any men in her house. So girl clothes while my own things were sorted out. But it seemed fun to wear skirts for a day or two – and, somehow, I still quite like it. I like the colours most of all, I think.”

“You’re lucky you were just visiting and not here for ‘sistering’ into the club. Then your clothes would have got ruined some way or another and you’d still have finished up wearing skirts and frills. Be thankful that wasn’t what happened to you.”

“Do you get the chance to decide anything for yourself?”

Mariette butted in, “I think you’d better reveal no more of the Sister system, dears. Do I need to speak to your mother or your Big Sister?”

The two girls (well, that’s how I thought of them – despite their shocking revelation) paled at the implied threat. “Sorry Mariette,” they both said – very clearly and firmly.

Now this had me wondering. I didn’t like the idea that any of my friends – or me – was being manipulated. That went against everything I believed in. After all, hadn't I been part of the Head reading out that pamphlet on abuse. Was I being abused? I began to wonder? What answer would I get if I asked?

But was I enjoying wearing pretty clothes – yes.

Was I learning about girls – well, yes again – even if several of them were femme-boys. This was putting my brain into a twirl.

I was confused – but still happy with most of what was happening. But at the back of my mind was ‘what will happen when this holiday is over? Will my parents get to know? How will they react? How did I want them to react? Was I hooked on panties and frills?”

So many questions – so few answers. Did I want to ask Aunt M what was going on? If there was a plan of any sort to put me into dresses?

What answers did I want? Was I going to scream, shout, get angry or submit? Was I now Philippa – or had this been just a brief (pun – sorry) adventure.

"I'll take the pain 'cos I know the gain!"

“I’m not a freak any longer. It was last year I was the freak! Now I'm a real person at last, the inside me is FREE.”
Title edited was : Enduring Pain, Eventual Gain.

An AP-500 Introductory

---

“I’m not a freak any longer. It was last year I was the freak!”

“I don’t understand.”

“Duh. Last year and all the years before have been me pretending to be a boy. And people seeing the girl inside. That’s why they saw a freak and called me a freak. Different. Wrong. Evil. Ungodly. It’s time. I’ve been making changes. And, thank god, there’s only one step to go.”

“You’re VOLUNTEERING for chopping …… ugh …. I can’t think about it.”

“But I can – because my whole heart, soul and mind tell me ‘THAT doesn’t belong THERE. So what am I supposed to do? What sort of a person so hates a piece of their anatomy they’ll go through hatred, loathing, discrimination, anger, nastiness, and all the many sorts of abuse ….. just to get rid of what’s inside my pants.”

Charley sat beside me and let me talk. Perhaps he was too stunned to either argue or respond.

“I know there’s not so many like me. I know there’s far more who just like the feel of women’s clothes. They’re just your typical cross-dresser. Pretty normal – and you can’t quite be certain what’s between their legs. As if it matters. But to go back, I know that YOU can’t even think about the idea of cutting it off. And I saw you cross your legs at the idea. That’s because you’re a boy, a young man. Surely the fact that I can think about it, want it, plan for it, need it GONE. Surely that tells you that I’m not a boy. Certainly not a boy anything like you. Yukk, horrid” I grinned.

“I’m not pretending any more. The camouflage is not what I AM wearing – it was camouflage that I used to wear when I was pretending. Maybe I didn’t know it – but once I began looking deep down – sure enough – deep down I wasn’t good enough at being a boy. Because I’m not a boy. I just have what to me is an ugly dangly useless unwanted thing between my legs.”

“But look here.”

“No, Charley. You look here.” And I pointed at my darling little (oh so little) breasts. “Look. These don’t belong on a boy do they. They’ve begun almost as soon as I took those testosterone-blockers. Even the quacks were surprised at how quickly.”

Of course he wouldn’t look.

“Come on. Be a big boy. I’m a girl and I’m offering you a chance to look at my breasts without me complaining. And, NO, they’re mine and they’re staying out of sight. But they’re real. Yes?”

“Please Charley. I want you to help me here. You’ve known me all these years. Have I been much good as a boy, as a bloke? Hmmm?”

My best friend, my only real friend grinned. Oh thank you God, at last a positive response.

“Debbie, is it? Is that what you said your name was? Well, Debbie, you’re a useless boy – but you’ll do as a girl, heh?”

This is a series of 500 word introductions - if anyone wants to take on any story - best wishes.
 

“I'm not gay! I don't know what I am”

oops Title amended !!
Time to leave the nest.. Home didn’t fit me any more. But ….. I couldn’t guess my future.

---

“No, Dad. I’m not gay. I know that. One of the out-guys tried to flirt with me once – and it was just not for me.”

“But you have so few friends. Don’t friends and, erm, ‘close-friends’ matter to you?”

“Of course. But I have friends – girls mostly as you know. I just can’t turn them into girlfriends. The idea of moving past friend to close to intimate to sex just doesn’t happen.”

I could see the concern on his face – not just that I’d used the ‘sex’ word. I’d done some research. ‘Asexual’ was one box that seemed to fit me – but not accurately. I knew I needed to dig deeper, open up, find a friend to listen and give me feedback. But none of my friends seemed able to take on the task – or maybe I wouldn’t let them in. And who can actually talk to their parents.

“Really, Dad, I need to move away. I know it’s not to ‘to find myself’ but somehow there’s a hole in me that I can’t find how to fill. I’ve got this job so perhaps new things to do will help me find other new things.”

Dad looked sceptical. Mum sat on the sofa, interested, always listening but not often contributing.

“I’m still not sure I understand. But I agree if you say that you’re not sure where you fit in. School and Clubs and so on – there’s always been a sort of ‘Ian doesn’t fit in with some of the others’. Even ‘Ian’s a bit weird, a loner’. Is that really how you feel, boyo.”

“I’ve never put it that strongly. But, yeah, I don’t have anyone I’d call a Best-Friend. I’m not sure how many friends I could even ask for help. Mostly they’re friends-to-do-things-with or good acquaintances. Pathetic really.”

“Don’t Josh and Annie count as good friends. You do enough listening to them. And you’re not pathetic – just uncertain."

“Yeah, but – could I ask them for help? I’ve never done so. Never tried.”

“Then – before you leave this house –ask for their help, their advice. Ask them to listen not just TO you but actually FOR you – so they can help even though they’ve never been asked to. It will be a big step for all of you – I promise.”

“You make it sound really serious, Dad.”

“Chum, you’ve never asked for help much. You’re likely to be leaving these friends behind – don’t you owe them the honour of being real friends to you.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“You don’t get love coming towards you much if you don’t give it out. And lots of people are frightened of giving love in case the target doesn’t understand the gift. I don’t ask for help often. It’s a privilege to be asked to help.”

It turns out,, they had noticed. They did care. They knew the asexual label. And said ‘not’.

But Annie wondered if …... And after a year away, I’m coming back – as a girl.

 
Another 500-word story for anyone to adapt, amend, expand (with proper attribution).

It’s not what I expected. Kinda nice though!

Being helpful can have consequences. Being pretty has consequences too.

An AP-500 story

---

“I just want you to try this on – just for a moment – so I can see what it looks like from a distance.”

I felt really stupid. ‘Helping my Mum’ by wearing a dress. Okay, I did understand, there was a wedding coming up and she wanted to make sure the bridesmaid’s dresses looked good. She’d bought three of these dresses on-line; confident that she could fettle them up.

The wedding was for mum’s younger sister. My two sisters and my cousin were the bridesmaids. BUT. They were away on a school trip. And that left me as the most available target for checking the fit.

Me – John Roberts – having to wear a dress. There’s things I could have guessed I MIGHT do in my life. But wearing a dress was not included.

Mum was focussed on making the dress fit. Pinning here and there. Adjusting, measuring. And she kept on saying not ‘how pretty the dress is’ but ‘how pretty you look’.

It’s difficult to hear a phrase like that some twenty, thirty, fifty times over a weekend without beginning to wonder. Do I look pretty in this dress?

So I looked in the mirror – and I couldn’t see any evidence that I was a boy. Mum had fiddled with my hair, which was as long as my sister Susie’s. I looked pretty much like any of the other girls at school dressed all fancy for their end-of-term party. I fluffed my hair – just once – but mum noticed. I saw her smile.

I didn’t notice then but for the next few fittings, mum made sure that the dresses had smooth linings, sleek and sheer and wonderful. On the other hand, she also made sure that I was putting on the harshest, scratchiest of my wardrobe - home-made jerseys and heavy denim jeans, for instance.

And it did make a difference. Was I silly to say so. Did it give Mum the opportunity to press me, as much as mothers ever do (ha), into just that little step further?

Almost without realizing it, while mum made more alterations, she had me wearing a housecoat. Now I know it’s an old-fashioned description of a dress with pockets! But it did feel nicer than those jeans and jerseys.

‘Accidentally’ she had me sitting by her vanity-table while she fixed something. Seeing all those pots and potions – what does an inquisitive boy do. I inquisited. Mum offered to show me what some of the things could do. And, are you amazed, I looked even more girly. And I liked it.

“What do you think of that, then?

It feels weird – do you put this stuff on your face every day?”

“Not every day, no. But often. It makes me feel extra pretty. Look what a different lipstick does for me.” And she showed me. Then she put lipstick on me!

“What do you think of that.”

I licked my lips. The slippery slidy feeling was …… I don’t have the words. I smiled.

Another 500-word story that people can amend, adapt, expand provided they attribute properly.

“I’m going to HAVE to wear a bra! No way!”

“Stand up, Mike. And take your shirt off. ……… Well, that’s unusual.”
Some time later ……"NO, Mum. I’m never going to wear a bra. Never.”
“I’m not sure those, erm, chesty-things give you a choice!”

An AP-500 story

---

My recent rules are to post one or two of these shorties at a time and to post more when one gets to a thousand hits. Recently that’s been very quick. I’ve posted 20+ of these 500 stories since September; 2 have hit 2,000 hits and a couple are closing on 100 kudos. I’m keen to see of one of these will trigger ME to write a continuation – but, so far, not yet. I have some longer ones as work-in-progress but they haven’t got to a breakpoint yet.
-------------------------------------------------------------

“But Mum, I’m sure they’re going away. They’ve got to be smaller than they were.”

“How long have you known about those, these, them?”

“Mum, I know it’s not possible but the proper word has to be ‘boobs’.”

“Excuse me boy-child. Vulgar boys may call them that, but girls and women call them breasts. Generally. How long?”

“I first noticed a couple of months ago.”

“Really. I’d guess you noticed longer ago than that.”

“Well, maybe. But I tried to ignore the whole thing. I mean, how many guys of seventeen start growing boobs. It ain’t many. I can’t guess how many sites, how many hours I’ve spent on the web. Boy-boobs are really kinda rare. And having two and sort of symmetrical – that’s just off the scales rare. And I’m not a girl. I make sure of that every day or so.”

“Yes, yes. I know about that. I have to wash your things, don’t I?”

And if she was blushing ….. it was a mere pink flicker to the beetroot colour I must have been showing.

“There’s a few things we’re going to have to do.”

“I sort of guessed you’d know what to do.”

“Know – huh. Ain’t no guidebooks to ‘my son is getting breasts’, y’know. But we can start with a bra or two.”

“Really.”

“Of course. Don’t be silly. Breasts need a bra, and spares to cover laundry and so on. And we need to talk with some professional.”

“Not Dr Sherman.”

“No, dear. She may be our family doctor, but she’s nearly 65 and I think we need someone who knows us a little less thoroughly, not a family friend. Yes?”

I wasn’t arguing – about that. But I did try to argue about the bras. “Do I really need a bra?”

“I said yes. I meant yes. More accurately, the mammary development generally attributable to female puberty beginning to protrude from your chest heretofore labelled as masculine requires the assistance of suitable clothing in aid of preventing discomfort.”

“I guess that means I have to wear a bra.”

“Duh! Just to make it a little less obvious you’re a boy. I’ll give you some of your sister’s things to wear and I’ll fluff your hair a bit girly.”

“What if I don’t want …”

Mum interrupted. “If you’re willing to go buy lingerie as a clearly not-girl, that’s your choice. I just wouldn’t recommend it. Even if we’re going not locally to Munchester .”

Soon, I was wearing Evie’s jeans, a t-shirt (with ruffled shoulders) and a necklace. And I looked ok. Not that I dared say so.

“Actually, you look ok.” Said Mum. And I was dithered enough to smile back. “Have you ever tried on any of Evie’s things before?”

“What. No. Never. Yukk. No way.”

“Oh well, then you look surprisingly good. Quite relaxed too.”

“No way. Although the clothes themselves feel nice, dressing as a girl ……. Absolutely NO.”

Mum giggled, “That’s what you say now!” Are all Mums are fortune-tellers?.

Another AP-500 story - please grow it some more. AP

“I’m going to have to wear a bra – to SCHOOL!?

If you think things were going a bit off-the-scale, then you’d be right.

This began as one of my AP-500 pieces. I got one very useful comment about 'why and how' which got me moving and has turned into this continuation. Thanks AP

---

Back home, wearing my new bra – and feeling MUCH more comfortable with that weight getting proper support. (Actually, NOW I know better and that my breasts at that age and size were quite little. But perhaps it was the psychological weight) ………………….the questions began.

It turned out that it wasn’t as if Mum had been ‘wanting or waiting to turn me into a daughter’ or any of the TS-daughter cliches you get in some of the stories. And yes, my search for explanations had taken me into ‘boys with bras’ and that had taken me to all sorts of stories. Some were quite clever. Some reminded me that too often there was really nasty stuff at TS-TG people even at just TV people who seemed to be put into the same box. Actually no, not nasty, really really vicious illogical stuff from people’s own family, parents, siblings. Nasty. Cruel.

“Was I taking anything?” “No. Nothing except the food you give me.”
“Had I been stealing her pills?” “Do I look stupid?”
Was I taking anything to make me ‘more macho’?" “No. Definitely no.”
“Do you feel girly.” “No. Not at all.”

Mum was still unusually calm. I’d expected her to go ballistic. She’s been blunt enough about her feelings on gays and lesbians. Perhaps a bit less acid on ‘those who can’t help it’ but -wow- her feelings towards what she called ‘preying perverts latching on to vulnerable youngsters’.

Then there began a raft of questions on my social life. Who, When, Where. You’d have almost got the idea she was accusing me of being a ‘vulnerable youngster consorting with ‘things like that’.

It came out a lot later why she was less anti to the TS-TG package. She’d been a tomboy for ages, until nearly 16 or even 17. There’d been a group of them, boys and girls, pretty well mixed and treating each other hugely as ‘people’. She said ‘with us, sex never really got going, never knew why. But we stayed relaxed about it for years past our age-equals. Then it all went wrong’. That – she never spoke about. I guessed that it was an outsider who broke down their barriers and …… even you can guess that story.

Mum was really pushy. “Have you worn girl’s clothing before?” Of course not. I’m only wearing this stuff because you told me to and a boy buying a bra is kind-of unusual. So your idea was sensible. But I’m not doing this girlstuff unless I have to.”

“So you have some plan, eh, to make those go away? I can’t say this is something that has even been on my agenda. But, being blunt, you have tits. Tits need bras. QED You need bras. Therefore you now have several."

"But what about school? I can’t wear a bra to school. I’d be beaten up. The bullies and anti-freaks would have a field day. Member of the First cricket squad – wearing a bra. It ain’t going to look good."

"Oh sweetie."

(AP note 500 to here; I’m keeping going!)

"Don’t ‘oh sweetie’ me. I need help just to live through the next few weeks."

“Oh, well, yes. Of course. But that’s short-term. We’ve got to look at the long-term. See some specialists and maybe a shrink too. Not that you’re nuts, merely we need to get you to a professional who’s met more than just one like you and several parents like me. We’re going to need help. And a sports bra too!"

“What about cricket? Can you do your stuff in a sports-bra. Almost whatever you do, it’s going to show up. Then there’s showers. And the stories of the mucking about.”

"I’m going to have to bite the bullet. If I want to play, and I do, then I’ll have to find some sort of ‘medical issue’."

"Just an idea – but why not talk to a local ladies cricket team. Starting at the top, there’s now a county team that practise at the Town Ground. They’ll know how to play in a bra. They don’t have a choice – and they’ll be able to give you some advice at least."

That was one of mum’s better ideas. Actually, it turned out that few of the cricket-girls had any special ideas apart from ‘Make sure it fits’ and ‘Buy several as they don’t last’. I’d gone along as a reasonable facsimile of a girl – in a sundress anyway, so perhaps they thought my questions were just as one girl to others. But later I got chatting with a couple of them. The two I got talking to, Patsy and Annabel, said ‘We can tell that you’re not, um, a real girl because you’re showing a bit of beard-shadow”

I went white (suitable for a cricketer) and began to stand up to get away.

Annabel giggled. “Hold on. We’re wanting answers. And we may want to help. Are you trying to talk to us to be pervy – in which case I’m going to rip your dress off, ring the police and chase you around with a cricket bat.”

“No – I’m not pervy. I’m kinda scared. But not of you, if you’ll listen. I’m a guy. A bloke. Who until recently thought I was absolutely 100% bloke-normal. Then I start growing these, erm,

“Boobs, dear, Girls call them boobs. Well I do.”

I’m not quite crying at this point. “I really really need someone to help me here.”

They listened while I told the appalling story of my pair of problems – school and sport.

And this wasn’t even yet the evening of the second day.

“And what are you wanting to ask, kiddo?”

“If, no, when I play cricket – will the other lads be able to see that I’m wearing a bra?”

“Can’t tell a lie – yep. It’s going to show. Black, white, camouflage, lacy,“ giggle“ or sporty – it’s gonna be on show.”

I slumped to the table, putting my head in my hands. As I did so, I bumped my breasts on the edge of the table. “Ow.” And put my hands up to rub them, well it (the right one) gently. and 500 more

“Oh, baby. That kinda proves those are real and, erm, genuine.” She leant over and patted me on the shoulder, then moved closer and hugged me.

“Tricky, isn’t it. You want something, life looks okay, then -BANG-and you’re swerving all over the road and you don’t know what’s going to happen next. Yeah?”

“I might have phrased it differently about my whole life turning into a pile of s-h-1-t – but yes. Truly ‘tis cried aloud ‘Woe, woe, thrice woe. All is doom, gloom and bloody’.”

“Child, if you’re going to quote Frankie Howard, get it right. Though your amendment is quite neat.”

“So – what explanation are you going to go with? Can you delay until you get a chromosome test – if you’re one of the rare ones who isn’t XX or XY ‘cos there are XXYs and so on. Or maybe you’ve got some other chemical medical biological problem that explains things. Personally, I think there’s probably tactical benefits for you being a few percent more macho just to emphasise that having boobs is not making you a sissy, not turning you into a girl. I’d go with it’s rare but it does happen. Say you’ve been shown the research and mislead people a little. Nothing as big as a lie. Say it’s not on the web because of research confidentiality or such.“

“Is research your thing?”

“No. I’ve just spent some time learning how to mislead people – mostly men.” They all grinned.

“Also there’s the ultra-sports-bra option for a week or so. Then let’s hope your medical people come up with a worthwhile explanation – for a school cricketer in the boy’s team to have to wear a bra. “ Patsy smiled.

“So. Go back to your mum. You’re going to have to wear a bra. Pretty soon, you’ll have to wear one for sports and then maybe at school too. Like it or not, and I’ll say ‘not’, those little puppies are getting too obvious to hide. Get a story together. Make it airtight and unarguable – add some macho to balance the accusations of girly and sissy. And come back and tell us how it’s going. And if you do get a lot of hassle from your club, join us. We can set up a new rule that anyone with a bra can play for us. If you need any, um, support from us, then get in touch. You’ve got our emails and so on.”

Annabel was scribbling as Patsy added her bit. Then she read out her scribble, "Woe, woe, thrice woe. Boom, vavavoom, boobies bloom, no womb, new broom, and I can’t yet fit tomb, room, loom or groom. I’m not trying to make you laugh. But point a set of rhyming words at me and I get all excited.”

“That’s all it takes to get you excited, well, well.” Patsy murmured. “I’d never guessed. At best your verse is worse.”

“It’s time to go before you hurl anymore worse verse at me. So, many thanks, you’ve given me some good ideas. But, really, you think I’m going to have to wear a bra – to school?”

“Yes.”

---

This time, I’ve been excellently prompted and here is a second piece.

IF and I say IF this continues it may be ‘I’m going to have to wear a SKIRT; (perhaps he might start to play on the girl’s team) I’m going to have to wear xxxxxx [help please]

I haven’t a clue what the doctors might find and then suggest. I don’t have a clue why this cricket idea has come from! A lot comes from how the as yet unnamed boy is ‘discovered’ and exactly how it goes with ‘are all mums fortune-tellers’. I just don’t know yet.

"Look what I’ve found!"

Finders Keepers, Suitcase Peepers.

Another AP-500 story

---

Jeff had pulled the suitcase out of the hedge. We’d dragged it back to the house so we could investigate it properly. The first glance had shown that it was full of clothes. Girl’s clothes, or women’s clothes maybe.

“Hey, look.” Jeff held up a bra – we’d seen enough on the web to know what it was.

“What size is it?” asked Ken.

“Wat’cher want to know that for?” I said, (Pete).

“If it’s small – then this is girl’s stuff. If it’s big it’s mum-stuff.”

“It says 30 A – what’s that mean?”

“Come on. All the stuff on the websites – 36 is ordinary. There’s women going up to 40 and 45 and 50. Enormous. Tits like footballs.”

“30A is for girls. A is for boob and A is tiny. And 30 is the roundabout measurement.”

“Cor, Ken, you seem to know somethin’ about it all.”

“Well, yeah. I’ve got me mum who wanders round in her dressing gown. Three sisters older than me and Diane who’s a bit younger. Even if she’s taller than me already. I know too much about girls and what they get up to.”

“It’s good that you know about bras,” chirped Rod.

“Too much sometimes. They tried to dress me up one time. I learnt more than I ever needed about girl’s stuff that time. Not for me.”

“What was it like, eh?”

“Wat’yer mean. It was girls’ stuff. Not for me. Even if Di said I looked ever-so-pretty. Yuk.”

“Didn’t you enjoy any of it. Some of this stuff’s awfully pretty!” Oops. I had to ask.

“You wouldn’t like it if you were forced to wear stuff.”

“Nah. But what if someone tried it on for fun. Instead of being made to or forced to.”

“Are you suggestin’ ?”

“No. Just wonderin’. There’s a lot of stuff here. We should at least check it out. Perhaps there’s some stuff to give to your sisters or my sister – we’d gain some points if we gave them some nice prezzies, yeh?”

“Seems a funny way to find them some presents by trying it on first.”

“Oh, come on. When are we ever going to have a chance like this again. And if it doesn’t fit, we’ve wasted ten minutes. If any of it does fit, we can pretend a bit more. Y’know.”

Eventually, three curious just-teenage boys couldn’t resist investigating. We tried everything. And some of them felt so … different. Once we’d struggled with the buttons being inside out, we got on better. Eventually, it turned out that more things fit me than any of the others. I was taller but skinnier. The bra fit me – that felt just ‘really-weird’. The panties – nice-weird, the skirt – draughty-weird, the shoes – I couldn’t stand properly in them so found myself tottering round trying to keep my balance.

But after a while – I got used to them. I liked them. They felt ….. pleasing and …… I wasn’t excited by the clothes but there was something nice about them.

An AP-500 story (500 words basic text) available for anyone to take over and build on. AP

“My bra really doesn’t fit me. Can you help me?”

I’m a fairly ordinary 22 year-old bloke – but I love to wear proper underwear. And I don’t actually mean what is labelled as ‘proper’ for men but what I enjoy. Like I said (eventually) “It’s just what I like to do. I enjoy it. It’s private."

An AP-500 story

---

It’s a private thing. I don’t conceal it – well of course I do. What I mean is that I try not to flaunt my special interest. I enjoy, I love nice underwear. Girl’s underwear as a boy. Women’s underwear now I’m older.

Generally I wear panties, popsox or even stockings and a vest or cami. I do wear a bra sometimes because I like the feel of it and the way it holds me tight. I wear nighties of course and pretty bedroom slippers with little heels and trim. Just at home, though.

I didn’t often have friends to come over. Usually we’d meet in town, do things and separate. But it had poured down and my house was nearby for Verity to recover. We had a cuppa and talked. More and better than ever before.

Verity saw the slippers in the spare bedroom (I don’t know what they were doing there but it offered an escape for me). Verity began to ask more questions. Who, when, why, where, which, how and all that.

Because it was private, I’d never really prepared answers. I never expected to be quizzed. Let alone interrogated.

After a while, when I’d passed the event off as ‘sort-of cousin; months ago; visiting for an interview; from Liverpool and other vague answers’; eventually Verity smiled.

“That’s all very interesting. I didn’t really know you that well. I never knew about the cousins – why would I? But I’m puzzled as to why the slippers’re still hanging around. Oh well. If they’re yours that’s your private business.”

I tried not to blush – and more or less succeeded. I tried to hide any response. I think I failed.

“Oh, they ARE yours. Oh well. That’s still a private thing for you. But I’m surprised you only having slippers.” She smirked. “Would I find more if I looked?”

I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Well, well. You do have more. I’ve never met anyone with your particular interest. I’m being very forward, very pushy – but is this just dressing-up or are you, what’s the word, transgender? I’d guess you’re not gay – you don’t have that vibe.”

I could tell that her concern was real. Well, hindsight does prove that to be true. But at the time, I was panic-struck. Discovered!! All the worst stories came to mind. Betrayed!! Forced!! Blackmailed!! And Worse………

“I really don’t care. My brother’s gay as a gay-thing; my uncle’s been known to dress up at Halloween – actually every Halloween and at other times for ‘fancy dress’. Say the word, and I’ll never mention it – or say another word – and I’ll help.”

What could I say. “I’ve tried to keep it private – and I’ve now failed. I enjoy dressing up.”

“That’s alright then. Would you like to show me what you’ve got – not today, but sometime soon. And perhaps we can get you some better things. Do you have any bras yet?”

I mumbled. “My only bra really doesn’t fit. Can you help me?”

Another 500 word story to borrow (and acknowledge) - and enjoy. AP

"My name is Francesca. I'm so glad to meet you."

It’s been a learning process. When did makeup and clothing become my camouflage? And now it’s become real.

---

Today – I’ve been taking my first real steps into the real world. I’m trying to be sensible. To look ‘ordinary’ as much as I can. I’ve toned down my makeup after looking at hours of Youtube and especially some live tuition from Thea, my wife. I’ve changed my clothes from my once-preferred evening-style of loud, if not garish. It’s been a long, hard, driven learning process.

Because I want to be out in the world as a woman. Looking like a thirty-two year old woman. Being treated as a thirty-two year old woman. It’d be nice if people thought I was younger – but, hey, that’s the face and body I’ve got underneath the outward camouflage. Er, that is, camouflaging because I’m a man.

I may not feel like the average man – whoever, whatever that might be. I do know that not many men enjoy panties, stockings, bra and so on. Although who can tell what underwear lurks beneath many a business suit? And, this time, I’m not wearing a man’s business suit. I’m wearing a really stylish skirt and jacket two-piece in pastel green with new smart lingerie to linger over. My hair looks feminine. My makeup proclaims it further. Today I am Francesca.

I have a wife who is incredibly understanding. Thea’s the one who has persuaded me that it’s time. And if I could love her more than before – now is the time.

-----------------------------------

To tell you about me I have to say my story starts pretty typically. In my case, my sister was three years younger and therefore smaller. So I began my “experimenting” with my mother’s items. I would try my look every chance I got when I was home alone.

About a year later, I even began to try make up. I don’t have to tell anyone that those early attempts were what I would have called my “clown” time. As I got older and began to earn my own money I stopped using her things and bought my own. My collection was small, very small, but it was mine.

Needless to say, my efforts did not pass unnoticed. Parents aren’t unobservant or stupid, well, not all of them. Sister Sarah blew the gaff, so to speak. (What a strange picture that provokes). My mother noticed more than a few times, demanded explanations, demanded that I stop, demanded that I make promises. She threw away my stash more than once. My father said a few times ‘he’ll grow out of it’ then began to get more and more irritated. But I didn’t. I just got a great deal more careful.

My family did not encourage me, quite the opposite. Over the next five years, I was given the chance to speak with at least four different shrinks to be “fixed” of my “problem”. Now it wasn’t all bad. By talking with these professional manipulators, I developed skills that have done me well.

I learned to read people and get an idea of what they were thinking before they said anything. I also got very good at controlling a conversation, only giving enough to keep the dialog and not letting them dig but never anything of real substance. It also drove me deeper into “hiding”. I made sure no one was going to learn about Francesca (as I called her). This went on well into my college years.

While in school, I pushed the limit. Only by hindsight do I realize the risk I took. I would often wear panties to school. In the winter I would a few times wear a cami under my sweat shirt. The heavy material would help to hide the straps. I loved the feeling of being dressed. I began to notice that I did better while taking exams when I did this. It was really hard to explain and if you don’t understand I still can’t find the words to fully explain it. I dressed at home behind locked doors and closed curtains. I got better with makeup and studied women. I would walk and work on my voice and really did all I could to perfect Francesca.

In college, I also found a decent job that gave me enough money to live in a studio apartment. I was able to give Francesca even more freedom. Large lecture classes allowed me to hide in plain sight as well. No one really cared and I found that I could venture outside. I could actually give Francesca the chance to feel the sun on her face and wind on her legs. To my considerable surprise, there were several others at college that dressed and a few who had moved into transitioning so it was even easier to make the choice to step further, and Francesca took it.

My job as a shop assistant made it feasible that I could begin dressing a bit more ambiguously there. As I progressed through college, I worked in different shops. Each new location gave Francesca that little more ability to be more open. It was a dream come true.

I was still dating girls from time to time and my years of protecting Francesca meant I would keep her well hidden from them. Although as time passed, it was more and more obvious that Francesca was a major part of me. My little studio was impossibly small to conceal two people living there. And any girl I took home would have to be dim or stupid or maybe blind not to notice. Some did – and made it clear that they weren’t interested. Two noticed and made offers to, well, not actually help but that they didn’t mind – much.

It just became too apparent that girls were not going to be interested in Francesca. It caused issues for me and, well my relationships generally didn’t last more than a few months. It wasn’t like I avoided physical contact or sexual activity with some of them it was … well honestly it was just not going to work. Looking back I think that Francesca had a lot to do with those failed relationships. Obviously, at some level the internal drive to give her freedom had a lot of influence. I wasn’t remotely interested in men or being with a man.

There seems to be a common belief, if you want to call it that, that there are basically three “levels” of Crossdressers or Crossdressing. The first of these is what is referred to as fetish dressing. These people have no intention of doing anything other than wearing items of feminine attire. They have no desire to even attempt to emulate the female persona. This is purely a very temporary thing for little more than the thrill of it - and rather often, one outcome is masturbation. I was very certain that dressing was essential to me. And I was increasingly willing to dress all the time.

The next group that they describe are interested in emulating the female persona but again only in a temporary manner. These people will make a concerted effort to “pass” when dressed but will maintain primarily their male person. They often shave and will wear makeup to enhance their appearance. Some may have longer hair or a feminine hair style but most still use wigs. They will have some sort of breast enhancement to complete the female form as well. It can vary from simple to, pun, actual forms to give them this look. I was equally certain that I didn’t want anything permanent to be done to my body. I still felt enough of a man to want to be with a woman in a long-term relationship. Provided Francesca could be there too.

Last of these groups are what they consider people who are or likely to be moving towards complete transition. They dress mainly in a feminine style as often as possible, even every day. They will go to considerable, if not extreme, lengths to improve their feminine appearance. The effort is to not only present and pass as female but to be accepted as such. Many of these people are planning or have begun the process of transition with the intent of complete sexual reassignment as their end goal. A few have moved to this point and chosen to maintain this place with no intention of progression; that is, to be as much of a woman as they can appear while retaining their dangles. This group is most commonly associated with the intent of maintaining the most feminine persona possible. This was not for me.

Now I took the time to add these notes because it helps me understand where I fit in. If you don’t have a clue about the varied styles of T – then your potential for understanding is very limited. I summarise the three groups as Appear, Be and Chop. That might be a bit simplistic, even vulgar. But perhaps sometime the ABC sequence might be useful.

You might wonder if I was one of those who ever purged. Of course. It’s very hard to be ‘different’. And cross-dressing is about the most public method of being different that there can be. I have heard of people who have said they could simply give it up. Some have. Others have tried and the attempt to has caused a great deal of issues for them. Each time I gave up – it was really hard and each time as a result of some sort of breakup in a relationship.

It’s easiest to purge when it’s only clothing. When you’ve begun to live or even work a woman, then purging means trying to throw part of yourself away. I’m not denying the female-ness of many who do cross-dress. But my personal view – and I have talked with a lot of fellow-travellers – is that it isn’t always essential to their daily life. It’s just important and significant. Perhaps I mean their T-ism is under control. But those in the second and even third group can and do purge – even if it does hurt. I have heard of the stories where people have purged several times. Then, after a purge, it was generally only a few weeks before the need had them slowly but very surely rebuilding their former wardrobe. I have often wondered how much money these people pump into the economy every year? I am sure the amount would surprise most of us. I can tell you I have done it several times.

What is important to remember is that it isn’t just a few items of clothing we are talking about. For people in deep into the second group, this would mean realistic breast forms and quality wigs. Extensive wardrobes including shoes and accessories. These people often have built their collections large enough to require their body-sharer to have their own closet and dresser. Sometimes, the body-sharer takes over a whole room.

Shortly after I graduated and found a better job, I met Thea. She was great. For the first time in a while I wanted to put Francesca back in full-time hiding. Sort of coincidentally, the job required me to be Derek rather than Francesca.

So much so that I did my first really committed purge. It was huge. Everything went, one weekend when Thea and I had been together for a month or so and I knew it was time. Francesca had to go. Over the past four years, Francesca had amassed a substantial wardrobe. High quality breast forms and several natural hair wigs. I hated the thought of getting rid of everything I had but I knew it was what I needed to do. In time we got engaged and married. Over the next few years, I managed to keep Francesca gone. Occasionally I felt her presence and her desire to return but I had always managed to keep it locked away. Seeing other girls wearing something that I knew would suit Francesca was probably the biggest trigger. Although seeing a successful T out and publicly happy, usually as a media splash, was an even more significant reason for her to press for release. If the T being ‘outed’ was reasonably pretty then the pressure was greater. By now, I knew that I didn’t want to be a fake-woman appearing over-the-top but much more 'just another woman' and thus being typical and ordinary. After all, that was how I had survived both college and the several previous jobs.

I knew that if I had been bold enough before Thea, then I would have moved from a simple dresser to a second-stage full-time woman or as near as I could get. But I thought the purge was essential. I knew some of the stories. That no matter what they / we say or want to believe, the reality is that many purge several times. But then comes the rebuild; the drive is just too strong and in the end for many of us the reality is the feminine persona will win almost every time. There are those who manage to break the loop, even if it is a form of addiction, but the hurt is so hurting.

This was the case with me as well. Slowly, very slowly, I began, I had to begin, to collect new items. I was careful to make sure Thea never knew. I made sure that I only got an item here and there. It was well over a year before I purchased a wig and then several more months before I replaced my breast forms. Little by little, Francesca was beginning to win. No matter how I tried she was gaining an advantage.

The downfall of anyone that is trying to hide isn’t the sudden discovery of what they have been trying to hide. No, it is the little slips. The small errors that begin to give them away. None on their own mean anything. Each so generally small enough that it barely draws attention, however like a puzzle, each piece begins to show a picture. As the picture begins to be even faintly complete the urge to purge happens again. It may be only the new-woman who feels the picture is showing; there may be nothing noticeable yo others. But there is fear. Fear of the wrong response. Fear of attack, abuse, hatred, loss of, well, everything.

By purging, deniability stops the progression of the picture. Taking it all the way back to zero for a period of time. The reality again is that for many of us with each purge the time between purge and rebuilding is less. The drive is stronger, the need more. It begins so great an internal struggle that it eats at the soul and again “she” wins. To fight against your body-sharer, your 'twin' is ghastly. It feels wrong, self-cruel.

This was the case and finally, I was getting to a position where I would have to come out. I would have to admit everything including the existence of Francesca. Of course, I was scared to death but knew that I had no choice. I expected there would be crying and yelling. There would anger, retaliation, nastiness. I'd read about it. I'd heard about it. I knew it was the usual outcome. I was going to walk away. I was ready to sacrifice everything I had with Thea. Even I didn’t know how but I planned on it.

But somehow, this was not what happened.

Thea surprised me. She didn’t want me to purge again she said that she supported me and wanted me to pull 'it' all out of hiding and put my Francesca-things away. I was shocked and didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t purged yet and was still struggling with the idea of having to do it yet again, but this reaction by my darling Thea was totally off the wall.

She insisted that she understood, though she was not overly supportive. I slowly accepted what she said and a few days later had managed to put things away. The challenge wasn’t getting the clothing and various items out but finding a place for them. Gradually, Thea got used to the occasional glimpse of Francesca. I would comment on outfits differently. I would talk about girl-type topics that I had previously avoided - and I would do this whether not-dressed (the usual format) or not.

Now, Thea and I both worked at the same company but, for departmental reasons, she went to work about an hour before me. It wasn’t really so bad. We got up at the same time and she got ready and then I did. A lot of the time we rode together and I did some early work while waiting for my team. When overtime was offered to her, it worked great because we both could come and leave at the same time and each get an hour of overtime. But, then, for a few days, she would leave right away and meet me at home. I didn’t really know why and she just said she needed to go someplace or get something. It didn’t seem like a big deal so I never really said much.

It was the Saturday morning of a Bank Holiday weekend, when I discovered what she was doing. We had gone out the night before and got home kinda late so it was straight to bed and get some sleep. The next morning I went to get my underwear when I discovered that I didn’t have any…. none. In the sock drawer were stockings. That was all, just stockings. I checked the next drawer for pants and found only panties, bras and camis. The drawers were full too, way more than I had had. I pushed things left and right when she walked in.

Thea asked, “What is wrong?”

“Ah, just looking.” I said.

Thea just kind of smiled and went on, “Well I got you some new things. I figured you need a few more and then figured we didn’t have enough room for that old stuff and got rid of them.”

Not fully grasping the comment replied, “Really, why?”

Thea with a slight smile replied, “Why not? I mean you like them. You prefer to wear them so why keep the other stuff?”

Now there was no argument there. I honestly didn’t even have a lame excuse for her. It all seemed perfectly normal and made sense to me.

Thea stopped a moment and said, “You do need to fix something, though.”

I just said, “What?”

Thea looking and sounding serious said, “Well you need to shave… a lot. Actually completely.”

Still not completely getting it responded, “I do?”

Thea went on saying, “Of course, that or I don’t help. In for a penny in for a pound. You can do it this evening.”

The rest of the day, I thought this through. Again no matter how I tried I didn’t seem to be any reason for me to not do what she was suggesting. Honestly, I-Francesca had always wanted to but how could I-Derek have hidden that? But what Thea was asking was for Franceca to become much more real - even to become part of our life. How would this work out for the best. And whose best?

So when I got home she handed me the cream and off to the bathroom I went. The stuff smelled awful and kind of burned a little. When I was done I rubbed the sweet flower-scented lotion that she recommended on my feeling-very-naked body. It felt wonderful, cool and soothing. I then went to get dressed and now discovered that all my shorts and t-shirts were now gone. I found something to wear and met her in the kitchen.

I looked and Thea and said, “Honey, I can’t find my shorts and shirts.”

Without missing a beat, she said, “Of course.”

My only response was, “Of course?”

Thea just went on calmly, “Francesca, there is no way a woman would wear those things so I got rid of them. Besides, you look good. Not great but good.”

We slept really well that night. Thea had given me a long satin nightie and it felt wonderful on my freshly-shaved skin. Strangely, we awoke in the morning naked and sweaty. Surprise, hey?

In the morning, she said 'just wear your pretty Chinese dressing-gown until we've finished'. So after a lot of sorting out my new wardrobe, the drawers and how to share not enough space, she insisted on another quick shower before I got dressed.

At lunchtime, Thea insisted we just had a small snack. As soon as we finished eating and tidying up, Thea got her coat and bag and got me ready to go out too. All she said was we had a lot to do and needed to get going. I hurried and got in the car and before I knew it we were at the salon.

Thea said, “Come on we have appointments.”

I stared at her and said, “We?”

Thea replied, “Yes, we. Don’t worry it will be fine, more than fine.”

The next few hours were almost more than I was ready for – certainly more than I could have expected. We both got the full treatment. Makeovers, nails, the works. When I was done, I was really surprised at how feminine I looked. The scary and ugly part was my hair-style which was still significantly a la male but strangely attached to a very feminine face, hands and toes. I-Francesca hated it.

Thea came over carrying a bag and I was led off to a small room. With a little help, I attached some very very realistic breast forms. The C-cup forms were blended in with a make-up stick so that there was no obvious way to tell they weren’t real. I got dressed and came back out.

Now when I saw myself, still the only way anyone could tell was the hair style. I was seated again and after a review of what Thea and India felt were suitable options, Thea insisted that I have my hair cut into a pixie-style. It felt wonderful. The end result was a woman. To say I passed was an understatement. I would have to “prove” I wasn’t Francesca now. I honestly didn’t even recognize myself. After deciding that a wig would alson be necessary, they/we settled on a dark brown with slight red tint shoulder-length natural hair wig.

The next stop was lunch and a day of shopping. When we got home I discovered that the only thing male left was me. Nothing I had left was male. I looked through the closet wondering how I was going to go to work or anywhere. Thea just pointed out that given the way I look now I would look stupid trying to dress and look male. Since this was what I always wanted to do I now could easily do it. I could “hide in plain sight”.

Thea pointed out that I had just spent the entire day in public with hundreds of people seeing me and no one cared. I wanted to protest but it wasn’t going to do much good and given that I only had a feminine wardrobe didn’t matter anyway. The rest of the weekend we went all over so I could get used to Francesca being out.

During Sunday and Monday, Thea contacted some of the key people at work who would have to decide how to deal with the arrival of Francesca. To our mutual amazement, there was almost no problem. Even though several photographs had been asked for and sent to show that I wasn’t obvious as a ‘man in drag’ – it was so easy. Thea had studied the company policy of minorities – especially the section on LGB and T. A key part of this was that the company would support any minority but that the move towards transition had to be clear, determined and not temporary. In return, they would give a reasonable transition bonus from a special fund.

Tuesday morning I got dressed and made sure my makeup was just right. I chose a basic look for work and took a deep breath as we left the house. The sound of my heels clicking on the pavement was deafening. As expected, I was asked that morning to arrive early to ensure, let’s say, mutual acceptance of my presentation. And to get a new Security Card and to update all the HR details.

I walked in with Thea and took the first new step. “Good morning, my name is Francesca Wilkins. I’m so glad to meet you all here today. I hope I meet with your approval. I know I’m happier than I’ve been for ages.”

Everything was intensified as I made my way in and to my desk. I just focused on the work and tried to relax. Over the rest of the day the girls on my team congratulated me on my look and how glad they were that I had taken this step. To my surprise, none of them said anything about expecting such a change. I had thought that at least some of my Francesca-persona might have been in evidence before – but apparently not. By the time I left work I was relaxed and increasingly comfortable with myself. I was also very happy with my team and their response.

By the end of the week, I felt totally natural and the familiar feeling of peace and contentment was back. But clearer and cleaner and so much better then ever before.

Over the next weeks and months I became more relaxed and more free, I dressed in less “stuffy” manners and more like the rest of the women. I had improved my voice and mannerisms. My hair was now long enough for a cut, colour and style so the wigs were gone.

I had really become Francesca on nearly every level.

---

Note : some of the comments are adapted from responses about Transgender folk which I found on the web sometime; and I didn't keep the references. Oops - sloppy.

"One small step for a man."

Well, high heels aren’t for boys.

An AP-500 story

---

“Honey chile, if’n you don’ take little teeny weeny steps yo gonna fall flat splat on that fancy new ass of yours.” The accent was as fake as I was.

I was tottering up the stairs in my new dress. New bra and sleek panties slinking my skin. Garter-belt and stockings exciting my legs. The mid-blue jersey dress clinging like nothing I’d ever worn before. And I was trying to escape in case that woman saw me.

I was sure that everyone could see that I had VPL (visible-panty-line) VB (visible-bra) VC (visible crotch) VE (visible everything). I wasn’t feeling comfortable or confident.

And the shoes. I’d never worn shoes like this before. They had at least four-inch heels, a tiny strap round my ankles (and that had been so hard to fit together). And my poor toes were almost weeping with pain after twenty minutes. We were still in the shop but the gorgeous girl helping me choose new footwear was insisting that I keep these ‘cruel and unusual punishments’ on and walk around in order to ‘get used to them’.

She made me go up stairs and down. She made me twirl when I put on a selection of dresses and outfits.

This was such an expensive day. But I was enjoying it. I felt relaxed and released as never before.

And why? Because a girl, young woman really, was helping me look better, as a woman, than I had ever looked before. It’s not to hard to make an improvement on a bloke in his thirties who wants to wear a dress. And all the underpinnings and accessories. Even if he’s just on 6 foot tall and kind-of solid.

The assistant was a glorious coffee-coloured Brazilian import. We’d done quite a lot of talking during our session – now approaching two hours. She knew my name. She knew what I said I wanted. And she knew what I really wanted but could not speak about.

I panicked when I saw Jewel come into the shop. Jewel was a catty, sly, sometime-friend. Seeing me all dressed up would be just awful. Golia noticed instantly, And that’s when she made her comment about me falling over if I wasn’t careful.

So I was pretty obvious – and not pretty. And in those heels, I towered above everyone like Gulliver in Lilliput – unless the ladies Basketball team dropped in. If Jewel clocked me as a ‘man in a dress’- I had to escape.

After Golia’s rebuke, I stumbled onwards. Probably drawing more attention to me than if I had stalked confidently out of the room. But with smaller steps I felt much safer.

Was I in more trouble? I hadn’t realized where I was going - back in the lingerie department. And falling face first into a rack of panties and bras. Under normal circumstances, I might have found something kinda fun or even kinky in being drowned in a pile of sexy, sleek, silky, sensuous frillies.

What a mess – but Jewel had gone.

---

Another few AP-500 stories coming along. For anyone to borrow and build

"They're just NOT like me - not at all !"

How can boys and girls be so different? And I know which one I am! They're a different species! But they're really NOT like me at all!!

An AP-500 story.

---

I stood there. Absolutely shocked at what I had overheard. It wasn’t said about me. There was zero possibility that the two boys round the corner from me could have known I was there. But they had hit the button – Bzzzzip.

“Y’know that little freak, James Morris, y’know, the one who always wears pale blue shirts. The one all the others call woofter, fairy and so on. Jack Poulter swears he saw him, well it maybe, in a dress in Colchester on Saturday.”

“In a dress!”

“Duh, that’s what I said. A dress. Y’know the sort of things girls (and didn’t that word carry a freight of disgust, revulsion and not-us) wear.”

“So he really is a faggot.”

“Got to be. Tho’ Jack says he would’ve sworn it was an ordinary girl with her mum. But that Mrs Morris, so recognisable with her red hair and tits. Talk about a Milf.”

"Huh, if that poofy James is dressing up then probably he or it just wants a good seeing to as well. That’s what homos & poofs want.”

“Yeah, my big bruv says that’s what wimps and sissies deserve. They’re not real men. They’re not girls either. At least they’ve got a fanny.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. This was two of my schoolmates, unbroken voices, barely into puberty. I couldn’t believe that they were able to think like that or talk publicly like that. I felt ashamed.

To be honest, looking back, that was one of the times I thought ‘I really don’t want to be like that. If that’s how boys grow up – count me out.’ I was exactly 12 and a 12th that day. One month past my birthday. And I realized that there wasn’t a single boy I had anything in common with. I didn’t like ball games, cycling, running, mud, MUD!!, mucking about, talking about girls and what we had learnt from friends – and grubby magazines [this was long ago before the Walkman, before the Web, before Digital Porn, the old days]

I knew James. I’d never even wondered about him outside school. He was quiet, above-average bright, willing to play kickabout a bit more than me, longish hair perhaps, but probably a bit less of an outcast than me. And HE was now rumoured to go into town in a dress!!!

No way. I wasn’t going to do that. Even if my mum was willing to go with me like his was – or so those kids were saying. And they were right – Mrs Morris was very noticeable. But I noticed her long skirts swirling and swaying atop those beautiful high-heeled boots. That’s what I watched.

Why? You ask why?

Because I wanted them. I wanted to wear them, to feel skirts round my ankles, calves, knees, thighs – Actually I didn’t care what length they were – I wanted skirts, dresses, frocks, gowns and pretty colours. Soft lush materials instead of grey-brown-black drab.

And James Morris had the confidence to wear them out in public. Yaarrgghhh.

An AP-500 story (ie 500 words of text) for someone else to take over and build on

"This IS what I want."

It's taken me only a few days to realize this is what I really, really want - Scary! Exciting! Wow. But I do love being dressed up - I love it!

An AP-500 story.
 

It’s happening. It’s NOW. In public. In stockings, high-heels, panties, corset, bra and a slinky floor-length dress with petticoats. The corset was an awful squeeze. I’m not a girly-shape as many girls – but then I’m not a girl. Backstage, Jane held me tight and hugged me. I needed the comfort and the confidence that her quick gesture offered.

I’m on-stage, dazzled by the lights. The microphone is in front of me and the music is beginning. I put so much effort into learning the right song.

We argued about what would suit both the occasion and the singer: ‘I enjoy being a girl’ - nope- ‘Just a Girl’ by No Doubt – maybe ; ‘This is what I want, what I really really want’ by the Spice Girls. I couldn’t do Baby, Ginger or Posh but I could have had a go at Sporty, or Scary as a second. “Thank heavens for little girls?" - No. Anything by Shirley Temple – No.

I often enjoy joining in, being a sport and so on. But – here I am.

Months ago, the clubhouse had been damaged by fire – and they asked people to take part in ‘An Evening’s Entertainment & Promise Auction’. I was doing my usual grumbling and protesting about how useless I would be if I had to take part – and the ‘gang’ went on the attack.

“Of course, you’ll be useless unless you give it a proper go,” said Jack.

“But we’re going to find something for you to do – just wait while we think.”

I made a mistake, and jeered, “Is that a promise or a threat.”

“Dumb Chum, whether by bribe or blackmail, you’ll be on stage,” said Sandy, Paul’s girlfriend.

I jeered. I criticised. I snarled and snapped. The girls’ expressions became black and bleak. “Right, you burk. For being a bad sport, you’d have got something you didn’t like much. For being so bloody about it – just watch out. Your tantrum about what MIGHT happen is grubby. Pathetic, juvenile and ….. lots of other words.”

I began to realize that I had been stupid. I tried apologising, grovelling …….not a chance. I’d delivered myself to their whim. My ever-punning brain sniggered ‘that’s why they’re whimmin.’ I kept quiet for a change.

I knew not what but my doom was bespoke. For a few days. Until, Rachel called and informed me that I was to come to her house that Friday evening.

“You’re a pillock,” were her opening words. “You sneer and contribute nothing. So we’re fixing that. You’re going on stage – you’re selling yourself as ‘A Good Sport open to offers’ and then you’re up for sale as ‘Whatever the purchaser wants’. But don’t worry, we’ve got it fixed that we have the winning bid.”

“Now, upstairs – spare bedroom, shower if you haven’t. I’ll help fixing you up. Then Sandy and Jane will be here to decide what you’re singing.”

------------------------------------------------
I hope the girls' bid wins. There’s some giving strange looks at me – as if they know.

A 500-word base-story to do things with (and attribute please)
AP

“Wears MY panties?” my sister screamed.

“Wears my panties – and what else! Not if I’ve got anything to say about it!” It was like being next to an angry avalanche.

An AP-500 story-starter

---

My sister’s scream reached my bedroom at the back of the house. Wow – did she go over the top when her buttons got pushed. So – Be Prepared!! I wondered as the storm blew up, and built again. I would have been so glad not to be the target of her wrath.

The door opened. Simmering Sister Sandra suddenly stabbed her finger at me. “You …..” Words failed her. An unusual occurrence and usually a warning that there was worse to come.

“Have you been …..” Again, she couldn’t speak the words.

“I cannot tell a lie, ‘twas I. I wore one pair, just one, for one day – I wore those panties.”

Somehow, she kept her temper in check and cooed ‘Dear brother, could you tell me why you did so? I promise not to tear you limb from limb.”

“I cannot tell another lie. T’was a bet.”

She cooed a little more. “Oh, brother dear, and what was the bet – did you win – and what were your winnings.”

“Um, a hundred quid.” I knew she was going to press for answers so I kept talking (defusing the dragon, so to speak). “It was Jeff, Dave, Ben, Jo and Joss. Ten quid each if I’d wear panties to school for gym without being discovered. And up to twenty quid if I wore really girly ones. I thought you wouldn’t notice just for one day.”

My effort was clearly not sufficient.

Sarcastic Susie spoke ever so gently (which I knew hid her fury) ……. “So, you went into my room fingered all my underwear and stole my best panties.”

“Erm, …….. yes.”

“You’re so dead. You owe me. For a start, you’ll be buying me two replacements which will cost about £50. Leaving half your ‘winnings’.

“That’s a bit steep.”

“You’re damn lucky I didn’t demand all the money. Idiot.” She changed tack. “What did you think of the panties? Did they feel different, what other adjectives? Eh?”

“I was too busy winning the bet to really think about that. The fear of being caught was the main worry. But, now you ask, they did feel nice.”

“Brother, dear” [Uh oh, danger] “I’m really NOT pleased. It’s rude, impolite, wrong, vile, disgusting and IMPROPER. I’ll think of some more words later – probably. BUT you’re going to have to be shown that stealing is WRONG. That stealing my things is VERY wrong. And that with every such crime there is PUNISHMENT. And those other BOYS – they’ll get their comeuppance too. Making sure you NEVER wear MY panties again.”

When she’s cross – Susie uses a lot of verbal CAPitals.

That’s why I’m in this girls-only night-club, wearing a short skirt, petticoats, tights, panties, bra and a slightly see-through blouse BUT clearly, to those who know how to tell, a ‘boy in a dress’. At least there’s six of us to share the, um, pain. Each wearing panties we’ve bought. Pretty, lacy, sleek, slidy. Nice.

A fabulous frilly future? And not just for me!!

One more 500-word story to use, adapt or whatever *and acknowledge please).
AP

What on earth …… Who are You?

Is YOUR God the same as mine? If he delivers babies damaged physically, or mentally, why not genderly? [if that's the right word!]

---

“Why are you dressed like that. Take all that stuff off. Immediately. It’s wrong, vile. It’s disgusting. You wait until you Da gets home. He’ll learn y’.

Her voice was rising both in volume and pitch.

I stopped her before it reached eardrum-piercing. This wasn’t going well.

“It’s very simple, mother. Despite that revolting thing between my legs, I’m a girl”

“Huh, that’s what defines you – what’s between your legs. I’ve seen it. Doctors saw it. You’re a boy. My son. You’ll always be my son. Nothing changes.”

“Mum, do you know the suicide rate for children and teens who don’t get support from their parents or their friends?”

“What do you mean? Suicide. Don’t be silly”

“Mum, I know statistics can lie – but the web says the suicide rate, let alone the self-harm rate, is as high as 45%. 45% Mum. I’ve seen sites that say for teenagers it’s even higher. 59% think about suicide; 48% attempt it; 57% self-harm. Although that was in 2014, so perhaps things have improved. Ha ha. That means that more than half the people who feel like I do kill themselves. I don’t want to go there, Mum.”

“What. I don’t understand.”

“No, I guess you don’t. I’ll be blunt, Mum. Without help , I’m more likely to go down the spiral into depression that people like me know too much about. And at the bottom of that spiral, it’s either death or change.”

“What. You’re going to kill yourself. That’d be stupid.”

“I wouldn’t do it now. I’m feeling good. I’m feeling braver and more scared than ever in my life. I’m opening up who I am to you – in a way I’ve never done with anybody. But I told you the truth. I’m only labelled as a boy because of that piece of flesh. I only behave like a boy because of years of training and practice. I only act like a boy, dress like a boy, behave like a boy as a disguise.

“What do you mean – a disguise.”

“I have to look like a boy because otherwise the haters will smash me. There’s enough already. All the ‘accidental’ bumps, bashes, mild thuggery and the name-calling. I do agree that the head-in-the-toilet flushing and so on that others tell me about is, er, let’s say, rare …..”

Mum’s expression was indescribable – but included shocked and disbelieving. “You’ve never said!”

“Erm, I got the message that you didn’t want to know.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to know?”

“Because you’d have had to realize that I’m different, seen as different, treated as different, treated as a freak, not a proper boy. I knew that you wouldn’t going to cope too well with that.”

“But I’d do anything to help you. You’re my son. You know I would.”

“Yep, the ‘son’ word. Did you actually hear any of what I’ve just said? I’m your daughter, duh.”

“No. Never. God doesn’t work like that. You’ll always be my son!”

“Priests say that - not God.”

Another 500-word story available for extending, adapting or borrowing [with relevant attribution]. Another dark example.

Intro - The SisterDom is a group of wonderful women who know that it is important to help their men to access and, when they are comfortable with the concept, to release their inner girlhood. These women are willing to train and transition their new-girls using a variety of simple techniques, sometimes with a touch of ‘domination’ and strong encouragement. Characters overlap between the stories.

"Andrew is a thief. His punishment is immediate and extremely effective. The real shock is how much he and Sandy enjoy the result."

"What on earth are you wearing?"

--------------------------------------------------------

Andrew Appleby was my cousin. The relationship wasn't close but we had known each other for a very long time. He was a month younger than me and about the same size. I was fitter though and stronger too, on the other hand, he was brighter and helped with my homework sometimes. This wasn't often as we were at different schools.

He had an elder sister, Paula, who had left home two years before to go to college. They never seemed to have much in common, she had behaved like an adult from the age of about 12 while Andrew had always been very average. The three year gap seemed more like 5 or 6. Recently, his parents had moved closer to the centre of town, in fact into a neighbouring street. Because of this, we found ourselves together much more of deal of the time. I was the oldest of three daughters. First myself, Sandy Goodfellow, then my sister Fiona, eighteen months later, then my baby sister, Rachel another five years after that.

I suppose this story starts last summer. My parents worked for the Government and were away a lot of the time so I was left in charge of the house with Fiona. Rachel was on a special studies course with her school for the whole vacation and this particular week, Fiona was away too. Andrew and I were both just 16 and we were quite keen to learn about bodies from each other. We never really considered it as real sex because we never went that far. It was a lot more than ordinary 'Doctors and Nurses' though.

Anyway, last summer, Andrew and I were in the garden at my parent's house and we were getting pretty playful, if not eager. We'd tussled and wrestled, but I was a little heavier and eventually I fought him down and pinned him face down. I sat on his back to catch my breath. Just to annoy him, despite his wriggles and protests, I loosened his trousers and my hands began to stroke his bum. Suddenly, my hand froze. What on earth was this? I could feel a lacy frill on his pants. Heck, these weren't pants. They were my missing pair of knickers.

I pounced on the horror-struck little monster and spun him onto his back. I pulled down his trousers to reveal exactly what I expected. Yes, they were the red panties that had gone missing a few days before. They weren't anything special, they were quite old as the stitching had worn a great deal. In fact, it was the loose stitching which had pulled loose to release the lace into my questing fingers.

"So, what's going on here? You've obviously stolen these. How much else have you nicked from me? What do you expect me to do about this?"

He was speechless. He just lay there with his mouth open.

I raged on. I always hated anyone interfering with my clothes. To find that this feeble ghastly youth must have been in my bedroom made me furious. "I'll get you for this. I'll make you remember those pants for ever. You'll wear these whenever I see you. In fact, you'll do more than that, I'm so furious with you. If you're so keen to try on my panties - I'll make you try the lot - every damn thing. But you're not having anything more of mine. You're coming with me to the shops and you can buy your own panties with your own money."

We hurtled into the shops. In minutes, I had bought a whole range of new undies. But these weren't for me. I wasn't going to spend any more than was absolutely necessary even though it was his money. Later I could fit him into some of my old skirts and dresses, ones that I didn't care about. But I really wasn't going to have him wearing anything intimate of mine. I mean there are limits.

Throughout this mad rush, Andrew said nothing, did nothing, interfered nothing, interrupted nothing. I think it was all too sudden and too surprising.

Back at the house, I lashed out at the ghastly creature. "If you want to wear pants - well, there they are. You must have known I would hate the idea of you wearing mine, let alone stealing them from me. If panties are so exciting to you, don't you know me well enough to ask me to buy you some of your own?

“Well, here you are. And you are going to wear these damned things every possible minute of the day until I've forgiven you."

There was a long, long silence. Finally, the creature almost crawled over to the bed. We were not in my room, of course. We were in the spare bedroom, the one Andrew used whenever he stayed over for the night. As I say, he shuddered over to the bed and picked up the new panties. He picked them up as if he thought they were going to bite him.

"Well, get on with it," I snapped. "Get those things off and put on your own, your very own first pair of panties. I want to see you get moving now."

With a sudden leap, he ripped off his T-shirt and his tatty jeans. The old faded red panties came off too and I saw that he was not in the slightest aroused.

I left him putting on the panties while I went to get a couple of old dresses out of the wardrobe. Several of my old things were in there, waiting for the next jumble sale. I picked a short cotton dress from the first hanger and looked across at him to see if it was likely to fit. He was struggling with the bra. I giggled and went to help. "Look, you don't have to put it on like I do - if you can't reach the clip. You can clip it together at the front, pull it round to the back and then slip your arms through the straps. There's always two ways to do everything."

"We've got nearly a week before Mum and Dad and the others two come back. I'm going to ring Auntie Louise and tell her I want you to stay for the whole week. I'll say I've heard that there are burglars and I want to feel extra safe. She'll think I mean that I'll feel safe with a man about the house. I won't tell her that I won't feel any safer at all with a big girl like you instead." Until I found myself saying it, I had no idea that this was my plan. But I loved the expression of shock on his face as I determined his immediate future.

"I'm not certain how much to punish you. You know I can beat you in a fight - but that's not enough. You're a dirty little thief with no rights in this discussion. For a start, as I said, you're wearing panties and dresses all this week. After that, if I want to put you into skirts in the future, if I say, jump, you ask 'how high'. I want to be confident that you'll never steal my panties or anyone else's panties ever again. That'll be a start."

While I talked, the crestfallen and cowering thing finished pulling on her bra. I had rolled up the red panties to fill one side as I was never going to use them again. I found another pair to go in the other side. I made her stand up while I checked one or two dresses to see if they would fit. The third one was okay but I eventually decided on one of my more frilly skirts with a back-button blouse. I passed a pair of tights over and watched as he made a pitiful mess of putting them on. I could see how surprised he was at the sensation of the nylon catching on his hair as he struggled to pull them up. When he crossed his legs to heave at the snags around the ankle, I could see that the stretchy feel intrigued him.

Next, I pulled the creature to the dressing table. I had spent several weeks at the local beauty salon the previous spring. I soon realized that I wasn't that interested in it as a life-long career but I had also learnt quite a lot. Here was a wonderful opportunity to see how effectively I could conceal my disgusting cousin. At the time, I was still mixed up. I was still furious at his theft of my undies but I was also terribly excited at how easily he was submitting to my demands.

His hair was an ordinary brown but quite long, almost to the shoulder, so I worked on this first. It was the typical boyish tousle - so I brushed it and brushed it until it began to sweep smoothly from top to tail. Actually it was in quite good condition really. As I smoothed and fluffed his hair, I could see him looking at me in the mirror. He didn't say anything. I spent quite a lot of time on it. I tried a clip on either side; I tried a peek-a-boo style; I actually found that it was almost long enough to make a good braid. In the end, I put my hot-air brush to work to give him a really sweet page-boy style with the ends just flicked up and inwards. I then sprayed it with a lovely new perfume I had found just the day before.

I looked in the mirror to find the creature still watching me quietly. I put a cover over the mirror so that it couldn't see exactly what I was doing. I'm not sure quite why I did so but this seemed the right thing. Interestingly, the creature raised a hand as if to stop me. As the work went on, I found that it was difficult to see the disgusting Andrew in this much more elegant and feminine figure. I decided to say nothing until I had finished the makeover. I picked up the pot of nail-polish next. Again, there was no comment from my victim. Slowly, a completely new person took shape in front of me - and it was no longer a teenage boy. I had to call her 'she', there really wasn't a trace of Andrew left.

As I worked on the face and eyes, she watched silently. Every now and again, once they were dry, she stroked her shiny new nails as if to confirm that they were real. As I worked on the eyes, with the liner and pencil, I could see that my creation was getting more and more interested in the effort I was making.

At last I finished and I swivelled the chair so that she could look at herself in the mirror. Just before I took the cloth off the mirror, I leant forward and kissed my new cousin.

"Hello, darling. I'm so glad to have met you like this. I think you look terrific," and I took the cloth away.

The silence was, if anything, longer than the one when we had started the procedure just an hour or so before. There was a huge difference though. Instead of one raging angry girl throwing abuse at a wimpy young boy, there were two attractive young ladies hugging each other eagerly.

"Wow," was all my new lady friend could say as she almost swooned on the stool. "I can't believe it. I'm almost beautiful. Sandy, please say I'm beautiful. I look so, so, gosh. I feel all weak and ... I dunno. I don't want to be punished by you. I'm sorry that I stole your things. I'm sorry I got you upset, but I'm not sorry that we've found out how pretty I now look. I had no idea. If I can look like this as a girl, I want to do this more. I'm not interested in boys but, gosh. If I can look this wonderful then I want to do it every day. Do you think I'm beautiful too."

"Don't be silly, you are gorgeous, darling. I would never have guessed but there is actually a really pretty blossom inside that untidy straggly mess you normally hide behind. It's like a butterfly coming out of its shell or whatever. Do you really mean it when you say you want to do this every day?"

"Oh, yes. If I can look this good and feel this lush with just one afternoon's effort - just think how pretty and gorgeous I could if I practised every day. It's not fair. Here's me. I've been an ordinary boy for years and years and now you show me this pretty girl that's been hidden away."

It was extremely certain that we were both incredibly proud of our creation. There was no way that I wanted to destroy this new treasure and clearly Andrew was even more determined. I didn't have that many friends to go out with, certainly very few that I could go shopping with and talk about dresses, lipsticks and so on. But here I had someone of my very own who would need to spend time with me and only me. I didn't know what Andrew's thoughts were so I found I had to ask.

"What about this, then. Let's go into town and get you some proper clothes of your own. I'm still quite keen to punish you for theft, but I'm going to have to separate the old Andrew from the new one. You're now a girl, cousin dear, and I think you're gorgeous. I'm going to have to give you a new name. Can I call you Andrea?"

The girl beside me hesitated a moment, then giggled and said, "Well, I don't want to be Andrea, it wouldn't feel right. If you don't think it would be too obvious I'd might like Andi. Only you ever call me that so it could stay special between us. What do you think? No, Andi is just too obvious as well. I think that I've got to have a completely new name for the new me. If I have to have a new name, I wouldn't mind something like Fiona or Sarah. I don't like half and half names like Antonia or Nicola. They're too close to a boy's name and I really don't feel like a boy in this soft swirly skirt of yours. I want to run down the stairs and dance down the street. I want to tell all the boys what they're missing. I'm having such fun I want to share it with everybody. Can you picture it - getting all the boys wearing bright colours and swirling along the streets like butterflies. I'd love it - and I'd insist on being the most gorgeous of the lot. I think Sarah would be nice."

I thought the idea was delicious. I didn't dare tell my new girl that she wasn't alone, that I did already know of other ex-boys, new-girls and sometimes-sisters. I just hugged her and agreed that teaching brash young boys about the delights of frills was going to be such fun. She didn't comment when I said boys, but I did notice her moue of disapproval when I implied that she was both brash and young.

"Dearest Sandra, I don't want to be reminded of Andy, if you don't mind. I want to enjoy being a girl as much as I possibly can. Do you think we dare go outside? I don't want to be stuck inside on a gorgeous day like this. I want to feel the fresh air swirling my skirt around my legs. If it feels this fun indoors - it's got to be better outside."

Being very much a stay-at-home, hardly anyone in town had met Andy in his previous guise. I was so happy at the idea of taking this pretty doll into town and dressing her in the most feminine frippery and finery we could find.

"I think we'll have to improve a few things before Sarah goes in to town on her own. It should be okay if you're with me. Your makeup is good but your hair needs some more professional work."

"Golly, I wasn't thinking of going out on my own. I wouldn't feel safe. I need you to keep me in line, to tell me what to do and what not to do."

"Don't worry. You look fine to me. I couldn't possibly imagine that the figure, and I mean figure, in front of me belonged to anything but a girl. You've got a pretty face with the right amount of makeup, your hair is far too attractive to belong to a mere boy. You haven't got a thing to worry about. Except the two big problems of walking and talking like a girl. Learning to use nice girly words will be a big help, and talking more softly will give do most of the improvement on the voice. As for the walking, a proper pair of shoes will change the shape of your legs and force your hips to swivel more. An astute choice of undies will also strengthen the image we need to build. We can get some of those things this afternoon, if you've got some cash to hand."

So we set off into town. Sarah had squeezed her feet into an old pair of my shoes, but they weren't satisfactory. The station car park was very convenient for my favourite shoe shops so we stopped there. We were both short of cash, so then we window-shopped all the way to the bank. But the simple matter of getting the money almost turned into a disaster.

Without thinking, Sarah went to the counter, brought out her chequebook and asked for some money. The clerk was getting it ready when she compared the name on the cheque with the person in front of her. Clearly, this really did not look like an Andrew to her. She hesitated for a moment then wrote a quick note and passed it across the counter, "Read this and give me a ring later", she said.

We didn't dare say or do anything which might call attention to us. Breathless, Sarah and I read the note as we went out of the bank. To our amazement it said, 'The bank has arrangements for people who wear 'costume' on a regular basis. For example, we can arrange for a new chequebook. Please ring Angela on the above number.'

We looked at each other with excitement. Was it really that easy to have an official new identity. If the banks accepted such situations, what about other things. Sarah laughed, "It would be wonderful to have a chequebook and bank card proclaiming that I was Sarah, instead of that Andrew."

"Don't be so damning. Andrew wasn't so bad - look at the pretty girl he was concealing. Come on, sweetie, let's go and spend that money on shoes and things. I saw the most darling little linen dress yesterday. With your colouring it would be dreamy. Now, were you listening. That's the sort of language we girls use. You've got to practise."

As we crossed the road, I heard a voice call out, "Sandy." It was Mrs. Appleby - Andrew's mother, Sarah's mother. Hell's bells.

I couldn't run off. She was already much too close. "Hello, Sandy dear. I'm sorry to interrupt but I just saw you shopping and wanted to speak to you about Andrew. I know that you're quite close friends now, and, well, he never talks to me. It seems the days go by and we never find time to chat, let alone talk about any of the more serious topics. I need to know what his future plans are. There's work to be done to get ready for either the big wide world or a few years at college. He's got good exam results so he should be able to get a respectable job - but I haven't a clue about what he wants to do. Where does he want to work, what sort of lifestyle is he intending to have on his proposed earnings? Then I can do the proper mother-bit and help in the background. Can you come over sometime soon when Andrew is out, and we'll have a chat."

Fortunately, the angle she joined us at made put her beside Sarah rather than face to face. Pure good fortune had prevented her meeting her new daughter in the middle of the main street.

It would have been appalling to stand there in the middle of town and tell her that Andrew had made a rather significant choice that afternoon regarding his future lifestyle. On the other hand, Andrew had heard to his mother offering to help with whatever he wanted. I obeyed the Twelfth Commandment and kept my mouth shut (almost).

"Um, yes, give me a ring tonight, Auntie. We're just rushing around a few of the shops while the sales are on. Got to go, thanks." Before I had finished, I was dragging Andrew away from this incredible danger.

"Golly, that was awful," I exclaimed with a shudder. "What are we going to do?"

"You're the one making most of the decisions. We can decide what to do about my Mum later. First, you've promised to buy me all sorts of gorgeous sounding stuff. After all your talk, I'm desperate to have some extravagantly frilly panties of my very own, and I want them now. Let's not waste any more time."

"Don't get stroppy with me, young lady. I haven't wasted any of our time. I wasn't the one wearing costume in the bank nor was I the one whose mother stopped me in the street. So shut it or I won't take you into my favourite shops."

"Oh, Sandy, I wasn't being stroppy. I'm just so excited. I've got this incredible opportunity to buy and wear my very own undies. I won't need to ever wear those scratchy horrid boxer shorts again."

"Either you've decided how to manoeuvre your mother or you're being incredibly optimistic. Don't forget, you live at home and your mother does the washing and ironing. If she starts finding slinky satin panties that don't belong to her, she's going to be a mite puzzled. Your sister is hardly ever at home so who do they belong to - and they're not in her size anyway, you've got a better figure. Sorry, dearie, you can only wear your pretties when you're over here. But we can plot and plan as best we can - oooh, that's nearly poetry."

"You're right. It's only nearly poetry. Sorry, that sounded a bit catty. Yes, as long as you promise that I can come over to your place even more often. I don't think I'll ever get used to the lovely feeling of being dressed this way."

We didn't spend long in the shops as were both quite tired from the huge surge of emotions we had suffered all afternoon. And then the meeting with Auntie. Exhausting. But Sarah did find some more comfortable shoes and a very sweet costume-jewellery set of bracelet and necklace.

When we had finished shopping, we hurried back to the house. I made Sarah deal with the kettle. I quite enjoyed the uneven click, click as she tottered on her new high heeled shoes - all of 1 1/2 inches - and she complained that they were impossible to walk in - huh. While we sat down to a cup of tea, I rang Sarah's parents. "With Mum and Dad being away so much, would you mind if Andrew stayed over sometimes. These stories about burglars and so on. I'd be so much happier if there was someone else in the house."

I spoke to her father. He clearly didn't want to be interrupted so after listening to my deliberately flustered meanderings about burglars, attacks, worry, fear, police and so on, he broke in to say, "If you're going to be that wishy-washy about a few late night noises, I suppose you'll have to ask someone to stay. It might as well be Andrew, he doesn't do much round here after all except eat and sleep. He might as well eat and sleep somewhere else. If he's with you, tell him we'd like to see him a bit more often, we're not a hotel."
With no more ado, he rang off and went back to his obviously important task.

"What's he doing. He didn't like being interrupted, did he?"

"I'm not sure. Perhaps he's messing about with his stamps as usual."

Half an hour later, we were still sitting there, chatting and relaxing after our efforts when there was a knock on the door. Before I could answer it, it opened and my aunt, Andrew's mum, flowed in. She swept through into the main room, saying "I thought I'd pop over and see how you're getting on. I'm a bit concerned about this story of yours about burglars. I suppose you might need Andrew to stay over if you're worried. Where is he?"

She plumped herself on her favourite chair, then looking round she saw Sarah. "Oh my word. That's my Andrew there. Oh darling, you look wonderful. Whose idea was it? Oh I can't get over it. I'd never have guessed. Oh, please stand up and give a little twirl."

There was a pause in her excited bubbling while the clearly stunned Sarah stood and did as requested. "Oh that's so lovely. That dress suits you so well. It looks divine. You've got lovely legs and those stockings must be awfully expensive, they look so smooth and glossy. Oh, please, darling, don't look so worried. I'm not upset. When did this begin? I can't believe how gorgeous you look. Oh, I'm starting to cry."

She was nearly incoherent. Sarah stumbled over to sit beside me. We sat there dumbstruck like a pair of idiots. It was unbelievable - Auntie wasn't angry at this transformation.

After a moment, she recovered her composure and moved to sit beside her new daughter. She turned to look at her more closely then she held Sarah's head and tilted it to get a better look at the work I'd done. "Oh, you look gorgeous, you've got such beautiful eyes. Did you do them yourself or did Sandy help. Whichever, they're probably your best feature - although your hair is terrific - and you've suddenly got a super figure. Oh, you do look so pretty. I wish I'd had the nerve to keep you in skirts longer - but Daddy did get so cross."

"Wawawhat. Do you mean that I used to dress as a girl? I don't remember that."

"No, dear, you were too young, I suppose. It stopped when we moved here, you were about eight at the time. It had been more or less accidental keeping you in frills from when you were born. You came just days after I lost your sister at about a year. I had all these lovely clothes, in pink of course, so I just used them for the new baby. I think I must have had some sort of delayed breakdown. I couldn't accept that Andrea had died, so I called you Andrew and used all her lovely dresses," as she said this, her eyes filled with tears and she leant forward to put her hands in her eyes.

Andrew pulled her to him and held her, "I'd never heard all this. I knew vaguely about another elder sister but nobody ever mentions her. Is this really true - you treated me as a girl for my first years."

"Well, once it had begun, I had to keep you that way. Partly because I needed to for my own sake and partly because turning you into a boy 'just like that' would have embarrassed me with the neighbours. So, when Daddy moved jobs we eventually took the opportunity then. You were so angry. You had to have your lovely long blonde locks chopped off - I did keep one. And you had to give up your lovely dresses and undies. Daddy made you throw away your dollies too. Everything went. We blamed some of it on the removal men, you hated them for weeks, if not months. The only thing I kept was that one long plait and a lot of photographs."

"Photographs! Mummy, where are they? I must see them at once. Can we fetch them."

"Andrew, don't be so silly. Your father's at home - he mustn't see you like that. He'd have a fit."

"He might not recognise me. You didn't when we met in town!"

"That was you, was it. I was in such a hurry that I didn't look. You looked so different. All I saw was Sandy and another girl. Was that the first time you'd been out or have you been doing this for ages? Please tell me."

Her enthusiasm was infectious. We bubbled and giggled for hours finding out all about the baby Andrew and his early girlhood, while Aunt learnt what Sarah was now planning for her second girlhood. Needless to say, we didn't actually mention that it had begun as a punishment for the theft of my panties.

Eventually, we all began to tire. Uncle Dan would be fast asleep by now. Aunt had rung to say she was over at my place with Andrew and he didn't need to stay up. He was in bed already and sounded half asleep. Despite my earlier phone call about asking if Andrew could stay at my place, we all then spent some time discussing whether Sarah or Andrew would be going back for the night.

Aunt was in two minds; she wanted Sarah at home so that she could learn about her new daughter but there was the risk of her Dad finding out; on the other hand, if Andrew came over to stay with me, he/she could be Sarah more safely. In the end, Sarah had decided that on this occasion there was no real risk and she wanted to end the day in her own bed in her first grown-up nightdress. She would be Andrew lots of other times in the future. Neither Aunt or I had the energy to argue.

As they left, I stood in the doorway and waved at the two lovely women walking to their car. I was pleased to see that there was no way that anyone could have guessed that they weren't mother and daughter.

Next morning, after Uncle had left for work, Aunt went in to have a chat with her new child. "Good morning, darling. If you want, we can make a start on getting things ready. We'll have to rearrange your wardrobe and all your drawers. I can't tell you how excited I am to be able to show you what you've been missing."

"Oh, Mother, come off it. Slow down. I know we talked about my new life and I agreed to everything - but don't spoil everything by being too bold. This is new to me - I'm not going to be instantly in agreement with everything you suggest. I'm still a man inside. What I want to enjoy is the colour and the splash and the pleasure of wearing exciting clothes. I'm only dressing up as a girl - I'm not turning into one."

"That's not quite what you said yesterday - but, I agree, I shouldn't push or hurry you - and I won't. I did spend some time last night sorting out some of my clothes because they will fit you very well and the material is so lovely. Please get up and try some of them on. Then I'll ring Sandra and we will all go shopping. I've seen some things recently that were much too young for me - but for my look-alike daughter - they'll be just right. I can't wait to show you how beautiful you will look."

So Sarah modelled some more clothes for his adoring mother. And when I saw them later, I had to agree that they were indeed very lovely. Sarah looked absolutely fabulous in a cream satin dress cut on the bias so that it clung to her body. The only problem was that it was such fine cloth that every stitch of her underwear showed - talk about a visible panty-line. I was really envious. And there were quite a lot of other clothes - indeed the lucky girl already had quite a comprehensive wardrobe.

By the time I turned up, and I didn't waste much time - Sarah had several new nighties, a lovely slinky feather-edged negligee and matching slippers, and half-a-dozen gorgeous evening dresses. Aunt and Sarah had decided between them that almost none of her old daywear was worth bothering with.

After a quick cup of coffee, with no sugar for Sarah who had begun a diet at our firm suggestion, we set off for town.

Sarah wore a simple skirt and blouse which I had given her the previous day - to my eyes there was no trace of boy anymore, although to my surprise she had styled her hair with gel to look deliberately unisex. Short, crisp and swept, it did make her look lovely. To my amazement, I realised that she had been a girl for less than twenty-four hours. I kept an eye on my watch waiting for the moment when I could whisper, "Happy dayversary, Andrew/Sarah darling. Just remember, it was exactly twenty-four hours ago I caught you wearing my panties – you dirty thief ….. but now you’re such a pretty girl.”"

I chose my moment - and it was just as we reached the lingerie counter in local department store.

Sarah gasped and began to giggle. Aunt asked what it was all about, so, somehow it seemed just natural that I was forced to tell her about how the whole thing had begun. Sarah stopped giggling at once and soon was blushing to the tips of her ears as her shameful secret came out.

Aunt put on a stern expression as her child's behaviour was laid bare. "I find this difficult to believe. But I can see from Sarah's expression that it is completely true. Perhaps it's more that I don't want to believe it. I shall discuss with Sandra what punishment will be suitable. Stealing panties from your cousin. Good grief, what nastiness could we expect next. It may be true that this grubby little action has revealed the lovely Sarah beneath the filthy Andrew - but don't expect to be forgiven in a hurry. Sandra, you may stay here with me, we can sit on these chairs while we watch Sarah choose some new underwear for herself."

We watched with small smiles of pleasure as Sarah scurried off to investigate the racks of filmy, lacy satins and silks. We had taken careful measurements so she had only to choose a variety of items to match. After a while, she had several hangers hooked over her arm and came towards us to ask if we would join her in the fitting-room. By now, Aunt and I had decided on the punishment for our girl. We would ask one of the assistants to come and ensure the correct fitting of a bra for our 'girl'.

The pair of us set off to the changing room to help Sarah with her choices. I was interested to see that her taste was quite restrained, both frill-wise and price-wise. What I would describe as a variety of mid-range nice undies.

Our excited little group arrived in the fitting-room and after watching Sarah try on almost all of the pants, bras and so on, Aunt dropped the bomb. She leant through the curtain and called out, "Oh, miss, can you give us a hand here. My daughter has been complaining about the fit of her bra and we need some professional help, I think."

Sarah's previous display at blushing red were as nothing to her effort this time as the senior assistant came in. This was a woman in her late twenties, small, blonde and petite. Her eyes just came up level with the non-existent breasts of the blossomy boy-girl in front of her. The badge on her lapel said 'Josie Potter'.

Our poor Sarah hissed at me, "You can't do this."

"Too late, darling." I grinned, perhaps a little menacing curl of the lip too.

So we waited while the assistant, all unaware, prepared to help our poor young teenage boy try a succession of A-cup bras. The poor dear adopted the classic don't-look-at-me pose trying to cover her chest with her hands. I could see the assistant hiding a smile as she advanced.

"Now, come on, dear. It's my job to make every girl leave here with a properly fitted, accurately sized bra. It's quite a responsibility. For every ten girls or even older women who come to me for a fitting, there will be perhaps one who has the suitable size and shape. It quite appalling that almost every woman who comes in here is actually not wearing the right bra for her shape. I do promise you dear, I've dealt with big girls, little girls, lopsided girls and all sorts. They all leave here with a chest that feels comfortable. I want to do the same for you."

Sarah relaxed a little. Her hands fell away and revealed her naked chest. The straps of the bra she had been wearing had made marks, but it was very obvious that even amongst the others of the flat-chested brigade, this girl was really flat. What only became obvious close up, in fact as close as the assistant was getting, was that my cousin did have a very few light hairs on his chest. I hadn't thought to make him shave there too. I saw my face in the mirror and caught a glimpse of my expression. Not malicious, exactly, but quite evidently pleased that the thief might be about to get some extra punishment.

To Sarah's delight and my surprise, the assistant noticed nothing. Certainly nothing was said that revealed any anxiety.

"Now, first of all, my dear, I'll take a complete set of measurements. Then I want to try some bras that almost certainly won't fit perfectly - but they will help me judge the pressure required for a perfect fit. It doesn't depend just on how big your breasts are or aren't. We measure across the shoulders and front-to-back, all sorts. Then we look at how you breathe and so on. It does take time. Then as your breasts grow, and I do promise that they will, we will need to change the fitting to suit. I've had girls of twenty in here who are a completely different shape a twelvemonth later. If you're are actually worried about your development then you can always talk to a doctor I know who specialises in special treatments - and I'm not talking any of that silicon rubbish."

As she talked, she measured and made notes on her pad. It seemed to take only a few minutes before Sarah was fitted with a new bra. Her posture seemed to change, to be filled with a new confidence.

Everyone in the room was pleased with the new improved model. Aunt smiled her thanks to the assistant and passed her credit-card to pay for the large pile of undies. As we finished packing up, Miss Potter came back and gave Aunt a folded note with her bill. Before Aunt had time to open it and read it, she had scurried off to the other side of the department where we could hear loud voices raised.

Aunt read the note and passed it to me. I read it with the same amazement as Sarah and I had read the note from Angela in the bank the previous day. Was this town filled with women who were transforming their boys into girls ?!

"If you need assistance with teaching your lovely new-daughter the new skills she will need to enjoy her new lifestyle, please call me any evening. I welcome Sarah to the SisterDom and the benefits of Girlhood. On behalf of the SisterDom in Yorktown, Josie Potter."

"What is all this?", gasped Sarah. "What is this 'SisterDom' thing? What do they mean by a new-daughter? Does this note really mean what it seems to say?"

"It's the first I've ever heard about such a group," said Aunt. "And I thought I knew almost everything that happened in this little town. But, yes, I do think it is for true. There must be more than a few women in this town who have experienced this change of style with their men. It does sound awfully interesting. I shall ring this Josie this evening. This is a big change we are involved in here. If there is some trained help for lucky girls like Sarah - then we need to take advantage as soon as possible."

I couldn't keep the smile off my face. Having seen the improvement in my previously not-so-dear and least-favourite cousin in just a mere day - I wanted to do more. I wanted to join this team of girl-makers. There was a feeling of power in knowing that there were boys who wanted to be girls. Instead of the old girl-to-boy tomboy, there were obviously lots of boy-to-girl 'tomasinas'. I wondered exactly what it was that triggered such an interest and what these changelings thought the benefits were from such a lifestyle. I knew I was going to make a real effort to find out. After all, I had to ensure that Sarah/Andy was a real success.

We left the department in a daze. But as Aunt began to make a suggestion about going to get a bite for lunch, we went through the cosmetic section. Needless to say, there were several girls inches deep in makeup offering to do makeovers for anyone who passed. I don't think Sarah had ever consciously taken any note of what happened there. After all, why should Andy have ever had any interest in cosmetics - I don't remember him ever buying perfume for a girlfriend. But this was a new situation.

I could see her quivering with excitement. I leant over and whispered, "Do you want to have a go, dear?"

I didn't really need her to answer. "Aunt, I think we ought to stop here for a while and let them see what they can do for Sarah. She's been going on at me for advice and I'm not really a professional. Can we see what suggestions they can make."

"Well, dears, if you're that willing to wait for lunch. I'm getting rather peckish - but I would love to see what they can do for Sarah. But I don't want to be more than, say, fifteen or twenty minutes. You know how time can pass when you're being beautified."

I could see Sarah's eyes glow at the idea that she could be beautiful.

That evening, I rang Josie Potter. I wanted to know what she could do to help with our project. She had quite a few simple suggestions. I immediately adopted the idea of the perfumed pillows. Some of her other suggestions would need rather more planning and even some expenditure of hard-earned cash.

-----------------------

… There were a lot of telephone calls over the next few days – and then meetings at shops or over a coffee or tea somewhere. Both Auntie by herself and with me met a number of people who were involved in the SisterDom. Obviously Angie and Josie were amongst them.

The next weekend, we went over to Maria's house where the SisterDom was having a meeting. It was a good thing that she had a large house - there must have been over thirty people there - old and young. Everyone there was wearing a dress, so it was hard to tell the girls from the girl-boys. There was one clue though as we had been told to make sure that Sarah as a newcomer to this lifestyle must wear a blue necklace. I could see two others there with similar necklaces but Josie hadn't given any other clues about how to recognise the more skilled newgirls.

We arrived as a group but quite soon Aunt was taken over by another lady of similar vintage and they started talking very excitedly about their children. Clearly, this was someone Aunt already knew. I've already said it was quite a small town where we lived. I did notice a flicker of surprise as this acquaintance began to speak. I overheard the friend say, "My daughter Carol isn't with me tonight," and the way it was said left me in no doubt. Her daughter Carol was another changeover. This was interesting.

So, Sarah and I were left together - newcomers to the gang, as nervous as you'd expect. But not for long. Another girl came over and began with the usual questions.

"Who invited you and do you know anybody here already?"

Sarah said, "Josie Potter invited us."

"Oh, Josie, that's fine. She is a regular at catching recruits. Perhaps I could guess that it's because she works where she does. I'm Jackie and I've done a lot of work with Josie. If you've got any questions, don't hesitate to ask."

"Erm, will, I've got to ask the big question. What is the SisterDom? What do they do? How, well, you know - everything."

"You're Sandy, aren't you. Josie told me there would be a new-girl and a big-sister with us tonight. And you're Sarah and I must say that you do look very pretty. Well, let's begin at the beginning. The SisterDom is a group of people who have found that their menfolk are nicer people when they wear dresses and are allowed to express their femininity. It's well known that no girl is 100 % feminine and no man is 100 % masculine - we allow the men to relax and join with us in enjoying being a girl in a group who accept them. The SisterDom encourages boys to learn about being feminine before the peer-group pressure builds up and makes them into brutish, arrogant males. We've found that it is much easier to make this change as a pre-teen but we have got skills which can be applied to the teenager or even older. We are a self-help group really. Each of us has either made the changeover to being a girl most of the time or we have helped someone make that step. You'll notice that I don't say that our pupils become full-time girls. That's a decision that comes later. And it's not the same for everyone. We don't want to force anyone, we're not into that sort of thing. We just try to help those poor unfortunates who realize how much pleasure there is in being a girl and learning from our side of the fence how to be a girl and understand girlish things. Some of our new-girls just relax and enjoy the enormous variety of clothes that they can wear, the silks and satins, the tulle and organza. Others get a bit more girl-oriented and actually live as girls. Some do it halfway and dress as girls but stay as men for their lovers.” She blushed a little as she said the last bit.

“Interesting” I thought

"Oh come, on," interrupted Sarah.

"No, dear," said Jackie. "You are not welcome to speak unless spoken to while you are wearing the blue necklace. It should be for only your first three visits unless, well, unless we feel that you need to wait a little longer. There is a great deal to learn about being a girl and, I repeat, it is our pleasure to show you how pleasant it can be. But we do insist that in order to prevent new-girls making the more obvious mistakes, they must wear these pretty blue necklaces.

I leant over, "I've seen three girls with these necklaces. Do you mean to say that there are three new-girls here, now. That must mean there are absolutely lots of people involved."

Jackie smiled, "You've no idea. It began as a sort of game but, yes, it's true. We've trained over 100 boys in this town so that they know the enjoyment of being a girl. Several of them have married and moved away - but that only spreads the SisterDom to other towns. I must admit that some of them became more girlish than others, and a few never really enjoyed it enough to make a regular thing of it. The majority have found that dressing up is rather fun and dressing up with friends who understand their interest is even better.

I felt my eyes widen in amazement, and I heard Sarah gasp too. "Over a hundred. Fantastic. How, why, .... who"

"Now come on, Sandy, we're not going to tell you everything the first time you come through the door. We have to be a little cautious, you know. As time goes by and Sarah learns how to be confident as a girl, you will be learning along with her. There is no better way for a trainer to learn than with a willing trainee. And your aunt will be learning with both of you too. Josie is one of the two or three senior tutors in the group. We've had a quick review of your situation and we have a number of simple suggestions as to how the three of you might proceed. I do have to emphasise that this whole thing is voluntary. If you feel uncomfortable with anything, then say so. Our systems can always be improved."

"I had no idea that I had joined a 'training scheme'," said Sarah. "That sounds awfully thorough. I only started this whole thing as a game with Sandy. There was ..." She stopped again as Jackie held up her hand with one finger raised.

"I insist, Sarah. For this evening, it will be to your benefit if you only speak when specifically asked to reply. For your benefit, remember."

Sarah glared for a moment then subsided. I was impressed at the control Jackie could exert with a simple gesture. I smiled a little and she winked back at me - a mere flicker of an eyelash so that Sarah couldn't see. I liked Jackie a lot already.

"You said that you've got some simple suggestions already, that you've reviewed our situation. What exactly do you mean, Jackie dear," and I put a lot of emphasis on the 'exactly'.

"All in good time," came the reply. "There's no need to get worried. We just want you to learn some basic steps before you make any major decisions or, hopefully not, any major blunders. Just be patient for a little while yet. You really will learn a lot this evening."

So we followed Jackie round and we did learn a lot. She had said that as a trainer I would need to learn too. And was she right! Both Sarah and I learnt a great deal that night - and it didn't hurt a bit.

We learnt which shops were useful and which assistants in those shops were most willing to help. We learnt tricks for concealing any male characteristics, how to use the unisex ploy to make males look more feminine, how really to make them look like girls trying to be macho. There were some very interesting insights for me into what it meant to be a girl or a boy, for that matter. I knew that Sarah was learning too - but she began from a different perspective.

That reminds me of one key phrase that the SisterDom used time after time. It is not wrong to be a man, it is not wrong to be a girl, but they are different. Towards the end of that first evening I began to understand what they meant.

The talk was always on feminine subjects. Occasionally one girl would be asked a question by another. Woe betide the poor lass who failed to give a satisfactory answer. After a few overheard comments, I realized that this was almost invariably a new-girl being quizzed by a big sister. Although the most amusement came when the trainer herself made the mistake.

I was quite startled to see that on one occasion, the new-girl was promptly upended over the corner of the sofa and smacked quite hard on the backs of her legs. So - some trainers did use physical punishment to enforce their will.

At the end of the evening, there was a special announcement by Josie. "The group has been asked if we would be willing to host a special event to introduce younger people to the SisterDom. This would be aimed at those who are aged fourteen, fifteen or sixteen so are still at school; this would be for trainers just as much as for trainees. This would be aimed at brothers, cousins and best friends who can be assessed as having either an interest in or a need for a training period. Now no commitment has been made by us on your behalf, however a quick show of hands would help us judge what to do next, and later which plan or parts of a plan might be more suitable. So, first - are we interested – hands up, please. Yes, about three-quarters of you. Can those who were not so keen, come and talk to me about your reservations. I really do need feedback on this one. And can those who were interested do some talking in the next few days so that we can have a variety of suggestions on how to proceed. I should mention that unofficially we do already have nine trainees in this age group already. The suggestion from our trainee-advisors is that we try to expand this considerably. They are aware of the danger of taking advantage of the pre-pubescent ambivalence so common today - but their obvious success rate with those lucky children who do join us at an earlier age does merit some extra effort. Please, do some brainstorming and come back to us."

"Wow. That's a bit startling," said Jackie, who had rejoined us. "I hadn't heard anything about this. You're new at this so perhaps I should ask what you think rather than asking any of my friends who know the System already."

Somehow I could hear a capital letter on the word 'system'. I had already found that this SisterDom had several special words - new-girl, big-sister, transition, transformation, changeover and girldom were the most obvious. I was just as interested as before but now I knew that I was quite raw and ignorant in a lot of newly important areas. I realized that I was going to have to work at this new thing. Andrew's decision to welcome Sarah was making changes throughout the lifestyle of the whole family - well, me, Sarah and Aunt at least.

In the meantime, Jackie was waiting for us to give some sort of response.

"I'd never imagined there could be an organisation to help people like Sarah. Now that we know that there is, it changes all sorts of things. But this idea of having what sounds like a special children's section seems a bit too much. We've been spending our quota of lessons on sex education and it's very evident that puberty is a very difficult time. It's all too easy to make kids of that age really screwed up about the whole thing. Playing games with their whole identity does sound awfully unwise."

"I agree and I disagree, Sandy," replied Jackie. "For those kids who are sure of themselves, it can be a way to find out about the opposite sex, those scary things called girls, in a new and interesting way. For those who are obviously already interested in being more feminine, then I can see no problem in helping them too. So there's two groups who are 'safe' for us to help. The others in the middle have no real idea of their identity yet. It can be a real problem, indeed a danger to them, if we did anything as drastic as tampering with their identity. But we don't do that. We are completely against anything that drastic. We aim to show the pleasure of being a girl - there is no attempt to denigrate the male. We're ordinary people and we love men just as much as women. Where we are different is that we think men are improved by knowing more of the feminine side. It's easy enough for girls to learn how to be macho, how to posture and strut like the typical male - but we aim in the other direction."

"That's very interesting. I'd never looked at things in that way before. Do you have any comments, Sarah dear."

The poor girl looked at Jackie to check that she did have permission to speak. Jackie nodded her approval.

"It's all very new to me. All of a sudden, I do want to know more about girls from their point of view. Not the old way, you know, where I watched how they dressed and how they looked so that I could see if there were any signals that they were interested in me. Not that I ever really saw much. I can't claim a great success rate with the girls when I was a boy - but this is just so different. I have to agree that it's a wonderful project that this SisterDom is running. I see it as sort of 'How to show the man the benefits of the feminine side'. I think that if you're careful about choosing your younger pupils, there should be no harm to them. There has to be a benefit to society as a whole for more men to have a better understanding of women."

I looked at Sarah with renewed approval. Andy would never have said anything so sensible. Jackie smiled too, "That's really helpful, both of you. But I do hear your doubts about our need to take care. I'll speak to Josie later."

Soon after this, Aunt came back and we picked up our coats and set off home. All three of us had comments to make about the evening but we all agreed that knowing there was such a team of friends eager to help was a huge step forward. We also agreed that the evening had made it clear that things really had changed for all of us. Somehow, Sarah had become more determined than before. She wanted to forget Andy, except for very special circumstances. She wanted to be a girl absolutely full-time. And Aunt had gone along with this. She must have some plan to keep her husband from noticing that his teenage boy was now dressing as a girl every day. I soon learnt what she intended.

"Sarah my child, from tomorrow, we have five weeks before you go back to school. For that time, you may dress as Sarah whenever you wish subject to my decision to have you dress as Andrew when I deem it necessary. I will speak to Dan this evening and I will tell him about the theatre project that you are working on with me. I will say that we hadn't bothered him with it before but that some of the work was going to be so obvious that he should have some warning. Obviously, the theatre project is going to require you to dress as a girl for the play. It's a medieval thing in the proper style with boys playing the parts of all the girls. The producer has insisted that all the players will learn to play their parts better if they spend as much time as possible dressed up. If he asks about the play, we'll tell him the dates haven't been decided yet. What do you think, dear ?"

"Oh, mum, that'll be wonderful. I'd just love to do that for the rest of the hols. Even though I want to do more, that would be a lovely start. I'm so happy I want to dance."

"Well, that's alright for now. We'll speak about it more in the morning while we get ready for Dan to come back from his trip. We've got until seven o'clock tomorrow night. I'll call you in the morning, Alexandra. You've got some work to do too."

I nodded, stunned at the amount of organisation that had already been decided upon.

The next step was dealing with Fiona. She was just fourteen and I had no idea what she would think of this situation. Could I explain it as a game? I was quite worried. Then I thought of talking to one of my new big-sisters and asking her advice. There must be others in the SisterDom who had dealt with such a problem before. I made my phone calls and listened hard to the various bits of advice I was given.

Fiona rushed through the door just after six on the Tuesday evening. She gulped down a cold drink and then began to talk nineteen to the dozen. She was all excited and eager to talk about the great time she had had - working on an archaeological dig for crying out loud. I let her go on for a while then once she began to slow down, started with my story.

I dived straight in. "We've got cousin Andy staying with us for a while. In fact, for the rest of the holidays. We're all working on a special project which means that it's more sensible for him to stay here than at his own home. He's upstairs in the spare room getting dressed to go out for the evening right now."

"What d'you mean, 'getting dressed'?"

"Oh, it's a special project with the theatre. He's been keeping it quiet for ages. Now he's been asked to do this mediaeval thing and the director insists that the boys play the girl's parts. Since he has been told that he must learn to feel like a girl, not just dress for the part, Auntie and I have volunteered to help. For the past week, he's been dressing as a girl all day and all night. We've been instructed to call him Sarah. You just won't believe how beautiful she is now. That ghastly cousin Andy has disappeared completely. You just wait." I called upstairs, "Sarah dear, time for your evening fashion parade."

I could see Fiona sitting in the armchair, stunned into immobility by my story. We both heard the click, clack of high heels on the wooden staircase then Sarah came into the room. She was wearing the most lovely thin powder-blue summer dress. It shimmered as the green underslip caught the light. Anyone watching would have seen a lovely teenage girl in an expensive party dress. Her shoes and handbag matched the blue of the dress, her eyes matched the green underslip. I hadn't expected her to look so pretty.

Fiona was even more surprised with the reality than she had been at first. She recovered quickly though and delighted us all by getting up and, in her politest voice, saying, "My name is Fiona. I don't think we've met before. That's a beautiful dress you're wearing."

"Oh, Fi darling, thank you," murmured the enraptured Sarah. "You couldn't have made me happier. I wanted so much to be Sarah for you. I do know how much I've upset you in the past when I was Andy. But that's in the past now. I do want you to understand that I'm not the same person as I was a week ago. I really, truly do understand a great deal more about what it means to be a girl rather than a boy."

"I'm confused again," said Fiona. "Sandy didn't say anything about 'you used to be Andrew and now you're Sarah. That sounds a lot more thorough than just learning a part for a play - however o.t.t the producer may be about realism."

Fiona always was a bit quick. I moved onto stage two - the almost complete truth. I told her that Sarah had begun with the theatre rehearsal but that one of his other friends had told us that there was actually a help-group for boys who enjoyed dressing up. Sarah had gone along 'just to find out a bit more' - and had realized that it was fun to dress up for real as well as for pretend.

Then he had asked me to help and we had talked with his mum - and so - here we had our cousin wearing a dress for the next few weeks. Wasn't it fun and did Fiona want to help.

"Yes. Yes, I do. Of course I want to help. As for your attempts to set the scene, I didn't believe very much of what you said to begin with. What sort of nutty thespian is going to make his teenage actors dress as girls in order to get realism. Don't try to make me laugh. But looking at this pretty girl, I can and do believe that she is real. Yes, I can believe that Sarah wants to be real and wants to hide the ghastly Andrew from sight. I wouldn't dream of arguing, I never thought much of Andrew. But Sarah is so pretty. She looks comfortable, she looks like a nice person. She may be a bit older than me to look at – but as a girl, I've got fourteen and a half years of practice. Of course I'll help."

Sarah breathed out a sigh of relief. "Oh, Fiona darling, I'm so pleased that you want to help me. I've never had so much fun as this last week and I really do need all the help I can get." She swayed over to the sofa and sat down, sweeping her dress carefully into place as she did so. I could see how this impressed my slap-dash young sister.

Fiona saw my amusement. "If you can do this to a spotty youth like my cousin in just one week, then I'm going to have to work pretty hard to catch up. I'm not going to be left out of this show. I know that I've never been very interested in make-up and stuff before - but things have changed, haven't they."

So the evening began with all of us working carefully on our hair, our makeup and our whole display. The Goodfellow team was going out on the town and the town was going to take notice.

It was a great success. The ice-cream bar was almost the only place available - all three of us looked too young to go into a pub and we didn't want to risk it without someone older as a cover. The Mermaid was about as busy as ever, say half full. I knew a couple of the boys and I waved to them as we sat at a little table just to one side of the main window. We stayed for about half-an-hour then set off on the important stuff - window-shopping.

-----------------------------------------
Character List
Andrew/Sarah Appleby aged 16
Paula his elder sister
Sandy Goodfellow aged 16 the narrator
Fiona her younger sister 14 1/2
Rachel her youngest sister 9
*Josie Potter late 20s; shop assistant
*Jackie colleague of Josie
*Angela bank-clerk

”What? I’m not a girl – am I?”

So many things that I didn’t know. I mean about girls and all the soft, pretty things girls do and wear. So much to learn. And something told me it was what I really wanted. But I was a normal boy, wasn’t I?

An AP-500 story to borrow and grow.

---

I wasn’t a very good boy. I just didn’t know how.

Then I had no idea that I was so inadequate as a male. I thought I was pretty average. I had a penis, and late-onset-puberty; I was still waiting for some hairs to arrive – and for my balls to drop.

I knew how boys behaved – sort of. What to wear, what to talk about – but too often it felt wrong or seemed off-key. As puberty began, I heard their pride in the first pubic hair, their balls, the first stiffy. I heard ALL about it – and it wasn’t happening to me.

When I watched girls what I saw was definitely not what the other boys saw. I didn’t talk about tits, bums, legs-up-to-the-armpit or ‘getting to first base’. I noticed what the girls wore, the way their hair flowed, the shine of their legs. I knew NOTHING but I knew I was interested.

But as the days passed and I began to feel more and more separate from the others. I began to wonder if there was a group that I could or should belong to. And there were words that seemed to fit on some days, other days otherwise. I was bored. Unenthusiastic. Dull.

I wasn’t gay – I knew that that meant I should be interested in boys. Nope. So what was I? I started reading and new words came into view. Asexual – not interested; Questioning – unsure about maleness-femaleness; GenderQueer, Bigender and Non-Binary – a bit-of-this-a-bit-of-that.

Facebook now had over 71 different descriptions for those who weren’t clearly male or female and heterosexual or homosexual. Wow. I read more. Was I intersexed? Was I …….. I had kept away from transgender for some reason – but some of the examples seemed to fit me. Almost too well.

Maybe that’s me?!

So, time to learn about the female world of shoes, socks, pants, shorts, shirts, coats, accessories, hair, skin, walking, talking, behaving, interacting …. perhaps a million things I didn’t know about.

Then a million more – all the things that girls know but which are a world separate from boys. Bras, underwear, colours, combinations, cooperation instead of competition.

How many colours would a man call ‘blue’ - eventually I listed light-blue, dark-blue, sky-blue, Oxford-Blue & Cambridge and Air-Force. Girls had sapphire, cerulean, azure, aqua, cyan, indigo, navy, cobalt, saxe, Oxford & Cambridge, Berlin-blue, electric-blue, midnight, lapis-lazuli, turquoise, teal, cornflower, hyacinth, periwinkle and I knew there were others. I thought about doing pink but got diverted by a pop-up advert for dresses.

Wow – variations for style, silhouette, sleeve-shape, sleeve-length, shoulder-style, neckline, collars, cuffs, waistline, length, material, lining, and so much more.

I was about to start making more lists when I decided to treat this as a Project on ‘Girl’. Rather than flipping from one aspect of this unexpected but really concentrated interest in femininity, I should be thorough. I was buzzing with excitement.

Suddenly, I had found something to be enthusiastic about. And I wanted more. Who to ask for help?

Another AP-500 story - and feedback is good but borrowing (& acknowledging) is better. Thanks AP

“Where’s my panties?”

Or was it 'Wears my panties!" Certainly not. I wouldn't dare - they wouldn't fit anyway.

An AP-500 Introductory

---

“Where’s my panties?” was my question. A perfectly normal question in the average household.

“The left hand pile, next to mine. It’s pretty obvious, your’s are more colourful and mostly satin. Mine are mostly cotton.

A less usual answer – perhaps from sisters, perhaps, er, very close friends. Not this time.

“Jeffrey, darling …”

“Yes, dear.”

“Why do you like panties so much. You’ve got more pairs than me. And so much more expensive than mine too.”

“I save money on not having to buy quantities of bras.”

“Huh, If you needed them, by golly, you’d understand why I have to have a reasonable variety. Most shops don’t talk about it but the average woman changes size at, erm, times of the month. So, I have all my bras in two sizes. Sometimes three actually. You’d never understand.”

“I promise you dear, that if I had to I’d do my best to cope. But as things stand, and don’t giggle because one particular item is, so to speak, standing at the moment -, as things stand – I repeat I’m really not interested in more than panties.”

“Exactly what do you mean.”

“I like panties. Actually I love panties. I like their feel, texture, the snugness and the way they wrap and the way my trousers slide so nicely. But I don’t need anything else. I don’t need bras. I really don’t have the figure for it. And I don’t want to wear dresses, skirts, anything else. Just panties. Thank you.”

“But y’know, I’m thinking I’d like to see you wearing more of the satins and silks that you enjoy.”

“Really, what brought on that particular suggestion.”

“Well, I too like the feelings that materials like that give me. Although stockings are a particular favourite of mine. The way the taut material strains and stretches. I like that a lot. And I like the way you look at my legs all sleek and shiny. And you do, don’t you?”

“I can’t deny that I like the look of your legs. But that doesn’t make me want to put on stockings or whatever. And I’d have to shave my legs, wouldn’t I?”

“So you have done some thinking on the subject, hmm?”

“Oops, your legal mind detects my unspoken confession. Alright, yes I have wondered. But that’s all.”

“Well, let’s bite the bullet. Here’s a suspender belt, and it goes round you like this. !!!!!!

“What!!!” I never agreed.”

“Hush, not a word. You’ve had long enough admiring panties and being enthusiastic about them. If the feel of satin and silk as underwear is your thing. Then here’s some more thing to experience. Now sit down, and I’ll roll this stocking up your mildly hairy leg.”

“See, that wasn’t too difficult, was it? What d’y’think.”

“It is very …. different, isn’t it?”

“Honey, I can’t really answer that well. I wear stockings often enough not to really notice. But, probably, yes. It is different. I like it. What about you? Like it? Yes?”

This is in a series of 500 word story-starters - if anyone wants to continue - please do with with my best wishes.

Where’s my stockings ?

An AP-500 follow-on …. I was given an idea and here we are. AP

I’d been wearing panties for quite some time now, as I said before. But the extra intensity of wearing stockings as well – that made things quite different.

It didn’t take long before I was wearing stockings or more often tights every day. I didn’t like tights as much but the garter-clips are really quite fiddly and I did think that, at times, they might be visible through my trousers. I wasn’t eager to experience actual disapproval or whatever might come from them as demonstrations of increasing intolerance or basic ‘yukk’ from my colleagues.

That’s a stupid idea ‘increasing intolerance’ – as if. Whatever came my way would be pretty much instant. I might have faint hopes that after a while it would die down and what I wore under my suit would be of little importance. Once people accepted that I wasn’t ‘just a pervert’ but still basically the person I used to be but wearing women's clothes – oh yes, aren’t there meanings and meanings-within-meanings in those simple phrases. I have a tiny bit of experience of being bullied, being different. 'Not-like-us' is an instant invitation to being rejected and unwelcome.

I nearly said 'unwelcome in the corridors of power' then thought 'well some of Them have habits and behaviours extraordinarily more objectionable and gross than what I do. As if anybody will make them stop by mere disapproval. Ha.

Suddenly, I jolted at what I had thought. ‘Wearing women’s clothes’ was that what I was doing or, at least, moving towards. My brain span a little. No, I think I just love wearing panties – they’re more comfortable, more colours, more varieties, more, well, just nicer.

But wasn’t I now wearing stockings and tights as well? How did I explain that to me. It had been awfully easy for my wife to get me to wear stockings that first time. And I hadn’t objected much when it happened again.

I DID object when she said that my legs, even hidden beneath trousers, looked horrible while I was putting on the stockings and ‘didn’t you find the stockings caught on the hairs’. Anyway I’m still not quite sure how she was so successfully persuasive – next time we were in the bathroom together, she got me to shave my legs. And, the difference in the sensation as I put on my stockings was pretty fantastic.

Author note : I can’t PROVE this statement, I’ve just gone and put on tights and until, ha, I shave my legs I won’t KNOW how the feel might be different. And it can really only be the first time that you can truly find a new sensation. I know what putting on stockings feels like – but I can’t remember that First time. Lost in memory.

But it was winter and it didn’t take long before I was wearing tights or stockings under my trousers. I liked being warmer on the way to and from work. But at work, the office was kept quite hot and the air-conditioning was poor. Once I noticed that I got uncomfortable during the day, I began to think about taking off my tights until I had to go back home.

But therein lies a higher risk of exposure. More trips to the staff toilets. More risk of an errant glimpse of stocking or even garter-belt if I just put them in my pocket. I couldn’t easily take a bag into the toilets.

However careful I was, it didn’t take long before I kept thinking that people had noticed. I’m not a catholic but I felt guilty anyway. But, really, what did I need to feel guilty about. It’s not a crime to wear panties or tights. Not even if you’re a male. It’s not even a misdemeanour unless I commit a public nuisance by flaunting myself in public.

It’s not common – as far as I know. But which social survey is going to get any accurate answer from relevant men to ‘do you wear panties often?’. ‘They’ say that’s it’s not proper, it’s not nice, it’s against their religion’ or more accurately ‘they don’t understand it and therefore they don’t like it’. What self-centred hogwash.

So, today’s rant is over. I’ve said how much I like panties and that I’m beginning to enjoy stockings and that I’ve been persuaded to shave my legs. I’m pretty sure that this was as far as I wanted to go.

I had no memory of dressing up as a kid. I had some certainty that I’d never thought about ‘being a girl’ or ‘wanting to be a girl’ or even ‘what would happen if I was a girl’. By typing in some weird search options I’ve read some strange stories and those have taken me deeper and further than I’d have ever expected. How can ‘want to join a band’ take you to stories about boys joining their sister’s band as a girl. But that’s the sort of thing that does happen with the Weird Wide Web.

So, I did wonder. Was there going to be a next step? What would it be? Would it be my idea or my wife’s . Ruby had said that she had noticed my, um, approval of silks and satins and that she’d like to see me getting some experience.

I wondered about all of this for some days. And every day as I put on my panties and stockings, I wondered if Ruby would suggest something else. And every evening too.

Like I said it was winter and it was getting cold – on the way to and from work was what I noticed. But at night too. I wasn’t keen on having the electric blanket on all night so sometimes I wore pyjamas. Mostly just the top.

So – one night, no clean pyjamas. Oh what a cunning wife. Obvious by hindsight. ‘Here’s a nightie instead – it’ll be a bit tight probably. You are bigger than me’.

(Well, obviously shoulder-wise, height-wise, weight-wise but chest-wise – I think not.)

The nightie wasn’t that bad a fit and it kept my shoulders warmer as we tossed and turned per usual. It was some time later I realized that my nightie didn’t have the usual strap arrangement but proper shoulder-cover. ‘Here’s one of my nighties’ – Ha. What a cunning plan, Mrs Baldric.

But I got used to wearing it and its successors over the next frozen month or so. Did I ever suspect that the heating had been turned down. Ha – again.

By now, I was always wearing panties, as before, but with tights or stockings on shaven legs. And now I was wearing a slinky nightie almost every night. I did begin to wonder what next.

And I remembered what she had said. She hadn’t said I approved of silks and satins. She had said that I enjoyed them. And I hadn’t replied in any way. So – more or less – I was labelled in her head with no argument against ‘you enjoy silks and satins’.

Just for research, I wondered what else there might be in the line of ‘silks and satins’. I started with the web but soon decided that actually going into shops where they sold S&S would be more, um, helpful. There’s a lot of S&S when you start looking. Or as I did, when I started lingering – in the lingery departments (Yes I know the spellings wrong – it’s a pun).

I had a lot of fun – until I thought ‘Is that going to be what I wear next, or soon, or eventually.’ Those thoughts were more difficult to set aside. I wasn’t a sissy. I wasn’t a girl. Or a pretend-girl. Or a drag-queen. Or a pervert for that matter. I was a bloke who loved panties. Although those silk vests look rather nice!

-------------------
Another AP-500 that some interesting feedback gave me the incentive to add a piece ….

Do I have some more on this sequence ?? perhaps Where’s my new leather skirt Where’s my bra? Where’s my lipstick

You have a spare Bra?

There’s times you get caught out – and there’s times you put yourself into a deep steaming pile of poo.
This was one of the second sort.

---

We’d just arrived at our holiday cottage …. and my wife was unpacking.

“Oh, bother. I’ve left my spare bra behind. Fortunately we’re only here for a long weekend – but it’s a bit of a nuisance.”

I raised an enquiring grunt.

“Well. This one’s already a bit grubby from being worn yesterday and for the journey.”

I began to speak and then converted it into another grunt.

“Were you about to say something?”

“Erm, no, not really.”

“I’ll ask this just once – and right now I don’t know what my reaction is going to be. Fair warning eh?”

“Erm, yes.”

“Are or were you about to say that YOU had a spare bra? That you’ve been dressing again? That you have a -what’s-it-called – a ‘stash’ here for your ‘breaks’ at the cottage?”

There was a silence …. Neither of us spoke for some moments.

“Well, say something, Terry.”

“In no particular order. I don’t come here in order to dress up. I have come here and dressed up – but it’s not recent and it was never often. But I do have a couple of things tidied away …. And the bra might fit you.”

“Is it washed?”

“Of course it is. I may be unusual – but I still don’t like dirt. On me or on my things.”

Pause

“So when was the last time you got dressed down here, mmm?”

“Probably about a year ago now.”

“I suppose that’s not often or frequent. Do you have any idea why?”

“Which ‘why’? Why did I dress then? Why did I ever dress? Why am I who I am? You know I don’t have much of an answer for anything of that sort. I’ve dressed because I’m annoyed. I’ve dressed because I saw an attractive woman in a dress I liked. I’ve dressed because I felt like it. Why I started – no answer. But I do have a bra that might fit you – are you at all interested?”

“I’m not happy you keep dressing. But I have to accept that you’re doing it less. And that does make me a bit happier. But when I’m not all stressed out about YOU in a dress, how happy are you at ME being not very happy that you do wear a dress? Did that make sense?"

Pause

“When do we move from let’s only do things that make us happy to let’s avoid doing things that make the other partner unhappy.”

Pause

“Terry, that’s not a nice thing to have to hear. Truly, are we doing unhappiness-avoidance or happiness-delivery? I know which we ought to be preferring. Is the not-dressing actually making you unhappy?”

“Being able to dress now and again – I’d like that. And I can cope with quite a lot of constraints or whatever. I try or tried not to dress except when I’m alone – although you’ve noticed more than a few times over the years. I think, or hope at least, that Dinah and Charity have not noticed. But I’d like to be able to say ‘that’s a pretty dress or a pretty skirt, blouse, whatever’ without having my head bitten off.”

“Do I bite?”

“Well, not much, because I try really hard not to give you the opportunity.”

“Are we both trying so hard to be thoughtful of the other that we’re … I dunno, … being too hard on both them and ourselves.”

“Can you say that again so it makes sense.”

“Maybe. How about …. Let’s take a break from how we’ve been behaving and aim to be nicer?”

“And?”

“Who’s going to make the first step? If it’s you how are you going to be nicer to yourself and how are you going to be nicer to me? And what about ‘them’ out there that, on occasion, you might be critical about?”

“Terry, don’t over-react to this ….. what if I said you can talk to me about dresses and so on. You can ask questions, make suggestions, and for my part I will try really hard to treat this as girl-talk. Would that help?”

“It’s worth a try.”

“So, not that we’re out and about looking at women in town …. I’m taking a deep breath here …. have you got a bra I can borrow?”

“Truly I can say ‘I thought you’d never ask’.”

There are reasons why a boy wants to go shopping alone.

---

“Don’t worry about me, I’ve got to go shopping. I want to buy some things that fit properly this time.”

“Why? Are you buying a set of bra and panties?”

My eyes went wide with shock. I gasped.

“Oh come on. How could you possibly believe that I didn’t know?"

“Erm.”

“What I can’t work out is the level of girl-boy you are thinking about. I think, at least I think I think that you have no intention of becoming a full-time girl and wanting your bits rearranged. I think your penis is quite important to you – judging by the, um, debris on your sheets!”

Erk, gurgle, attempted splutter

“So, taking a guess, it’s either that you want to know some of what it’s like being a girl, OR maybe it’s the textures and colours that attract you – Boy-stuff being so drab and boring. Anything to say yet?”

“Maybe so. Maybe someone has put you up to this – a boy making a dare. No – that might get you trying on ONE pair of panties and proving how daring and so not-gay you were. But buying your own? Buying a bra, or rather another bra , ‘cos the one in your stash is just so unsuitable. Did you steal it from somewhere? That’s just grubby, nasty and actually wrong – and rude too.”

“Still unable to speak, hmmm? Perhaps your eyes flickered when I said ‘buying’. Have you been buying your own things? If so, what have you got hidden away in some private stash. And don’t try to hide it. The Big secret is known by me. There’s very little I can say apart from – I have heard about your type of behaviour. I’ve researched some of it. And some web-clicks take you beyond weird or ugly. I can promise you that I know more than you expect. Probably more than you want me to. I can promise you a few things. Me knowing is NOT the end of your world. Me having you mega-deep-screwed by all this would be an end of some of my world. I do love you. Because you’re my kid. And I want a kid that’s happy even if a bit out-of-the-ordinary rather than one that’s screwed up. I’ve seen the stats for the screwed-up. It’s not happening round here.”

Pause

“Am I getting a bit loud, dear?” She waited ….

And still I had nothing to say. Well, nothing that I thought would be helpful. A seventeen year old boy being caught out buying a BRA. Not a good place to be in.

“Well, bloody right I’m feeling loud. And I’m making sure that I don’t actually imitate the volcano. There should be no secrets between us. Yes? No? It’s not the girly stuff – right. It’s the secrecy, the nearly-lying.. Your behaviour is not acceptable. Yes. You hear me?”

Oh, yes, my hearing was fine. My pulse and my brain might be on high but ….I kept schtum. But I was thinking busy, busy, busy. I wasn’t going to get out of this … but what would be the best outcome? Think, thou scurvy knave. Use both brain cells. Breath-holding was contra-indicated.

“So. Let’s go upstairs and you can show me what you’ve got. Then I’ll know a bit better what might be sensible or even possible next. Mmmmm?”

I didn’t move.

“Come on, kiddo. Let’s go and find out what’s changing in our life.”

I felt dreadful … alarmed … excited … fearful … wondering … hopeful … all at once. Trying to contain all these emotions, all these feelings – I didn’t know if I was going to burst or crumple.

Somewhat numb, I climbed the stairs following my mum. I couldn’t help it. I noticed she was wearing my favourite shiny stockings and the VPL clearly showed the lacy outline of her panties. I couldn’t help it. I was always watching women. Well, more often – girls. And I knew it wasn’t who they were – it was what they were wearing. Oh Golly, what was going to happen now.

Mum must have turned to check that I was following. “You’re looking at my legs again, aren’t you.”

Could this get worse?

“Is there a particular part of the woman’s body that attracts you … or a particular item of clothing. I do need to know if this pastime is going to progress. You can’t do it ‘a bit’. You know how that’s, first of all, never going to give a good result and, second, against my rules. All or nothing should be the way forward. So, let’s find out what you have to wear, what you want to wear and how much we need to budget so that you can be, what, a part-time girl, an all-the-time-out-of-school girl, or whatever is your plan. You do have a plan, yes?”

I still could find no way to say anything. I was thinking furioso. Probably more thinking about what DID I want than I had ever done before. Previous thinking had been more like daydreams and wishfulness-but-lacking-in-concrete.

What did I want. First, I wanted to wear pretty clothes when I wanted to and when I was sure it was ‘safe’. That meant indoors unless and doubtfully-maybe if I ever felt confident enough to go out when dressed. I did wonder if there was a halfway-house. I was very keen to wear panties as often as I could. I did love the feeling of snug when I wore a bra. It didn’t make me feel feminine even if it probably the most feminine-specific garment apart from a period-pad. I wasn’t unaware of the differences between boys and girls. I knew about sex – even if putting a condom on a cucumber is barely an essential life-skill.

Mum had asked another question. I had to speak my first words in some minutes. “Sorry, Mum, I have no idea what you just said. Can you repeat please.”

“Are you wearing panties right now, was what I asked.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Ah, perhaps communication has begun. How many pairs of panties do you have? How do you get them washed? And a larger question, sorry, no an actual demand – show me what you’ve got.”

“I’ve got six pairs and I wash them out every time I wear one. Rinse and towel-wrap to dry then hang in my wardrobe overnight. I’ve got most of my things at the base of my chest-of-drawers.”

“What, hidden beneath the bottom drawer?”

“Yeah.”

“Wrong answer. I don’t like ‘yeah’ and quite clearly you’re not looking after your extra clothes properly. You’re going to learn to do much better.”

“You’re going to let me keep my things?”

“Yes. I’ve been reading -and thinking about this. All the sites make it very obvious that if a boy does get into dressing, then he’ll keep doing it unless and until there is a need to change the habit. This might be his whole life going down the pan. It might be assault or an equivalent while dressed. It could be something else. Maybe getting a girlfriend would change something. It is not at all clear in the very many pages I’ve been looking at. One thing is clear – the depression that can occur when dressing is prevented is not good for the child. The suicide rate and self-harm rate that occurs is so many times the rate for the so-called normal kid.”

“Oh.”

“That’s about the most limited response I’ve ever heard from you. ‘Oh’ doesn’t say very much apart from you haven’t done any significant research yourself. Surely you must have found out that you’re not the only kid who dresses up?”

“Oh, I know there’s others. I just don’t actually know anyone. I don’t know anyone who knows anyone … but then what I do is not easy to talk about.”

“No, talking about being different sure isn’t easy. I’d agree with that.”

“What? What sort of difference are you talking about. I mean for yourself.”

“N’n’n’n’no, we’re not talking about me. Let’s say it was someone, actually two someones I used to know. And their difference wasn’t about being boys who dressed up. Okay.”

“Erm, okay. I won’t press. I may wonder though.”

“Wondering is okay. Thinking would be better. But we’re drifting off topic. Let’s see these clothes.”

Gradually my stash of pretty, well, used-to-be-pretty clothes made a set of untidy piles on the bed. Lifting out the bottom drawer was a well-practised manouevre. Underneath was a gap about four inches wide where I had built a couple of compartments. My six pairs of panties. The box of pantyhose. Two skirts, three blouses and a cardigan. I dug out my only dress from the back of my in-bed drawer. I’d built a sort of interior wall which made a second stash-space of about 8 inches.

“And where did you get these things? Mmmm?”

“Oh, I did buy them all. In the supermarkets and at the thrift-shops.”

“I’m not surprised they don’t match in any satisfactory way. You may know about colour and texture – or think you do. But you don’t learn well just by looking or watching. Now I’ve got some questions. Sit.”

There was a pause while we arranged ourselves in the two available chairs.

“Now, I guess you’ve been thinking. I’ll ask some simple questions? Are you gay?”

“No. I like girls, or at least I would like to like girls. Boys … no, no, no, I don’t think so.”

“Are you bisexual?”

“No, again, I really don’t know. I think my sexual activity is sufficiently not-yet-active that what there is, mostly, is just in my mind. Not yet real. Okay?”

“How often do you dress up? How often would you like to dress?”

“I do like panties. I’d like to wear them all the time, really. But other things, that’s not often. I’ve only worn the dress twice. I wear the blouses and the skirts maybe once a week.”

“And the bra. Not that it’s the right size anymore.”

“I wore it a few times but it never looked right – I tried stuffing it with socks and so on. I saw some breast-forms at the supermarket and did wonder about them. I guess I didn’t like the risk of the checkout girl, well, y’know.”

“I can guess, honey. I remember wanting to look like I had bigger breasts, until I wanted them smaller. But that was so many years later. I’ll give you some help with all this. Mind you – I still don’t actually approve of you dressing. Not actually because of the dressing – but because it makes you too easily labelled as ‘different’. And ‘different can mean dead’.”

“I’m not planning that, Mum.”

“Honey, it ain’t YOU that’s going to make you dead. It’s you that makes the choice to be different. It’s THEM who are the people who can make you dead.”

“Oh. Again, I guess. But trying to be helpful. I’d like to be able to dress at home quite often. Not every day, mind you. Though that might change. Can I dress at the weekend? That’d give me a better idea of what I want?”

“Would you want to be dressed outside the house? For church, maybe?”

“God, no. Just in the house when there’s enough time. I want to be relaxed about all this, not stressed out of my skull.”

“What do you want to have in your wardrobe?”

“Does that mean you’ll help me?”

“Ain’t nobody here in this room but you and me. And the evidence on that bed suggests you haven’t got a clue about dressing as a girl, looking like a girl, feeling like a girl, let alone being a girl out for the day with her mum. Does my honey have a clue?”

“Erm, oh.”

“Let’s take a break. In the morning I want you to tell me what YOU think we should go shopping for. Obviously you need panties that fit. You need a couple of blouses and skirts that fit and match. You’ll need a bra otherwise the blouse won’t hang right. And with the bras you’ll need forms. Will you want a dress too?”

That evening I went to my computer and accessed a sub-directory. Of course I’d given it a meaningless name, I’m not dim. It was filled with pages from the net. Dresses and just every thing I’d found and enjoyed over the last 6 months. Other directories had older stuff that I had decided was less fashionable. I had a sub-sub called favourites and that had about fifty pictures. I printed them all at four to a page and took them downstairs.

“Here, Mummy. I’d say that your list does cover a lot of what I’d like. And you can see some of what I’ve liked recently. And it would be enough for anything I can see myself doing.”

“What’s your girl-name, honey?”

“Would you guess that it’s actually now going to be Honey. I was thinking of myself as Laura for a while but actually I love you calling me Honey. So can I choose Honey, please.”

“Oh, Honey, that’s so neat. Yep, Honey it is. Does Honey want anything else?”

“Can I have a nightie as well.”

“That won’t break the bank. I’ll let that one pass. And when we go to the shops we might see some more things you’d want.”

“You want me to come to the shops with you …… looking at girl’s clothes. That’s going to look, um, no, it’s a bit risky isn’t it?”

“There’s a risk. But everything I’ve read says that if you behave as if you have every right to be doing what you’re doing in the place and time you’re doing it, behaving with confidence and certainty … it’s usually okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“That’s the way it’s going to be, Honey. Get dressed. You can wear panties if you want but that’s all. We’re going to be out for a good few hours.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s what is going to happen. If it makes you happier, we can go over to Mosstown rather than here is Donaldson.”

“Yeah, that’d be a good idea. Less people likely to know me or you. Yes, please.”

“Ten minutes – at the door. Okay.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give over, Honey – or things’ll get sticky.”

“Oh, puns is it now. That’s beeing silly.”

“Enough. Get ready, pronto,”

I sat there while a few minutes passed. I didn’t spend all that time deciding which pair of panties to choose. I was dithering about whether I really was going to go shopping to pretty colourful girl-clothes for ME. Or whether I would bottle out. I did know that doing that would probably mean being told ‘if you can stop then you’ve stopped and we’ll have no more of this dressing. I didn’t want that. So …. decision made. Honey was going shopping.

At the door, Mum did something I could never have expected. She gave a tiny spray of perfume onto my collar saying ‘Now you’ll feel so much more girly. I think it’ll help.”

I’d never thought of perfume before. I’d never dared. It made me feel … wonderful. And just that bit extra girly. Now I really wanted to go shopping. With my Mummy.

-------------------

In the car, we talked about what I liked. I suggested we sit in a café and I’d say what I liked and even what I didn’t. I wanted to show that I was looking for somewhere near ordinary-with-a-bit-of-style. With what I had scrounged together, I knew I didn’t have a style yet. I liked the certainty of showing a feminine image with skirts and a dress. But I knew, from lots of watching, that I wanted some cute culottes, maybe even something towards a romper. I saw one girl wearing a really cute dress until I saw from the back it was shorts-style .. thus a romper. I wanted some stylish trousers, calf-length chinos maybe I knew I wanted colour and textures that were really not allowed for the typical male. It was going to be interesting to see what we found.

So, we sat in that café. Near a couple of clothes shops – with lots of teenage girls going in and out. Some women too with their offspring. For a moment, I thought one of them looked awfully boyish – but I changed my mind when I saw the beautifully-applied makeup. That had to be a girl.

“Honey, shall I keep some notes or do we do it all from memory?”

“Not too many, or it’ll feel like a school lesson, yeah? But there’s bound to be things that I’d forget otherwise.”

We’d been doing our watching for about an hour before we actually got into the shop. By now it was lunchtime so most of the customers were now happily at their local feeding-trough. There were still some people around as well as a few assistants. Most of them weren’t doing any actual assisting but busy chatting to each other. None were using phones so we guessed that there was a shop rule against them.

Mum didn’t hesitate. We’d already agreed that shopping was going to be from the inside out – so panties and undies first, onwards to outerwear and shoes.

To my surprise, we didn’t spend long on the panties. Mum had measured me in about 47 different ways and simply said “get a pack of day-to-day panties, white is better but coloured if you really want. You can get 4 or 5 pretty ones too in size S. We’ve got more important things to get next. A bra or two, of course. And onwards.”

We’d talked about how I should behave. I was worried most if Mum had insisted on a actual bra-fitting. If I got that far undressed, at my age, complete lack of boobage would make my situation very obvious. She’d said that in the shops we were going to a fitting would be rare. She had a good idea of what size would suit. We’d buy, find a suitable place to get changed so she could check, then either keep or return as necessary.

We chose, well she chose the size and I chose the look – we chose three bras. And checked that returns would be accepted. They said the bras had to have their labels and be obviously barely-used and preferably within 2 or 3 days in the box and so on. It felt a bit icky that something so intimate and personal could be returned but I wasn’t going to make it more difficult. But I was so looking forward to having my own bra that fitted me.

xx

After lots of giggly over-excitedness, we bought three bras, in sets with matching panties. The prettiest was pink satin with black trim. I'd show a picture if I could.

As we were leaving that area, I saw a lovely nightie and we bought that too. Mummy – (sometimes it felt right for Mummy, sometimes for Mum) suggested I had a set of long, short, sleep-panties and a coat. After a bit of effort we found the necessary. All in white with a pale pink trim. I was looking forward to bedtime now as well.

The geography of the shop took us to shoes next rather than dresses or skirts so we looked briefly at the enormous range. I had my feet measured by a gadget which said size 5 – no real assistants available. Then Mummy said that a heel of an inch and a half or maximum 2 inches would be it. But she said flats or ballet shoe-type would be the first thing. Not my usual trainers unless the choice was obvious.

I never realized how expensive some of this girl stuff was when you bought new. But Mummy was not too obviously worried. She let me have some flats in black, white and pastel-pink, and one pair of ballet-type shoes, and finally one pair ‘to learn with’ of black and tan inch-and-a-half heels. I rather wanted the two-inch block-heels but I was told that they would just lift my legs but wouldn’t teach me how to walk and balance properly. I was allowed to try them but they did feel quite heavy on the feet.

So nearly a dozen panties and three bras in one bag; 4 shoes in another. And onwards.

Mum commented as we walked, “It’s a bit of a shame you aren’t getting your First pretty Panties, your First Bra and so on.”

“I didn’t really think I could say, Mum, can you help me buy panties, bra and so on. I’ve read about it being steps on a Rite of Passage for a Mum and Daughter. But this ain’t so. I’m just a boy buying clothes which the Mob, Them, would most likely disapprove of me having, let alone wearing.”

“Honey, I’m not dim. But you’re all I’ve got. And it’s true what you say. But it’s also true that neither of us can actually do the First Bra and enjoy that moment the way it should have been. But let’s concentrate on the positives. Let’s find some pretties for you.”

I need to point out that, for onlooker purposes, my Mum is quite short so it wasn’t massively unlikely that she would be looking in the girl-focussed shops rather than in the women’s shops. And I’m not a big hulk. I’m five foot seven and fairly skinny. Almost without thinking, I’ve let my hair grow quite long – the schools have mostly given up on the hair-rules. Probably 90% of the girls have beautiful long hair; I don’t know how the peer-group pressure prevents any of them going for a modern fashionable bob or whatever – but I love it that they have long hair. It’s one of the things I’d love to have.

Hair-wise, Mum had brushed my hair so it looked at least non-boy. It did make me feel quite a lot more at ease with this exciting yet almost-frightening experience. The occasional waft of that perfume was a gorgeous reminder of what could be.

I was beginning to relax, well, as much as I could – and that was more than I expected. But you can’t stay at panic-mode for very long. Unless you’re my mother’s sister Jane. Wow. And grudgeville too – till death do us part. Not nice. Keep away from all – I mean ALL - the trigger subjects and she was actually quite fun really.

But I didn’t dare to get too relaxed. I somehow knew that if I actually started joining in with the looking, touching, feeling, trying and buying then there would be more risk. Attempted-confident was the best I was hoping for, minimum risk and all that.

But it was so difficult not to get involved. I wanted to do the touching, testing, trying. And after a while that’s what I started to do.

“This is pretty” Mum said, holding up a white blouse with mid-size ruffles down the front and flounced sleeves. Just at the exact moment, I held up another one in red with gold trim and said ‘This is nice.”

We both laughed, or actually it was a giggle from her and a sort-of-giggle from me. It was truly a special girl-moment.

“Both?” she said and I nodded-grinned my thorough agreement.

Soon we were having such fun. The risk of being caught was out of my mind. Then I saw the girl from before. There was something about her that really caught my attention. But then Mum called and I was swept up in looking at a really cute romper very like the one the girl was wearing that we saw earlier. However unsuitable, I really wanted it.

"You'll look like Angela - in a mirror!"

How often does something REALLY unexpected happen in the average life. Once? Twice? Never?

"It's just you copying what Angela does - as if in a mirror. You've got to be a look-alike, y'know. You can do it," Ashya insisted.

An AP-500 story

---

My Dad enjoys everything. Even making time for me when I’ve got problems.

Mum is different. She does all the feeding, looking after, all the expected mum-stuff but I don’t think she enjoys it much. I did overhear once her tearful about ‘if only ..’ but ……

Perhaps there’s something missing in her life. I do my best but I’m only me – I don’t do a lot excellently. I’m reasonably above-average at stuff but ‘Super-Kid’ - I know I’m not. I’m sixteen, nearly seventeen, five foot six, solid rather than skinny. I enjoy most lessons, do a bit with various sports, but I have joined the theatre-club – at my backstage lighting desk.

I have my hobbies, interests, ‘things-I-like-to-do’. And I do like to do things thoroughly. Sometimes this can be a mistake.

“Roger…… could you spare a moment” the director’s shout echoed through the backstage.

“It’s just an experiment – first, just show Jane how to work t’lights. If this goes ahead, she’ll need to run the last act for about 7 minutes.”

“What!”

“Fret not, chummy. Just a thing in my head. You’ll be onstage for about 4 minutes - 90 seconds to get on and off. Easy.” Ashya started explaining.

My expression went from white to scarlet to …. most colours of the rainbow. I was furious, embarrassed, scared, excited, wondering and really nervous. “You want me onstage in a dress acting as the mirror for Jane?”

“Zactly so. I’ve planned a routine that’ll stun everyone if it works. Just f’ntastic. Just y’wait and see.” Everyone finds it hard to resist an excited Ashya. Five foot three, skinny as a bone with frizzy blonde hair.

After much discussion, Ashya insisted on coming home with me to ask my mum for her help …… in dressing me as a girl. I had insisted that I wasn’t going to do it unless I looked at least adequate. I’d been persuaded that the only choice was me as nobody else even faintly matched Jane in height and shape.

My mum was so far beyond disbelief that it was almost funny. Then gradually I could see her coming round to the idea of helping out. Then she became enthusiastic.

It took time. But in the end, a few days later, I had to agree that they had made me look sufficiently similar to Angela as we stood together. Mum said ‘why tell him until we’ve done a test-run.’ And we looked ‘f’ntastic’. My Dad couldn’t tell the difference. He’d been away and when we showed him. F’ntastic.

But I now loved everything about it. From being an out-of-sight null-nerd – I was now a fan of ….. well everything. I loved the silky sleek undies and even the corset(!) that matched what Angela wore [the mirror-routine included removing the dress!]. I loved the feel of it instead of jeans. I loved the dress, the lipstick, perfume, silk, satin. Everything.

And mum loved having a daughter. She’d bought lots of clothes!!! For Rosa – for me!

Another 500-word story to borrow, build on, expand (and acknowledge please). AP

Addict Ted

Hiding is hard work -

My name is Ted – I’ve never been Edward or Eddy, I was born with the label Theodore. I don’t want to be a Theodore any more. Nor a Ted.

I need to be Thea; I don’t like Theodore, but I do like Theodora – even if in my head I now use the shorter version. All the way to T, partly because I’ve been discovering that I am T – as well as having the nickname T. I snigger to myself – am I addicTED to being T.

Do I thank God in any way for the place I’m in. [In case you’ve forgotten, ‘Theodore means God’s Gift.] Huh. I’m not immensely grateful.

Oh, golly, I’ve gone through the analysis (mostly for myself to myself) because I want some answers as to WHY do I have this thing inside me that needs to show, in public, that I am different. I don’t WANT to be different – but I do want to wear pretty dresses, bright colours, flowing, floaty pretties. And by golly doesn’t that make me DIFFERENT and the object of definite and determined hate, nastiness, abuse and all the rest.

I read so much about my situation. And a lot of it feels like RUBBISH. And some of it hits the spot – or gives at least some help.

I was web-wandering and started reading about Addiction. I found I really really disliked the AA approach. The people who started it in the 1930s were, by later review by non-AA people, not kind, not nice and addicted to power in their bullying and abuse of their fellow-travellers. And they drank. And they smoked. But, like I say, their real intentional deliberate chosen addiction was abuse. BUT I won’t throw the whole baby out with their dirty bathwater …. quite a lot of people have been helped with their quasi-religious self-help formulae.

The huge emphasis by AA then and now is that God can look after all your troubles. That the god of a Middle Eastern, nomadic, pre-industrial herd is ‘The God’. Wow. That the angry, retaliating, violent, aggressive ‘god’ of the Old Testament became, simply by the ?generosity of !!sacrificing his only son, a Loving and lovely god. Double Wow.

That the Omni-present, omni-scient, all-powerful god is actually interested above all other things in the wailings (sorry - prayers) of a self-described intelligent primate on a tiny planet at the outer edge of a small galaxy somewhere in the universe.

Well …… who would have guessed that that was the answer to everything? Multi-Wow. By the way - I don’t say I KNOW better. I don’t KNOW. Certainly not with the certainty that those adherents of many religions claim. They ‘know’ based on their certainty. I just see their argument as circular …. There is a god because I believe in his existence therefore there is a god ….

As regards this jewish / christian’s god having such interest in us … why don’t the praying people find some proof!

Setting such deep and unprovable assertions to one side in favour of looking just at the actions of the AA. The tool-using ‘sapient’ primates who run AA have discerned that all will be well with every possible addict if they do the following
1 admit [to the group, their mentor and themselves] we are powerless over our addiction – that our lives have become unmanageable and we have hurt ourselves and others;
2 believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity;
3 and we have therefore decided to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God.
Even if it does help some sufferers [and it definitely does] for me, this is, er, let’s be polite, not really helpful

AA do not require their client to look at the causes of their addiction; it is hugely blamed on the client’s mistakes in earlier life. Such mistakes are, implicitly, BY them or as a result of situations beyond their control.

Perhaps, a ‘step’ towards some truth is to look at the CAUSE of the addictive behaviour. Since the 1930s. there has been an immense improvement in the knowledge of how the human body, brain and behaviour interlink.

For me – and I am amazingly willing to accept comment and critique – there are TWO previous stages to becoming addicted before you have real problems that are sufficiently damaging to even look at the AA methods.

Step00 - you have significant lack of self-worth, self-assurance and at times you feel that some sort of behaviour will ‘fill the hole’.

The brain moves towards addictive acceptance by virtue of chemicals building up from ‘pleasing’ behaviours. And some of these are socially described as ‘addictive’. Satisfactory Serotonin ‘hits’ can too easily be obtained from some addiction or other. I believe that working on your self-belief and self-worth CAN be a root to avoiding much of the ‘look at your defects’ Anon-Group-type system.

Rather than the AA approach, perhaps real efforts to assess deep problems with self-worth and self-esteem can be addressed separately.

The structure of a Twelve Step routine is prescriptive, if not proscriptive; for some people this may be is over- or under-sufficient for their particular combination of issues. Attendance at a few AA meetings will reveal many who suffer from Alcohol, Drugs, Nicotine, Gambling, Sex and other issues such as Food. Oh, nearly forgot to mention ‘Willingness to Abuse’ and ‘Being a Victim’ as two extra options. AA-victims are really not in good control of several aspects of their daily life.

Step0 – you have developed an addictive style of life – and you and your family or friends are telling you there is a problem. Bluntly, you are screwed up by something you are doing as a habit.

Do I see ANY similarities with being T. Sliding answer – it depends.

For the AA client, and there are some for whom attendance at AA meetings becomes a replacement addiction. I’ve expressed my concern about the early steps of AA and what I feel is their determination to BLAME YOU for your problem. The next two steps do help some people, I accept that. But I am not happy with the strong implication that EVERYTHING can be fixed by this process.

4 We have made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves
5 We admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

I know that there will be fellow T’s who have been told that they are addicted. There has to be SOME truth in that label. We dress because we love it, we need to, we want to. And some of the outcomes will be chemicals flowing to the brain to give potentially addictive benefit. But, I guess most of the BC readers don’t need to be told they’re addicted to anything. Being T is just part of our life.

I had to put this on paper. It needs more work. That’s why I’ve saved it with the name Rant-Addict-T1.

Let’s get back to my real life.

I’ve been dressing regularly for some 7 years now, 10 years if you count college where I aimed more for the andro-look. It seemed more sensible . By hindsight, I could have been bolder, braver. After all, nobody there knew me or was likely to keep in touch afterwards unless they became lifetime friends. And if you cross-dress, opening up about it to others is a risk. However ‘friendly’ your friends might seem. Do you have a clue what goes on inside their heads?? Do you have very many clues that you admit to about what goes on in the back of your own head??

But, as some of you will know, I didn’t dare be that brave or bold or open at college. At the beginning, I should have started as I wanted to finish – but who has the guts (nearly said ‘balls’) to do that. And perhaps by being so scared and closed-off I didn’t make many friends.

I began to dress more often once I was in London, living in flatland.

And I began to take an interest in what the other minority groups were doing. Especially the LGB brigade. T barely existed then, as far as I knew. It seemed pretty certain back then that LGB had little or nothing to do with the Ts. Except for the minority-minorities who drag or use costume as part of their LGB-ness.

And I just have this feeling that the LGB use of T is more of a manouevre than a genuine empathy or willingness to help.

Yes – L & G & B & T & I & Q & A & A & Q & Q & X & Y & Z – they ALL have people who are genuinely certain that they fit the listed characteristics – but do they really have much in common apart from being TARGETS because they are DIFFERENT.

If being a target made people have things in common – then the Jews and the Moslems-outside moslem-land and the Christians in moslem-land and the Republicans-in-democrat-land etc etc would see sufficient similarities to do something to correct the situation.

Oh – wishful thinking. Ha.

But the LGB group have had phenomenal success. Despite being very much a minority. Perhaps in part, being a minority has given them focus and power against the amorphous but huge group known as the Silent Majority. And aren’t they silent. Wow. Usually until it’s too late. Then there’s an ugly chorus of ‘why, how, we didn’t know …’ Ugly in some ways.

That’s what seems to have happened in so many of the changes that the LGBs have pushed through so that it has the legal justification of being ‘mainstream’. To a point where the taxable allowance for Married Couples has been removed. Ha. Mind you, a couple of hundred quid is just not likely to be an actual encouragement to getting married.
I really do think that minorities should have a voice – but when and how should this be enough to make the majority give in. What is the point of so-called democracy if the small-but-loud can out-manouevre the larger?

I know it is actually much easier and safer to be LGB yet than a few decades ago – but nevertheless the ‘norm’ (like it or not) is heterosexual male-female and generally monogamous couples producing children and behaving within the acceptable limits of family (dys)functionality.

There is NO doubt that SOME people and some couples should NOT have children; nor indeed that some who are childless might have produced excellent outcomes. But there are some very obvious statistics demonstrating ‘the norm’.

And how did it happen that without being in any UK Party political manifesto … ‘suddenly’ there was this immense pressure for pro-homosexual marriage. Despite my personal proclivities, I know of not one of my (I think) LGB friends who was DEMANDING this. But ‘somehow’ there was astonishing political pressure for it to happen … with astonishing success. It’s not quite compulsory in certain government departments to be hugely pro-LGB but ….
One highly prominent civil servant in a very significant department announced with vim and vigour ‘my primary aim is to make this department the most pro-LGB and pro-woke department in Whitehall.’ Was that actually part of the job description for Ms Romero?

But there’s a lot of disapproval or maybe just discomfort at those who go ‘too far’ (there’s a subjective statement) from the norm.

Tangent from a few nights ago :

I had been drinking. So had she. I really have no idea what made us gradually separate from the Friday evening after-work drinkies. I sort of guessed she had some ulterior motive. She was known to like to have leverage over people. Not blackmail as such – just accumulated knowledge sufficient to be able to press people. I’d not spoken that often one-to-one with her before – so drink somewhat whelmed our mutual reserve.

Renee said – ‘it’s never the majority however you look at it – even amongst the LGBs there’s only some who are active, some who are active and aggressive, some who are demanding ….. most want to get on with their lives with minimum disruption.

To which I answered ‘Bit like most of us, really.’

Quick as a serpent, she licked her lips and pressed ‘So which minority do you belong to that doesn’t get a fair crack, eh? What particular disruption do you need to avoid.”

“Oh, Renee, honey. Like most of us I’m the accumulation of so many groups, gangs, clubs, cliques and herds that I could never identify which make me a ‘minority’ all of my own. Do I have things I keep tidily compartmentalized so that one group such as the trainspotters doesn’t learn that I’m also a gin-fanatic. Of course I do.”

“Okay, so you’re not opening up about your big secret then. Fine, I can wait.” There was a pause and she blurted , “Are you gay, or LGB or whatever is the current proper wording – and I apologise for asking the question and, likely, not phrasing it correctly.”

“Well, there’s a poser! As it happens I’m not L or G or B. Mind you some of those options are beyond me. One certainly can’t both L and G for example. ……… Is it my turn to be equally outrageous?”

……………. “Um, maybe?”

“Is it, for example, true that you deliberately have a go at newcomers – to an extent that MIGHT be called abusive, or bullying or just improper. Is that, to be as blunt as you, why one of your nicknames is ‘The Sledgehammer’. “

“Oh. Perhaps I was being too inquisitive. Sorry.”

“Huh, ‘perhaps’. “ I snorted as politely as I could. “Wow, I have never heard you apologise to anybody for anything. Are you ill?”

“It’s just …… “

“What?”

“It’s just that you puzzle me – and I don’t like knowing all the answers.”

“So it’s true then – it’s all about you knowing as much as possible about people – so that you can squeeze them, huh. So kind.”

“That’s a twist! Who is analysing who? And definitely, who is making judgments based on little more than rumour.”

Sorry, Renee, I’m going to veer slightly. I’ve watched you for a while and you bug me. Greatly. For me, there’s an immense difference between nastiness and deliberate nastiness. I’m not labelling you immediately but setting up a hypothetical puzzle. This ‘Sledgehammer’ routine – is there a reason for it?”

“The question I’m going to ask you is ‘what should I do about this friend. They stir things up too often to make me comfortable. What would YOU do?’

“There are some people who for whatever reason are abusive, unkind, bullying and a whole lot of other words. Much of their nastiness is an overflow of their nature. Much of what they do isn’t planned at all. They just enjoy their power to hurt, main, damage, destroy. And I’d really like it if you could persuade me that what you hand out is not actually deliberately nasty. I can tell you I’ve watched some of your victims, targets or whatever you see them as … and they look hurt. Rather too often.

“I think, I repeat I think or guess that most of what you do is in order to make a fuss – to be the centre of reaction. Not quite the same as those I really dislike. They’re separate. Them who for a specific reason deliberately plan a nasty, unkind, abusive event with the specific intent of causing pain, distress and genuine hurt with little or no remorse on their part – them I hate.

“Some, no doubt, are the high-level psychopath who has no empathy and who has no concept of guilt or remorse – I have to put them into a separate box (hopefully very far away). And I think that’s not you.

Her expression was somehow taut, tense, even shocked.

“Those who feel remorse, I’m not sure I have great sympathy for unless they change their ways and don’t do it again to anybody ever – and they do their utmost to repair the damage they caused. So – do you care about your targets? What do you do FOR them once they’ve opened up on their small secret?

“I’m not blaming my parents – but they didn’t encourage anyone to show kindness or niceness. Mum was a lawyer, Dad was a scientist. Their skill was investigating, digging for ‘truth’. That’s what they taught. Perhaps I learnt too well. You’re not the first to point out that this approach isn’t necessarily kind. But you’ve done it more bluntly than Karen did.

“I have started to watch what I do – and I’ve managed to stop a few times before … before what I’m doing feels … wrong.

“Have I hurt some people. Over the years, I have definitely hurt people – some of whom were friends until … You can’t turn the page back.
= = = =

I held up my glass. “I think this liquid tonight is delivering too much truth. I’m stopping. And I’m going to try to drink less and certainly to avoid asking deep questions of a Friday evening. Partly because while I may be making sense to me now – I won’t remember any of these excellent steps of logic and, in cold light, there may be some logical slips.
Thus passed another mildly alcoholic evening – and still I managed to hide my minoriT.

Alexandra’s Leaving

This was triggered by Leonard Cohen’s song. There are overtones of The Beatles’ She’s leaving home’.

Another AP-500. Well, first a whole bunch of AP-500 ‘starters’ for other people …. Then I write a couple of follow-ons myself. Now another few ‘500-worders’ to come.

Alexandra leant across the bed to kiss her mother. Gentle as a feather so as not to wake her. As she turned to leave, her hand brushed for a last time across the fold of satin nightdress peeping out from under the bedclothes.

It was satin that first attracted Alexandra. The feel, the touch, the smoothness, the pleasure. Other materials were almost as good. Silk especially. Jersey too, with the way it clung to the curve of leg and hip and body. That first time of nylon sliding on shaven leg. Wow.

Then that first bra. Like almost everyone else except the most tomboy tomboy – there was as yet no need for Alexandra to need a bra. But the desire was there. The acceptance of that ultra-feminine only-for-females garment. It felt so good.

As time passed, as she grew from child to tween to teen, Alexandra grew more skilled at all the behaviours and attitudes that made girls different from boys. Or rather, made the typical girl different from the typical boy. Or almost every girl from almost every boy.

Alexandra knew all the hurtful words, all the nasty unkindnesses that some people launched at others. Usually, the majority bullying the minority. But many a minority now had a loud, shouty voice which could even outweigh the all-too-silent majority.

Even by the age of ten, Alexandra knew some of the minority boxes she ticked. Redhead. Short, Clever, Skinny, Divorced-Parents, Poor, Bus-User.

By her mid-teens, other terms had begun to stick. Tomboy. Lesbian. Cold. Stand-offish.

Some of the ugly-labels she accepted. Lesbian and Tomboy especially. Mostly because she wasn’t either of those – but ….. the wrong label was strangely satisfying to her./

Time passed. Alexandra made friends – slowly but good quality. A bit like her wardrobe.

Alexandra was very careful about who knew about her. Secrecy is a vital lesson for some – especially for members of persecuted or abused minorities. And as Benjamin Franklin said ‘secrets are only kept if just three people know and two of them are dead!’

Gradually more people knew – Alexandra’s hairdresser. The staff at several local shops. Her best friends of course. But Alexandra worried who else might know.

Nothing was ever said by those most important to her. Coldness grew like an emotional cancer. Sucking the life out of her new-found determination to be happy. To be the person inside. She giggled at the old rhyme ‘put the inside skinside, make the outside herside’.

As she left the house, the girl sang gently to herself the words she’d adapted for the new, cold, grey dawn. “As someone long prepared for each occasion, in full command of every plan that you have wrecked. Here’s one more to fit the music – do not hide behind the cause and your effect. So, say goodbye to Alexandra leaving, say goodbye to Alexandra lost. “

Awaking to the fading waft of unfamiliar perfume - she did not know what had gone. But she knew the house was empty. Would she weep?

All those Firsts ... the First Panties

I'm sure it was a panty that was the first first.

Yes - I’m just that bit different – yeah, THAT bit and I wear woman’s clothes - every day. And it can be wonderful. There are risks - but... I've got through the horrors. Overall, I love what I am and how I present as a confident woman.

---

Jottings from a Notebook / Diary – (not a daily diary anyway).

Yes - I’m just that bit different – yeah, THAT bit and I wear woman’s clothes - every day. And it can be wonderful. There are risks - but... I've got through the horrors. Overall, I love what I am and how I present as a confident woman.

------------------------------------
I'm sure it was a panty that was the first first - but I can't remember the colour or the style or ..., then a little later Shiela's best satin-style panties. Then a skirt, the bra, then pantyhose, those heels. Wow. It takes a bit of an effort to look back and remember exactly what order I learnt about dressing up and the inner-girl that was waiting, and hiding. What remains locked in my mind, whatever the item, was that wonderful sensation as I wore the right clothes for that first time.

I can't remember every detail of those initial gorgeousnesses. But with the forgetting of the lovely, there has been some forgetting of the horrible. The comments, the glares, the verbals, the physicals. the whole accumulation of nasties. As I've got older and been less bothered about 'them' ... some of it has become less noticeable. But abuse can go so so deep. I know that a tiny bit of it is actually me misinterpreting, misunderstanding and some is sometimes water off a duck's back. But not all of it. And some of it hurts so much.

------------------------------------
I’ve been Allison for years now, decades actually. I’m content, comfortable and pretty much satisfied with where I am in my life. But it’s drawing to a close – and some secrets should be hidden from those who deal with the aftermath. I don’t know if they’ll suddenly dislike me or if they’ll … fill the gap … I just don’t know. All I’ve learnt from the Allison part of my life is that hate can burst out from those who did appear to like you – but then sometimes friends arrive unexpectedly.

I've been married - not for very long. Cancer is a vile thing. But our two children were in their late teens and moving off to college. They're good kids. I had, I hope they'd say, a pretty good relationship. They've both moved some distance away with their jobs but we speak several times a week. They visit. I visit. Some years after Jennie died, I became more obvious with my dressing and they were very, amazingly, accepting. It probably helped that they had good friends since school days who were actively LGB. But they know me as a sort of 'mum' but they don't know all of it. They don't know I've dressed almost all my life. They don't know about the days of drag, the eventual avoidance of gay. I've not talked about the attempts to be extra-macho in the hope femme-me would fade away. What a stupid suggestion that was. They only know about the last 20 or so years of being a passable ageing woman.

The time is coming. I’ve got to tidy up a little. It’s not as if my children know well how my life has been and how complicated it’s been. Tidy it all up. Remove much of the evidence. If they don’t know they can’t complain, eh?

Clothes and all that – I’ve only worn dresses and the like, it feels like forever now. Nothing to throw away. Tim might wonder about the army beret and the medals. It would have been disrespectful to throw them. I've not talked at all about that time.

------------------------------------
Yes – that problem about real friends, ex-friends and new friends – such a big part of being T. Stories tell of Ts, young pretty instantly-passing T-girls who … those are NOT my favourite stories.

I’ve tried really hard not to be too upset at the ex-friends and to welcome the new. But it can be hard.

Like many T – I’ve lost friends, family, opportunities. Due to my circumstances, I can’t say I’ve lost jobs – though I suspect so. Most especially when I was less good at passing. When I didn’t have the confidence.

------------------------------------
Out in the real-T world – there’s rather too much knowledge about what conversely might be called the Reality (read it rather as RealitT) world. Passing well is rare. Those who do so – well some of them actually make a career in modelling, or films or media. Astonishing – and a huge encouragement to a very few Ts.

But most of us don’t pass well. Even though there’s NO statistics that have a feel of truth.

And if you don’t pass to your own satisfaction – by golly don’t ‘they’ make it very ugly obvious. Perhaps that’s when there’s the largest risk and the all-too-probable obliteration of reputation and respect from ‘them’.

To be blunt, in the daily world, there’s not a worthwhile reputation in being T.

------------------------------------
Exactly why the wearing of womanly costume should generate such virulence and loathing is not clear to any T.

There are phrases, much translated and revised to fit the then-current prejudices, that god ‘detests’ men wearing women’s clothes and women wearing men’s clothes. Not man’s choice – oh no – God’s wording. Ha. Nothing like that in any major religious text except the Jewish-Christian bible.

But modern western (judeo-christian) women DO wear men’s clothes. Priests wear what I can only describe as a gown (dress).
But men can’t. Modern men, unlike their long ago counterparts cannot be colourful, flamboyant. They cannot wear other than grey, dull, drab, BORING. Real extroverts can have colourful ties, or socks or even garish holiday shirts. And women can wear anything they like including every piece of apparel that men claim.
One of the BIG puzzles.

------------------------------------
It’s so long since I stopped being Bill.

It was almost before Trans existed as a# well-known word – before Transgender, before Transexual, before LGB even. The words might have existed in some deep dark recess of Soho or San Francisco or similar – but not for the likes of me. No Tavistock, no Mermaids – nothing. Not a mention anywhere – except in the corners of some seedy bars in Soho and the nearby bookshops. Yes, there were books of porn in those days – Videos too later, and some films – old days indeed.
Once I had got the courage to visit some of these places, I did find copies of a booklet called Transvestia – from America. It had biographical stories, fiction, photographs and chit-chat about the ‘scene’. Driven by the trans-activist Virgina Prince, there were about 100 issues from 1960 to 1980. It did diverge in 2 key issues – it stated that the magazine was for Heterosexual Crossdresser and coined the word Femmiphile abbreviated as FP. Virginia was, (of course) disowned by her rich family.

------------------------------------
It’s actually quite hard to remember what it was like learning to be T back then. There were NO ways to learn or investigate until you already knew quite a lot. Logical Catch-22-type hiccup – how can you get that learning?

I didn’t know anything then. Some MIGHT have heard of April Ashley in the newspapers – born in Liverpool in 1935, one of nine children, she joined the merchant navy before going to Morocco for her operation at the age of 25. She earned the money performing a drag act at Le Carrousel in Paris. She worked as a model and in films but was exposed as trans which hugely affected her future life. She returned to Britain in 2005 and became a Grande Dame of the T-world.

There were others, there are now many more – some transitioning while young, others much later. The list of pre-2000 examples includes Jan Morris, Caroline Cossey (who was in a Bond film under her stagename Tula), Fay Presto the magic act, and others; the ‘Captain who changed Sex’ and similar. There was no mention or perhaps careful avoidance of any boy-man-girl-woman who underwent the surgery and chemicals to become as they wished. What did happen was grubby expose of private lives in the delivery of ‘what the public needed to know […so that we can publicise prurient and smutty stories for your benefit]’.

Even back then there were arguments about labelling. The influence of Virginia Prince in particular was against Ts who were homosexual or who underwent surgery or who, by whatever definition, fetishists. That was then. Perhaps things have changed. Ho ho.

Since I’m writing about it, I’ve done a little research recently and Wikipedia summarises the 3 key aims of Virginia and the magazine. It’s difficult to improve on what she said :- "To provide expression for those interested in the subjects of unusual dress and fashion... to provide information to those who, through ignorance, condemn that which they don't understand... [and] to provide education for those who see evil when none exists." These three objectives—education, entertainment, and expression—were promoted in order to "...help... readers achieve understanding, self-acceptance, [and] peace of mind"

Unacceptable then. Occasionally acceptable now (sometimes, maybe, depending).

------------------------------------
Back then I smirked at the Pythons in 1969 … ‘I want to be a lumberjack,’ and thought how silly then the change of emphasis to ‘I cut down trees. I wear high heels, Suspendies, and a bra. I wish I'd been a girlie, Just like my dear Papa.’ I can’t remember the reaction from my mum and dad. I think they hooted with laughter and probably completely forgot the whole sketch as soon as the next one began. Now – I wonder exactly how many of those uber-macho men are/were, psycho-jargon, overcompensating. Like I did. But then I wasn’t an adult. I was mid-teens – born in the early-1950s – 15th February 1954 to be precise. If born the day before, mum did say they thought of calling me Valentine. I think that would not have been good. Not for a boy who was never very macho.

The year after the Big Winter 62-63, I had only just begun to be, er, more than unusually interested in my mum’s and my sister’s clothes. Their panties, then their skirts and dresses. It was a while later when I wondered about their bras and how those complicated-looking things were supposed to adorn any human body. Puberty wasn’t happening for me at that age.

But I really enjoyed their panties. The ordinary cotton Shiela used for school – not so much. The pretty frilly ones for her dancing class – nice. The sleek satin ones – very nice. Mum had bigger ones, mostly kept for too many years and losing style and shape – less interesting.

------------------------------------
I think, in fact looking back, I am sure enough that I hid my, erm, proclivities well enough. I never asked. I never remember any snarky comment that might have been heard as ‘panty-wearing boy’. And I did keep my ears ready for any such.

I did learn. Of course I did. And I can’t remember anything of real note. I could semi-invent a story about getting (stealing) my first bra and the wonder of putting on one that fitted (approximately. I certainly remember going to M&S as a young student and asking for assistance ‘so that I buy a bra that fits properly’. The girl stopped for a moment, shocked maybe, then clearly moved into sales-mode and dealt with me as a slightly unusual customer.

------------------------------------
Oh, those ‘Firsts’. I remember the first long skirt, pale blue multi-layered cotton; the first short skirt, pink jersey with white trim; the first falsies that felt ‘real enough’. The first trip out in a complete outfit. The first trip to the salon for a boy-girl androgynous cut. So many firsts – and I can’t be bothered to tell you about each or any of them. Maybe another time.

Eventually I went to college, lived on my own with a landlady. The first one threw me out when my panties were found in the wash. The third, I think, muttered ‘it takes all sorts’ and washed and ironed them for me. Later, she said that it was not really what she wanted from a tenant, but her friend Josie Matthews was actually willing to take me on.

I was simultaneously appalled and excited – and probably several other emotions. But I moved about a fortnight later. Josie had a bigger house with bigger rooms. Four students lived there – and I was the only boy. I was certain of that.

I was soon corrected. Even then, there were friends and more encouragingly, in communist jargon, ‘fellow travellers’. Jossie was a pretty-boy drag artiste at several clubs in Soho. Darla was a very femmy, petite, barely 5 foot, blonde ultra-brainy pharmacy student. Angela was Josie’s niece, a 21 year old ex-boy with lovely long brown hair and a necklet of blue and silver tattooed stars. I felt lumpy and out-of-place for the first week.

------------------------------------
It all changed at the College’s first ever Pride Weekend.

And the week after when my mum and sis visited.

I toned it down – toned it a LONG way down. No makeup obviously. No nail polish. No bra. No skirt or dress, no wig. It didn’t make me feel comfortable. But it felt wrong not to wear panties. That was the least I could cope with.

I supposed I’d grown away from home. In both senses – I had grown up while being away from home and I had spiritually separated from home at the same time.

What did they know about new-me?

Old-Bill was, I guessed they would think and remember me as ‘quite ordinary’. Just under 5 foot 6, played some sport, sat in the middle of the class academically, did some extra-curricular hobbies like car maintenance and theatre lighting. He rarely came to the attention of the administration – middle, middle, middle was a fair label. That was Bill. Did they know that, like so many, Bill was a bit different. He had passions and foibles carefully kept out of sight even from his family. He’d spent time enough on the web to know that ‘different is targeted’.

As far as anyone knew, he was / his family was as average and normal and ordinary as possible. He’d never had any particular desire to rebel, to SHOUT, to jump around doing something silly. He’d never really thought about ‘how could I be different if I wanted’. Some time later, looking back, he told me ‘I was a bit of a zero really’.

That was me. Back then. Before. Before I dressed most of the time as Allison. Before I found Allison. Before I uncovered ME – Allison.

Allison was tall for a girl, almost always with 2 inch heels so 5 foot 8, some curve, and hair below the neck usually in a short braid or ponytail. So – as well as the minimal clothing, as androgynous as possible. I’d had my hair re-styled to long-andro-semi-male or as near as the girls could arrange. They’d painted in my eyebrows too. The four holes in my ear … perhaps they wouldn’t be noticed.

And tomorrow might be different?

What I did NOT expect was that I would be welcomed.

What they noticed was that underneath the depression-of-the-day in not being en femme. I was happy. And THAT was different.

Shiela broke the ice. “I should have guessed. You’ve had your ears pierced – and twice each side not the way that guys do it.” She giggled and nudged mum. “And if you look, his eyebrows have been plucked, and there’s the way he sits. Mum, Bill’s a girl. Like you thought.”

EEeeeeekkkk.

What could I do. I burst into tears. And they BOTH hugged me.

“What’s your name, honey? ‘Cos you’re not really very much of a Bill…”

“Allison.”

“Oh, sweetie. Is that ‘cos my name’s Alice. But maybe not the '-son' tag. Perhaps you could have tried Alicia. But, whatever, we love Alison. Hello, darling."

Alone – but god-fearing.

Alice sat alone. But she knew she was in the right. How could it be otherwise. Her church, priest, bible and her god damned 'people like them'. No son of hers .... !!!

An AP-500 story

---

Alice remembered the morning well. Her shock as she returned early from praying with her Christian friends. What she had seen as she came through the door. Her fifteen-year-old son in a dress, in a DRESS!!!!

It took only seconds for the shock to turn into outrage.

“Get that thing off.”

While the child stripped off the dress to reveal the panties, bra and tights beneath – Alice’s rage grew. Alice snatched a throw as a coverall, then hesitated before her righteous rage could erupt.

“Boys don’t wear dresses. It’s wrong. You’re my son – not my girl – or a sissy. Even though you look more like a girl than a hunk like your Dad. That doesn’t make you a girl. You are a male. Your gender is what’s between your legs. I’ve seen it. The doctors saw it when you were born. You know it makes you male.”

“It doesn’t make me male. It LABELS me as male.”

“Don’t you dare interrupt me. God says you’re male. You are a liar if you deny that you are a male. You disobey and disrespect your parents if you deny you are male. You are a thief by spending money on improper clothes. Each commandment shows, proves and is testimony that what you are doing denies God. How you have become possessed of demons. That you are on your way to hell for your disgusting thoughts and irresponsible actions.”

“You are no child of mine. I will let you sleep here tonight. In the morning I want you to recant from this awful pretence or to get out of my sight forever. To confess that you are a lying deviant sinner. Provided you do this and with proper reverence and intent then I will allow you to stay. But no more of this disgustingness. I shall be clear as to what I think of what you are doing. I won’t even ask if you’ve done it before – you couldn’t look as you do without some practice. And when I find out that you’ve had any help. That you’ve shown this perversion to others, let them beware."

“And now I’ll wait while you strip and put on your proper clothes. Then we’ll get rid of anything else you’ve hidden. It’s going on the bonfire. Then I’ll go to the priest and confess my own sin for you behaving like this. Pretending to be a girl. Wanting, god be merciful, to be a girl. Rejecting your birthright. How can I stand up as a true Christian and accept such heathen, atheistic practices. You are wrong and God will strike you down lower than the least worthy scum in hell."

Alice came back from her excellent god-fearing church. With the complete endorsement of the priest to ‘teach the boy the right way to behave, to reject vileness’. She could feel the power of righteousness coursing hotly in her veins.

The house felt very empty.

Alice sat alone. Should it hurt so much to be in the right?

Another 500-word story (basic text) for anyone to extend, borrow, adapt as they see fit. This one is a bit darker!

Amazing, Grace.

To use a Bible quote – It’s a Pauline Conversion

---

It was the first time – there’s a first time for everything.

I had taken my time getting ready. The hot shower so that I could shave closer than usual. The slow almost sensual feel of the blade slicing across my mostly hairless soft skin – so nice.

Patting myself dry with soft, absorbent towels, then the powder puff adding a thin cover of scent.

Each piece of my outfit carefully chosen before I had had my shower.

The stockings, smooth, silky and sheer pulling excitedly on the suspenders. The erotic feel of each stocking clip against my thighs. The brush of one thigh against the other, of one calf against the other, of foot against foot. The heat being generated at the top of my thighs, at the groin where.... The feeling of the draught sweeping up between my thighs in a way you just don't get with, blecch, trousers. So much nicer.

The enormous satisfaction as I leant forward to flump my little breasts into the sweet satin nests. The feel of the bra as it cushioned my breasts so that they swung gently as I walked to and fro. The bra straps pulling at my shoulders, across my back and round my ribs. I felt secure, encased, surrounded with prettiness. The feel of the weight of the breasts as they pulled at my skin was …. joyful.

The matching panties. The pretty lace appliqued to the shiny nylon, clinging gorgeously to my smoothed skin. I smiled as I ran my hands down my sides and enjoyed the slide of fingers across the taut, sleek material. Enjoyable.

The calf-length cotton summer dress, lined to give that extra shimmer to the feel. Thin cotton with lace hem and trimming, asymmetric and high split to give a glimpse higher up my legs. Flowery with tulips and lilies; bright colours against a white background. The gorgeous swirl and flick as the weighted hem rolled around the tops of my calves. Delicious.

The three inch heels; the maximum that I felt comfortable with. Pretty sandals with the cute ankle straps and the sparkly motif at the front. The toenails, shining dark pink. Enticing.

My tanned cleavage contrasted with the softness of the dress which had a v-neckline which both concealed and revealed. Pleasurable.

Earrings, five thin gold chains hanging from a zircon stud, a high-neck necklace in a similar style, bracelets – one on the right and five on the left. Stylish.

Makeup - practised so often into the triple mirror on my vanity. With the computer tuned to ever so many Youtube sites so that I could learn my shades and colours and all the techniques to make my face look .... right.

And I had been careful with my makeup – so, despite it being an evening outing, I had gone with the less is better’ routine. My brown eyes had been done with the recommended shade of green and grey – and so on. All the girls know how to do it. You can find it all on the web.

Each element calculated to give me complete confidence that I was looking good. I want to feel ravishing, exciting, attractive – however impossible that might be - but I desperately needed to avoid any risk. I wasn’t going to be out on the town, drinking too much, drinking what other people bought for me sight unseen. No sir, no sirree.

I felt wonderful, confident and pretty. 5 foot 5 plus 3 inch heels; soft brown hair curled into a long bob, almost a pageboy, fluffing and swirling at my neck. I felt good. I felt as pretty as I could be.

I walked the couple of hundred yards down the well lit high street to my chosen winebar. I adored the click clack as my shoes carried me away from safety in my alone home.

In the bar I ordered a Strawberry Prosecco. The first sip was Friday night wonderful. After the second, I put the glass on the bar counter and admired the lipstick mark on its edge. I looked around.

I’d been to this bar a few times, so I knew where to sit to feel comfortable and in control. Inconveniently, my favoured corner was taken so I sat just a few feet away. The couple behind me were obviously on their end-of-work ready-to-go-home routine. I could hear the murmurs of ‘Got to go’ from one, and the other ’half an hour to my train, I’ll sit for a while’.

I sat there, relaxed and keeping an eye out for what might happen. I had no expectations, I had only been in the area for six months, I had no nearby friends and definitely no relatives and I was some distance from work as regards colleagues.

My job was in a print and copy shop. Much of my time was backstage working on orders from customers who couldn’t quite get their ideas right on paper. It was very satisfying giving them something that bit slicker and more professional than they had drafted. I had expanded most jobs so that now I expected to deliver web-sites and other extras wherever possible; and this was a useful contribution to better money.

I jerked round as second man from behind touched my shoulder so that he could lean past to put the dirty glasses on the counter. I sort of appreciated his thoughtfulness but I didn’t like the surprise.

“Hey, careful, Jim,” I said, the shock of seeing someone from work at a time and place like that made me lose all control.

“Do I know you?”

“Er, no, just that you look like someone I know called Jim, sorry.” I turned back away from him.

“Nnn no, that won’t do. My name is Jim and YOU look a bit like someone I know too.”

Shit.

He came round beside me.

“You DO remind me of someone. Let’s think.”

Double mega maxi multi shit.

“Paul… ine, you look lovely. I’d never have guessed. Can I sit here a moment.”

So far deeper and deadlier and yukkier and ….. oh, shit.

I was beginning to panic. And not just your ordinary everyday panic. Hyper-ventilating, racing pulse, instant headache, feeling faint.

There was a hand on my forearm. Gentle, persuasive. “Slow down, slooooow down, sloooooooooow down, take a deep breath, steady and deeeeeeep breath, and relax.”

I did as suggested and really felt myself calm and recover. I raised my eyes to look him in the face. His eyes were steady, slightly worried as he focussed on me. His hand was firm on my forearm. Not forceful or tight, just firm.

“Now, take it steady, you’re safe here. Nobody is doing anything silly. You’re safe.”

“B b b b but.”

“Hush. I said ‘safe’. Nothing to worry about. Nobody being silly. Safe.”

There was a pause. Neither of us said anything for half a minute or more.

“You’re very pretty, actually. Not beautiful fortunately – otherwise I’d be too shy to talk to you. But what my dad would call ‘easy on the eye’. You look really good, lovely dress too.”

No way was this the tongue-tied lad from the office. At work, Jim was matter of fact, concerned only with the checking and proofing prior to the customer’s final approval.

And what was he doing in this bar anyway. What was he doing anywhere near here. I had to ask. My brain couldn’t actually manage a coherent sentence. “Here, how, why?”

“My cousin lives round here. I’ve been helping him with a project – it’s why I take Friday afternoons off. And he’s got to go home and I’m left here in a bar I’ve never been to with a girl I’ve never properly met. So, how do you do, my name’s Jim Armitage and I only know you as Pauline, yes.”

“Some people, like you, might see me more as a Paul…ine, but I prefer Grace of an evening. Grace Donaldson.”

“I’m really pleased to meet you, Grace. Have you perhaps a little while for us to talk together.”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

“I thought I heard you say you had a train to catch.”

“Only insofar as I wasn’t going to sit on my tod like a low-down Friday-night nowhere-to-go bloke. Now I’ve got a pretty girl to talk to. I can stay as long as you wish.”

This was not what I had planned.

“Pretty?” I knew I was looking at the counter but I was also trying to look to see his expression. Now that I think about it, it was the Princess Diana ‘oh little me’ peep (ugh, how girly).

“Yes, Grace. You are pretty. You look, I’m not sure of the right word, attractive, adorable, nice, sweet, gorgeous and just the sort of girl I’d talk to if I had the confidence.”

“Ha, sounds like the words are flowing pretty smooth and easy.”

“Only because you’ve, I dunno, you are just so different from any girl I’ve met before. It’s such an unusual situation. In a bar I’ve never been to in a part of town I’ve never been to I meet someone who I already know slightly at work and I’m already talking with her before I’ve got myself ready or wound myself up to do it wrong as usual.”

“You sound quite fluent to me.”

“You’ve never met me when it’s all going wrong. I’m a total embarrassment. It’s uugh horrid.”|

“Well, let’s then begin at a beginning. Hello, Jim, my name’s Grace. I’m glad we’re talking like this because, as you say, we seem to have got past the first uh uh uh grunt stage of a first blind date. I really don’t know much about you – but as for me, I’m 5 foot 5 inches, about 8 stone, because I’m none of this metric stuff. Brown eyes, brown hair and I work at a printshop near the City. Unlike what some put out on the websites and social media – everything I’ve said is true. ”

“Well, I can say much the same. My name’s Maximilian, I’m 5 foot 9 and I’ve recently had a trial for England Rugby at scrum-half. I work part-time at a German bank in the City – Under-Uber-Alles-Gotteblastit after finishing my PhD in Exotic Aquology. I had an enormous bonus last year and you have no idea what a wonderful gentleman I can be. Hear me roar, feel my engine.”

“Oh, Maxxie, I would never have guessed. And your friend Jim, who I was about to talk to – what’s his story?”

“That felt extraordinary – coming out with all that guff. I promise it wasn’t rehearsed. By golly, it felt slick. Thank god I’m actually not that sort of guy. Yuck.”

“Now, my friend Jim. He’s 23, lives in Epping in a three bedroom house inherited from his only aunt. She died a few years back, never having married after her fiancée died the second day after D-Day. Sad really, but she was like so many others. I never went to university but worked at everything from market stalls to waitering to shop assistant while I got various minor but useful qualifications to improve my CV. I’ve been at CityPrint for 3 years now, so I came about a year before you.”

He put on a silly voice “I enjoy walking, playing with my doggy and I hope for world peace.”

He smirked “The last bit might not be true.”

“That’s got some of the basic bits out of the way. Do we move on to the carefully rehearsed questions and televisual jokes like wot they do on the box.”

“Let’s not bother. Let’s try a biggy. Why do you hide behind that boring Paul mask when you look so good.”

“Jim, I’m scared. I’m terrified. I’d be in a whimpering heap on the floor if I wasn’t leaning on this bar and you weren’t, more or less, holding me up.”

“What.”

“Jim, this is the first time I’ve ever been out in public. I’m so scared that you wouldn’t believe it.”

“But what are you scared of. You look so good.”

“What you see on the outside has NOTHING to do with what’s on the inside. I guess you’ve never been the target for hate and nastiness and bullying and all the rest of it.”

“Oh. Ahm, Yesss. True. I’ve slid carefully down the middle of the road, I guess. But then clearly, you have suffered already.”

“I’ve not had it as bad as some – but even a bit of abuse stabs deep in the heart and soul.”

“Tell me. You’re safe here, with me. Tell me – that is, if you want to.”

“It’s the casual viciousness. Talking in class about a kid that’s ‘a bit different’. The haters will dig and push and stab and hurt either physically or emotionally or mostly socially until their target begins to die on the inside. And you can either defend the target – and suffer by inclusion, or you can join in and hurt someone who has a difference just like you do and you don’t want Them to attack you or you can be a nonentity ghosting along safe but complicit.”

“And what did you do?”

“At times I did them all. Obviously not at the same time, but when it happens you have to do your best not to be a target. If you know that you are already ‘Different’ – capital D in quotes – then you really really don’t want to be a target. I’ve been aware of my personal, er, preference and I’ve seen how ‘They’ – you can hear the quotes – how They deal with those who have the wrong sort of difference.”

“For all that the law says Gay Lesbian and Bisexual people have varying sorts of equalities, just watch the expressions and reactions when these allegedly nice people hear a famous man say something like, “Oh dear, I’ve got to get home to my husband’ or equally when a woman says ‘I have been so happy since I married my wife’. It’s not very pretty. In their own versions of the real world – they can and often do ignore niceties like legal requirements to love people who are not like them.”

“Have you any notion of the suicide statistics – and yes I’m well aware that you can prove almost anything with statistics – but apparently about 4% of the population at some time in their life attempt suicide; if you are LGB then the rate goes up to about 15% and if you are transgender then this rises to some 40%. Different groups and surveys phrased differently have different but broadly similar outcomes. One ugly commentary is that those who are homeless, sexually abused, recently disabled or unemployed have even higher rates of suicide attempt. Being young, poor, non-white is also bad news. All these factors will contribute to mental health and self-worth. [Williams Institute 2013]”

“The only major saving grace is that those who do retain support from family, friends and work cope immensely better. And interestingly, mere cross-dressers as opposed to the full-scale transgender folk are considerably less at risk.”

“Are you ‘just’ a cross-dresser, then.”

“You do put quite some emphasis on that word ‘just’.”

“Well, to be blunt I’ve never met a cross-dresser or any of the other boy-girl, er, types.”

“I’d suggest that you mean you’ve never noticed anybody in those categories. Do you need some guidance about the meaning of some of my phrases?”

“That, I’m not sure about. But I’m going to keep talking with you because you are the prettiest girl I’ve been with in ages. And I like you.”

“Perhaps now is not exactly the right time to press you on this. At least you haven’t run away. And you haven’t punched me, spat at me, screamed at me or told me to fuck off and die.”

“Is that the normal reaction?”

“Personally speaking, I don’t know. Until tonight, I’d never dared do more than dress up and once or twice when it was very quiet, walk to the corner of my street and back again.”

“It’s that scary being who you are?”

“Yes. That’s what we have learnt to expect. Part of it is being such a wicked vile ugly threat to real people. Personally, I would comment on several parts of that statement. We’re no threat. We’re not vile or evil or wrong or any of those words. We might threaten those who have a tenuous grasp on their own gender and sexuality – but get real, how is a boy wearing a dress an actual threat to anyone? But we wouldn’t get such a vehement, vicious and nasty reaction unless there was and is real fear.”

“And almost everybody brings sex into it. Apparently, we’re no more likely than the general population to be gay, lesbian or bisexual. That’s about 3% I’d guess although I’ve seen figures varying from 10% to 1% depending on who’s running the survey and what results they want to see and how they ask the question. If you ask ‘have you ever in your life had a homosexual experience’ then you’ll get a different answer than ‘is your current status primarily homosexual’.”

“Personally, I think that a big part of our ‘threat’ is that we are in public view. I looked at some porn sites one time – and the range and variety of the frankly often weird and ugly fetishes and perversions available on the web is startling. I nearly said fuckin’ disgusting but then that’s my personal opinion of some of them. And the huge percentage of these activities take place behind closed doors, in private and for the individual’s or couples’ or groups’ particular pleasure.”

“On the other hand, we are the only group of people who eventually have to be out in public. Except for those who are staggeringly exhibitionist or whatever – they do not display their unusualness in public. Which makes them pretty safe. We don’t get the out-of-sight out-of-mind option.”

“I didn’t have a clue. Is that why you reacted so strongly?”

“Yeah, Jim, because doing this is scary horrid. To be coarse, I’m amazed I didn’t piss myself I was so frightened.”

“Er, …………. Oh. …. But you’re feeling okay now.”

“Your chat-up line to a frightened girly-boy was absolutely terrific. Being told I was ‘safe’ worked really well. Thanks so much.” And to emphasise my gratitude, I patted his arm.

I wondered if that was wrong because he instantly caught my hand and held it, held it onto his arm. I could feel the warmth of him, almost feel his pulse thundering against my fingertips. I wondered for a moment whether to snatch my hand away. Then the moment passed and it was too late to escape without making a scene. In my stumbling brain, this was too good to be true but it was so nice too.

And I still felt safe. Gosh, it was a wonderful feeling.

“Not being more than averagely nosy, please tell me you don’t fit any of those ‘going to commit suicide’ boxes.”

“Not especially, and fortunately it’s not ‘going to’ but ‘in their life have come really close. Well, I’m young, but I have no recollection of actual sexual abuse. I reckon I got more than my share of bullying but that’s not incredibly rare. But once I got out of school, there wasn’t too much at college and I’m glad to say I don’t see any at work. My family is almost non-existent. My mum died a while ago and Dad is now living in Portugal as an OAP surviving on his various pensions – lucky man. I’ve got a couple of aunts and uncles so several cousins – but we’re not close either geographically or family-wise. Just me, really and the friends I’ve picked up on the way who haven’t drifted off.”

“So you have some good friends?”

“Yes, but before you ask, I’m confident that none of them know anything about Grace.”

“I do now – so can I count as a friend.”

“Not until tonight – and don’t count your chickens before they’re casseroled.”

“Do you want to go out and eat or do they do decent snacks here?”

“Coo, that was a quick change of tack.”

“You’re the one who mentioned chickens? Indian, Chinese or, please not Kenfucky.”

“Why not have a look at the menu you’re leaning on.”

“Brains as well as beauty!”

“Please, Jim. Don’t be silly. It’s going to spoil the whole pretence.”

“Grace. I’m really not pretending. You are pretty, you’re quick-witted which is something I always hope for in a girl. You’re friendly which gets you into the girl hyphen friend category. As far as I’m concerned it’s all good.”

“But I know I’m not ‘beautiful’ so don’t say such a stupid thing. I know what I am.”

“Now stop right there. You are not a ‘what’. You are real. I am seeing a real person in front of me. I see Grace and she looks very, let’s say, satisfactory then. Very easy on the eye as I said. And compared to the in-the-corner don’t-make-waves Paul who I know from work, there’s absolutely no comparison. If I met the two of you, impossible though that might be, then I’d say that Grace is the more real person. Which I guess is exactly the truth. And for a bit more truth, I’ll agree - because I think you want to hear it and I’ve said it once already – you’re not beautiful …. but you are very attractive, very interesting, very pleasing to my eye. I want to know you better. I think I kind of like this Grace I’ve just met.

“But I have to …”

“Have to what? Hide away by pretending to be Paul at work. I’m going to have a helluva time not noticing Grace when I go to work. You are so much more alive. I never really noticed Paul. But you – there’s no choice. I have noticed you. I’m going to keep noticing you and it’s going to be a real shame when you’re at work disguised as Paul.”

“But underneath ..”

“Don’t look underneath. Look inside. That’s more or less what you’ve told me. Inside. Inside, you’re a girl. So, be the best girl you can be. I’ll keep you safe if you’ll let me.”

“But …”

“But what? You look like a girl. You smell like a girl, mmmmm yes. You talk like a girl as far as I’m concerned. You dress like a girl. You’re prettier than many girls. You think you’ve always been a bit girly. How many more things do you need to say ‘I’m a Girl’ before YOU believe it. As far as I'm concerned you're a girl. You're not a pretend girl or a boy who thinks he's a girl. Everything about you tells me you're a more real girl than you ever have been as a boy. What's it going to take to prove it to you. YOU ... ARE ... A ... GIRL - believe it. And you're SAFE."

Safe. Well, well, well. Goodness gracious me. Or rather Grace IS me. And Grace is feeling that Safe might be real. Oh, please.

"The three of us were a gang, Rachel, Charles and me, Johnny. So we did everything together."

Intro - The SisterDom is a group of wonderful women who know that it is important to help their men to access and, when they are comfortable with the concept, to release their inner girlhood. These women are willing to train and transition their new-girls using a variety of simple techniques, sometimes with a touch of ‘domination’ and strong encouragement. Characters overlap between the stories.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Characters
Charlie / Faith Miller aged 13 the narrator
John / Joy Firth 13
Rachel Goodfellow 13 who has two elder sisters, Sandy & Fiona
*Leonie shop assistant, mid 20s

- - - - - - - -

Are you in this gang - or not ?

Joy began the story first, with regular interruptions from the others.

We were a gang, really, the three of us, Charlie, Rachel and myself. With our birthdays only weeks apart and our houses only streets apart, we had known each other for several years and grown up as a team. Three young kids just on the edge of becoming teenagers. We did all the usual things, bicycling, larking about in the nearby woods, and what we didn't do together, we talked about. It might surprise you what we talked about and how sensibly - for example, we learnt about those bicycle-shed topics such as reproduction when Rachel talked about the changes to her body as she became a teenager. We weren't interested in sex, certainly not within the gang - it would have been too close to home. But, by golly, we talked about everything. I suppose Rachel's openness in talking about herself might have shown her how much she could teach us.

The time that my life changed was early one spring, a month after the three of us reached thirteen. We were some way from anyone's house and the rain started pelting down. It had been a nice warm day, so what we had was dripping within seconds. We were soaked by the time we got home to Rachel's place. Rachel's mum insisted on us putting on something dry - and as chance would have it - all the clothes in the house were for girls. Not too surprising really, her husband had died a few years before leaving her with three daughters - Rachel and her two older sisters, Sandy and Fiona. And when I say they were girls, there wasn’t a pair of jeans or plain t-shirts – these three were all girls who liked dresses and frocks and every variety of pink and frothy.

There were some complaints from the two of us, but we were more interested in getting our sodden clothes off so that they could dry. It was only when we had done this, that our alternative clothing was presented. Rachel was considerably slimmer than we were so almost none of her daytime clothes were going to fit. I was the nearest in size to her but the choice was really limited to looser fitting nighties.

So, there we three were at six o'clock on a bright summer evening - Charles in a pretty pink nightie and silky dressing gown, me, John in an even prettier white nightie with red edging and a peach satin wrap, and our friend Rachel in some of her own ordinary clothes. At first glance, there were three young girls on the sofa. Rachel's mum took the quick glance and liked it, her second glance to reveal two male heads was less pleasing.

I saw her eyes flash a message to Rachel and fluff her hair up as if to say, their hair is terrible. Rachel smiled in return and left the room to fetch combs and brushes and things.

Her mother then announced "You've got to stay until your things are dry, dears. But it looks horrid seeing you like that. Can I please pretty you up a little. Just a little game to see if I can't make you a bit more real. Instead of a couple of boys in my Rachel's nighties which I have to say does look terribly wrong. So, since you are already wearing nighties curled up next to my darling daughter, I'd far rather see a set of girls. Can we have a go and do something with your hair and so on. Treat it as an adventure. I can't believe that friends of Rachel aren't game for a bit of a lark. It would be fun to have three girls back on that sofa. It seems so seldom that Sandy and Fiona come to stay."

It was hard to argue and everybody loves a game. Rachel had already guessed what was going to happen. It took me a few moments extra. Charles was the first to be prettified. He sat there with a silly smile on his face as his hair was brushed and blown into what I could only call a girl's style – it was thick and quite long, a good inch or so past his collar. I sat watching with amazement as he continued to say nothing. Gradually, his face and head became that of a girl. I was bemused at his acceptance of this transformation. As expected, Rachel’s mum did his hair first – but then they went on. Rachel began to give him a manicure and to paint his nails while her mum actually put a touch of makeup onto my mate’s face.

I sat waiting for my turn, simultaneously horrified yet intensely excited.

Then Charles-the-girl was completed and three female heads turned to face me. It was hard to say which of the two young ones was the prettier. I smiled at them, concealing my nervousness.

I can't remember which of them said, "Now it's your turn to become a look-alike girl." It might have been any of them. I was so dumbfounded at the turn of events that I too sat silent while my tutors worked on me.

Charles did his bit too. He had said before that his sister sometimes asked for his help with her nail-varnish. But his skill was clearly the result of more than occasional practice as he manicured my hands and nails to a glossy, dark red sheen. I watched as he did this. My mate, sitting beside me in a delightfully frilly soft nightie, painting my nails to look like those of another teenage girl. I was transfixed by what he was doing, and I almost ignored the tug and pull as my hair was teased into a suitable style.

I had turned in my seat so that all three could share the work. This meant that I could not look in the mirror to see the gradual stages of my conversion. It took quite a long time and I must confess that I didn't enjoy it all. The little puffs of scented foundation as my own skin was covered up were inconvenient but as nothing to the quite considerable pain as Rachel plucked half a dozen eyebrows. I squeaked at the first one, but subsided as she said 'there's only a couple to do. I couldn't leave them all straggly and horrid. But don't worry, I won't leave you permanently as a girl.'

At last, I was transformed. Rachel passed me a mirror so that I could look at my new self. It was a true transformation. I saw no evidence of John - a girl was looking back at me. "It's not possible," I muttered, but my soft whisper was still heard by the others who I could see smiling at me.

"You look adorable, dear. And so do you, Charles," said Rachel.

"I couldn't agree more, Rachel," said her mum. "I think it's been such fun - I'm almost sorry that you'll have to stop this adventure soon and go home. It's getting late and though I haven't checked whether your things aren't dry, we'll have to send you home soon."

My face sank as I realised that this meant I would have to stop this exciting adventure and go home dressed once more in my probably still damp clothes. Everyone saw how unhappy I was at the prospect.

Rachel spoke first, "If I look harder, there's probably some dry things I can I can lend both of you. The easy bit is - d'you want to have a pair of my panties?"

I smiled and nodded almost as fast as Charles did. "I really should say no, but I'd really hate to put wet things on again."

"Speak for yourself, Johnny. As for me, Rachel, I'd love to wear a pair of your panties," spoke Charles.

I felt myself sneer at his eagerness and Rachel snapped out, "I don't know what you're looking like that for. You agreed just as fast as he did. You didn't even pretend to wonder if any of your things were dry yet. So much for the macho image, my pretty boy. You're already wearing a nightie and you've just agreed to wear panties. You've got painted nails and painted face, your hair is hardly boyish. My friend John, you look like a girl so behave like one." There was really nothing to say.

While I was suffering this tirade, Charles sat opposite me, still in his nightdress, his knees pressed together and his hands folded on his lap. It was quite impossible to see another boy. I was outnumbered and so, with remnants of unwillingness, I went upstairs with Charles so that Rachel could choose a pair of panties for her two new girls.

Actually it was rather fun. Rachel insisted on measuring us, waist and hips, of course, and just for a laugh, our chest too. She had a little chart and jotted all the numbers down; foot-size, length of leg, thigh, hip, waist, chest, neck, length of torso, so many I lost track. When she started, Rachel was giggling, but as she continued she got more and more serious.

I started to tease her a bit, "What's all this measuring thing for? You're only lending us a pair of panties to go home in." She stared at me for a moment, clearly she had forgotten the reason for having two boys in her bedroom. I had no idea what she was thinking of.

"Well, I want to make sure. There's nothing worse than having clothes that don't fit nicely. For your first adventure in panties, I want to be certain that everything is right." I couldn't read anything from her expression.

"This pair should fit you, Charles, and this pair is for you, Johnny." Mine were rather plain but they did have a pretty pink bow at the side, Charles had a much more ornate pair, with frills at the hem and ruffles down the front. I knew that I looked envious, because I caught his expression of sly pleasure. I held them in my hand for a moment, not sure what I was to do next.

"Come on, put them on."

I stood on one foot then the other so that I could hook them past my foot and slide them up my legs. They felt different from anything I had ever worn before, stretchy yet clingy. The sheer nylon whispered up my legs - and I liked the feeling. I wriggled them up beneath my nightdress and eventually stood triumphant.

Rachel said crossly, "Well, show us how well they fit then. Get that nightie off so that we can see."

I swallowed nervously. Stand almost naked in front of a girl and my best friend-in-a-dress! But my body was more obedient than my head. I stood and took off the flimsy, soft nightdress and the wrap. I dropped them on the floor but quickly picked them up and folded them neatly onto the bed before anyone could say anything. So - there I stood, in my first pair of panties, awaiting comment from my friends.

"Those look awfully pretty, Johnny," Charles said. "But what about me," and he cast off his garments to stand revealed in his first panties. He pirouetted slowly so that we could all admire. I had to confess they did look sweet. I said so, and gulped at the suddenly girlish way I was talking and reacting. I was not a girl, I was a boy - but then I saw myself in the mirror once more. Panties, makeup, curls - not much of a boy really. I smiled at myself and patted my hair into place.

Rachel sat us both on the bed and asked if we wanted anything more than panties. Her expression pleaded with us to ask for more and suddenly we were all passing clothes to one another, trying things on and seeing what would fit and whether it looked good. Even now, looking back after a year and more, I'm amazed at how quickly that afternoon we all became comfortable at being boy-girls.

But when we finished and went downstairs, it was just so wonderful. We had raided her big sisters’ wardrobe – not that they had left much when they moved out – but there was enough.

I now wore a lovely thin blouse over a blue satin vest, a pair of tights and a really clingy grey jersey skirt. Rachel had put a bracelet and a necklace on me too as well as a clip-on pair of earrings which were really making my ears sore. I think I was more worried about them than anything else. The rest of it was still a game. Rachel had borrowed an old pair of shoes for me from one of her sisters and I was concentrating hard on every step as I made my way down the stairs. The thought that girls volunteered to wear shoes like that amazed me. Jennifer teased me that those shoes only had tiny heels compared with what was available.

Charles wore a long frock which just brushed the ground. He was shorter than either Rachel or me, for us it was well above our ankles - and he was that little bit thinner too. It was pretty but it just wouldn't have fitted me. He looked really swish and when he walked in it, he even looked like a girl as, balanced precariously on his borrowed 1 inch heels, his hips wiggled to and fro. When I mentioned this, he took it as a compliment! Jennifer had given him a lovely black velvet choker and this made him look gorgeous.

The room was quite big and there were chairs and sofas enough, but the three of us sat snuggled on the big sofa. Rachel showed us how to sit down so that our dresses wouldn't get crumpled. It was such a funny feeling to sweep my hand behind me so that my dress swished out of the way. I loved it and kept practising. Even when I sat down, my hand kept moving, stroking, caressing the lovely satin or the jersey, or Rachel's dress or Charles's frock. I had no control.

We had a lovely evening. Mrs Goodfellow, Rachel's mum, behaved as if there was a roomful of girls. We had a really nice time. In fact, without anyone saying a word, it became obvious to each of us that we would meet up in order to do it again. I sat quietly, thinking about this. Meanwhile, Charles was obviously thinking the same. Suddenly, he burst out, "This is really fun, you know. I don't know whether it's the company or fact that we've all had a bit of a giggle getting dressed up. Whatever, I'd really like to thank you for not making fun of Johnny and me. I'd have hated that. Instead, I have to say, that this evening has been really enjoyable."

I still didn't know what to say but Rachel giggled, gave him a kiss, and said, "I'm really happy that you're enjoying yourself so much. I had no idea how much fun we'd have when we started. It did begin as a game, an adventure - but that was just at the beginning. And now you look so fabulous, so pretty that it never crossed my mind to tease you. If you'd obviously been boys dressed up as girls, that would have been one thing. But you saw for yourselves in the mirror - there's not a trace of boy to see. You are, without doubt, a pair of very attractive young girls. So if you say you've enjoyed it, can we do this again sometime? What d'you say, Johnny, Charles."

"I can feel myself smiling, so I guess that means I'm willing," said Charles. I didn't say anything.

"Oh, Charles, how can you be so feeble, you're not just smiling, you're whole face is sparkling with the prospect. And, Johnny, you've got much the same expression too, so don't try to look scornful at Charlie."

I tried, oh how I tried, to keep my expression cool and calm while we talked about when we would next have an opportunity to dress up. Rachel was just as eager as we were, but we still pretended to be shocked and a little disgusted. She said that she was always at home in the evenings, so, her wardrobe was available anytime either of us came over. Charles and I exchanged glances. Who would be the first to visit? Would either of us be willing to come without the other? Neither of us spoke for a while, but Rachel chattered away making suggestions and proposals for our new game.

Soon, can I say all too soon, it was time to slip out of our new finery and be shown how to remove the makeup. Mrs Goodfellow sprayed our hair with water so that we would be easily brushed back to being boys once more. It felt strange now that we had some idea how different it was to wear girl’s clothes instead of the boy’s clothes we had worn all our lives.

I thumped Charlie on the shoulder as we left, “That was all a bit strange wasn’t it?”

He grunted and then growled back at me. “So you’re back to being a boy already then. Didn’t I just hear you saying we’d be back soon.”

“I’m just being me. Boys bounce and clatter around and do boyish things. Come on, Rachel joins in with us too.”

“Exactly, Rachel joins in – with our boy games. So if she can be a boy some of the time then it’s fair that we can be girls some of the time. I’m going to say I really enjoyed this afternoon and I meant it, I’m now sure I meant it, that I’ll be going back and doing it again.”

“You mean it don’t you.”

“And you didn’t. I bet you – no I dare you - that if I say I’m going back as soon as possible then you’ll be there too and we’ll have a wonderful time getting pretty again and wearing soft and adorable dresses and everything and asking to be prettified even more than last time.”

“So it’s a dare is it.”

“Not really, because a dare is something you don’t want to do and I can see the same excitement in you as I’m feeling. This is something I want to learn more about.”

We didn't plan it , but we arrived absolutely at the same moment next time. Well, alright then, it was actually next day as soon as we could change out of our school clothes and speed round the corner on our bikes. Rachel and her mum both greeted us with a hug and a kiss. Even though we were wearing ordinary trousers and shirts, we knew that they were already treating us as girls. My reaction was to smile with pleasure and say how excited I was to be back.

Her mum spoke first, "It's so lovely to see you here again. Now you just scurry upstairs and let Rachel help you get ready. We've put some things in the spare room, the one Sandy used to have." (Rachel was the youngest of three sisters. Sandy and Fiona were several years older. They now lived in another town about an hour away. They were really busy working and they didn't come home often.)

It was really electrifying when we reached the spare room. Rachel had laid out clothes on the bed - they were for us. It was so wonderful. Without asking, I somehow knew that the pile nearest was for me and the one at the other end of the bed was for Charles. Once again, I slithered willingly into panties, vest and frock.

When we came downstairs, Mrs Goodfellow was ecstatic. She had seen us the last time, but now we had had more time to get ready and we were both much more relaxed about it too. "Oh, you look lovely. I can't tell you how thrilled I am to see two such gorgeous girls come down those stairs. And now, I've got a little present for both of you." She handed each of us a little box.

I opened mine and gasped with delight. A complete set of thin gold chain necklace and bracelet, a Celtic knotwork brooch and matching earrings. I was giddy with the excitement of being given my very first jewellery. I could tell from the gasps beside me that Charles felt the same. We both kissed her to show our gratitude.

"But there is one thing missing still, dears. The necklace has a clip to attach a dingle-dangle. If you look at Rachel's, she has her name on hers. I'd like to do the same for you two, but I don't know what names to call you. I have been thinking about names for you though, and Rachel has too."

I was almost skipping with enthusiasm, "Tell me, tell me, what're your suggestions."

"Well, dear, at first, I thought it would be more sensible to have something sensible like Jo or Joanna - but they didn't feel right. Then I was at church recently and the lesson was all about Faith, Hope and Charity. So I wondered about names of that sort. In the end, I wondered if you would let me call you Joy. I know how exhilarated you are by all this - I sensed that Joy would be good."

"Oh, that's so sweet of you. I really, really would love it if you called me Joy because Joy is what I feel when I'm dressed up. This may only be the second time but it seems so comfortable, so nice. Yes, it makes Joy feel joyful. But what's your suggestion for Charles?"

I looked at my friend to see his face aglow, eager with anticipation.

"Please, what can I be instead of Charles?"

"I had the same problem with you as well. I thought of Charlotte, of course and Carla - but in the end I wondered about Faith. Hope was my second guess, but Rachel felt that made it too complicated - what might you want to hope for?

"Oh, I feel a bit wobbly. I need to sit down," said Charles and fumbled his way to a chair. I noticed he still had time to arrange his skirt before he sat. "I love the name Faith. But you're right about Hope too. Now that I'm wearing a dress again I have to say that I do hope to do this more often. It feels as if I'm intoxicated, addicted already. I don't know where this will lead - but I do hope that I can wear skirts and frocks and dresses whenever I want."

"Did you say 'whenever', Faith dear, or did Hope hope for 'forever'? I do know how exciting this is for you, but I'm going to make the decision for you. I think Faith is more suitable at the moment. Rachel, fetch the glasses and let us propose a toast to two beautiful girls, Joy and Faith."

We all giggled and kissed one another. It was the first time I had kissed anyone with my glossy lips. I found the sensation quite strange. I even kissed Faith. A lip-to-lip kiss from another boy, I loved it because he was another girl.

I felt like a princess as I sat there with a glass at my coloured lips and my new jewellery glittering in the firelight.

Suddenly, I felt the burden of transformation - how could I balance the fabulous feeling that I was experiencing against the humdrum day to day life of a schoolboy. It would be hard to cope at school even with the assistance and help of Rachel and Char.. Faith, I remembered. What would happen at home!!! I felt myself start to cry.

"Joy, darling. This is supposed to be fun. Don't cry. What's the matter. – said Rachel from one side and her mum from the other.

"It's everything. I mean, here I am, dressed as a girl and loving every moment of it - and I started wondering - what about school, what about home, what about my parents. Can't you see. I've realised that I want this to continue, to be real. In just two evenings, you've shown that I can look like a girl. And this is my reaction, I'm crying like a girl because I want to be a girl. It's nicer than being a boy, having to bottle up my feelings, to be rough and tough and manly. Wearing hard, harsh denim and corduroy, smelling of sweat and dirt. As Joy, I can wear soft fabrics, gentle colours and I can splash myself with lovely perfume instead of cheap deodorant. It's really no fun being an ordinary boy now you have shown me the delights of being a girl."

"Have we really had that effect already, dear? Do you truly want to be a girl instead of a boy. I never wanted to do that to you. It’s only been a day since we first dressed you up after you got so wet – I know we all agreed that you looked quite delightful and we did all have a lot of fun. We just wanted to show how much pleasure you could have. Later Rachel and I talked and we saw that you could be being both at once, sometimes a boy, sometimes a girl. We then thought you would be able to learn about the gentler sex from the inside, so that you could feel what we feel, understand the unfairness of life both as a boy and as a girl."

"Oh, I want that too, I suppose. But it is so nice, that's not the right word but it'll have to do, it's just so nice being here with you and being able to wear, being encouraged to wear these lovely clothes. It feels right. I don't know what to say."

Rachel’s mum said, "You're still very young. It wouldn't be fair for me to force you into anything or even to encourage this too much. If this is really going to continue, then I'm sorry to say that we will have to tell your parents."

She could see how much this upset both Faith and myself. Rachel looked pretty worried too at the risk of somehow losing her two best friends if their parents cut up rough.

"Now, you mustn't worry, dear. I am totally confident that I can arrange things so that it works out right. I'll say nothing until the weekend but then I must insist on meeting both your parents. I want your promises that you won't tell them, no, I won't ask for any promise like that. I'll just set up a meeting on some general topic. But don't worry."

I must have looked worried because Faith held my hand all the way upstairs and asked Rachel to spend some extra time doing my makeup.

After a little while playing downstairs with Rachel’s old dolls and games, we had gone upstairs to collect our clothes and change back into boys. We realized that this was going to be the last time until at least the weekend – and we didn’t know what to say to each other.

Rachel had been quite glum about it, but we joshed each other until we all relaxed. I think the atmosphere changed completely when Rachel offered to let both of us wear a pair of panties home.

Of course, we all knew we'd have to be very careful about keeping them out of sight. It was such a little thing, but it meant to me that the evening would be repeated, that I would have the chance to wear pretty clothes again. I don't know if Rachel meant that to happen - but it most certainly did. It did feel different wearing those frilly, lacy, satin pants instead of my own, very ordinary, very typical cotton boxers.

At the door, with a little ceremony, Mrs Goodfellow held out the little boxes and we put our jewellery – our very own first jewellery – back into her safekeeping.

To my amazement, it was still daylight when we left. I felt that such a tremendous change must have taken more than a few hours. I enjoyed the walk home, even though it was only a few hundred yards. I could feel the satin brushing my legs in a completely new and interesting way. I liked it.

It was hard to keep calm for the next few days. Mother obviously realised that I had some worries. She kept pestering me but I said nothing. But I still worried about what would happen at the weekend. Actually I was so pleased that it was the end of term that most of the time I never gave a thought to the weekend.

During break I talked about it with Charles. He said his mother had asked him to do her nails one evening last month after his sister Gloria had complimented his skills once too often. He had been quite annoyed at first, but now he saw it as a really neat opportunity to show his interest and willingness to help to his mother. He had started the very evening after our first dress-up when she had to get ready for a party. 'All of a sudden' he had asked his mum if she wanted help with her nails again. She had been a bit surprised after his reaction the previous time but had, eventually, accepted his offer.

She had done the rest of her makeup while he did each hand. Both of them had to work together to avoid smudging the varnish. This had meant that Charlie had to watch what she was doing. The effort had been rewarding. He had found it easy to ask why she did certain things, was there a particular way it had to be done. He had investigated all the pots and potions, oils and unguents, salves and solutions with deliberately childish questions.

The next night, she was going out again and, this time, she had asked him if he wanted to help. When he had said, 'alright', they had once more gone into her bedroom. To his concern and surprise, his mum had stripped off and got into her party clothes while he sat on the bed waiting for instructions. She had laughed about how difficult it was to put on stockings with straight seams, and then she told him about the first time she had tried to put on a bra, how strange it felt with the shoulder straps pulling at the skin, the way her chest felt squeezed and somehow scrunched up. The change in how the weight of her breasts was balanced - and how happy she was that she was at last developing. Charlie had felt really really uncomfortable, yet excited as well – he was being told about stuff that ordinary boys never knew about. And of course, he was keen to wear his first bra and he would soon feel those sensations for the first time too - but he couldn't tell his mum about that.

She then grinned and said as if reading his mind, “I shouldn't really be sharing this with my young son - but it's all part of getting that extra knowledge that will make you more understanding of girls. You need to understand them in order to make them your friends - and you need girls as friends before you can make any of them in girlfriends.”

Once she sat down to do her makeup, he had expected to help but she said there wasn't time to do her nails this time. Instead, she talked in even more detail about the techniques and methods of makeup while he had listened eagerly. As she put on her coat, she said she hoped he had found their time together interesting. Charlie's head was in a spin. What did his mum think was going on. He hoped she was treating it as 'mere teenage interest'.

I tried to tell him to cool it down. If Rachel's mum was going to let the cat out of the bag, we should keep quiet about our new hobby.

"But I don't want to. It was such fun dressing up. But it felt so horrid going back into our ordinary things. I felt so different, so free, so relaxed in that dress. Even those undies felt nicer than my old worn-out clobber. I want to wear pretty things all the time. There, I've said it again. I want to dress pretty – and I guess that means as a girl all the time. Wouldn't that give you joy, Joy. I want to hope that I can be Hope, I want to have faith that I can be Faith. Every time I say it, I can hear myself say it with a bit more certainty."

"Golly. D'y mean it. Do you really want to wear dresses all the time? You don't just want to play dress-up now and again."

"No, you bozo. I'll say it again. I loved wearing Rachel's lovely undies and those dresses and skirts. I want to do it again. Not now and again, but again and again. What about you, which way do you want to go. Do you want to go out with Rachel and me as a boy-in-a-dress just 'when you feel like it' or do you want to do it often and properly until you can look and behave as a real girl?"

What sort of answer was I supposed to give. Catch-22. If I said that I wanted to play dress-up just sometimes, I felt he was accusing me of being chicken, if I said always I would be behaving as a girl almost every day. Which did I really want. I didn't know. Neither my heart or my head gave a major hint either way. My heart said, 'dressing-up was fun, wasn't it. It can't hurt joining in a bit'. My head said, 'this is leading somewhere and I don't know where.'

To delay a decision, I said nothing. Charlie took this as uncertainty and gave me a little shove, "You'll come round to it soon enough. You'll feel so left out of it when there's two of us in dresses and you're on your own all holidays."

I felt something then, 'What, be left out of the gang!' I knew right then, although I said nothing, that I would do whatever Charlie did. If he persuaded his mother that it was alright for him to wear skirts, then I would have to do so too. I couldn’t go through the holidays without my team. What on earth would I do without Rachel and Charlie.

The weekend drew nearer. I had more sympathy with Charlie's interest in his mum's makeup now. Twice, I had found myself looking at my Mum to see how a little eyeliner or blusher changed her whole face. She had teased me about it. "Us girls have to keep the boys on their toes. If we looked the same all the time, they'd get used to how we look. A little camouflage helps dazzle you."

The second time, she grabbed me and rubbed a little lipstick on my lips, "There, that'll show you what it feels like. Strange, isn't it. Now, rub it off on this tissue, quick."

It did feel strange. But because it wasn't the first time, it also felt nice too. I looked in the mirror. "Hey, mum. You've missed a bit. Which lipstick did you use." My hands dived into the pile of makeup.

"Don't be silly, dear. I said rub it off. You really don't want to play with my things."

I teased her, "You always say a thing should be done properly or not at all. It's just that you missed the bottom corner."

"I said don't be silly, dear. But perhaps just this once, sit still and turn to the light." Dab, wipe, smear. "That is better, actually. But it doesn't suit you. If I had time and you were a girl, I'd put try some more things."

"I don't mind, mum. I do have to learn about girls sometime."

"Yes, dear. You do have to learn about girls. But I don't think putting makeup on will teach you very much."

"It'll teach me how difficult it is. Then I'd understand better what you mean when you complain about having to start getting ready for an evening party at about lunchtime. It can't be that hard."

"How little do you know, my lad. Sometime soon, I'll find the time to give you a lesson about girls that you'll remember for a long while."

I chuckled and answered back, "I don't care, mum. It can't be that hard being a girl. Fifty percent of the planet manage it without having any lessons. You just need to be born a girl.”

"That's a really dim comment. Girls get lessons in how to be a girl from the day they're born. You never stop learning how to behave, how to get what you want from other women and other men. Really, how could you think that girls don't get lessons. Boys get lessons just as much for themselves too."

"If girls get all these lessons, what do they get taught then."

"You're succeeding in getting me quite cross, dear. Now don't keep on so. I'll make you a promise. You keep your eyes open and see if you can detect any of the special training girls get, then ask me about it. If you're right then I'll give you a lesson too."

"What a boy lesson or a girl lesson," I smirked.

"Just for that, you'll get a girl lesson, I think."

"Ooh, girls, that'll be just lovely," I sneered with a deliberately girlish sort of lisp.

"Don't make me want to give you a real and painful-to-learn lesson, dear. You really don't want to get me wound up on the subject of male/female indoctrination."

Friday night after six o’clock supper. The phone rang. Mother answered it. When she came in, she was clearly puzzled. "Do you know why Mrs Goodfellow wants to have a chat with me. She's asked me to go round to her house tomorrow morning for coffee. I know you and Charles and Rachel are a sort of team, but I don't really know the woman that well. I've not seen any need to interfere. You're quite well organised children - I'm sure that any problems can be sorted out between you. Is this something a bit larger. You've gone red - am I supposed to realise that you know what this is about - or are you just going red because I'm interfering?"

"You know I go red whenever you ask questions like that. I truly don't know what she wants to talk to you about, mum. Perhaps Rachel has said something. Shall I ring Rachel and ask what it's all about?"

"I don't think so, dear. I'm quite happy to wait until the morning. In the meantime, I've been thinking what sort of lesson you deserve. It’s the end of the week now and time to have our weekly roundup. So, after our discussion earlier this week, have you noticed anything that could be called girl-training or boy-training?"

If I could have crawled under the sofa, I would have done. I really didn't want to focus mother's attention on girl v boy behaviour. I knew it had been a mistake asking about makeup and teasing her. "Erm, uh, I dunno." Pause. "Erm, well, yes I do have one. You said yesterday, 'just be a good boy and go out and play.' That's got to be one because playing outside is more of a boy-thing than a girl-thing. And at Rachel's last week, when her mum said, 'Rachel, be a good girl and help me with the tea.'"

"Good, that's quite observant of you. That is exactly the sort of comment which encourages boys to be boys and girls to be girls. I suppose it's a bit different when there are only girls or only boys in a family - but you've picked up on the right sort of thing. Now, can you help me tidy up after supper!"

"Oh, but that's ...."

"Yes, dear. I'm trying to show you and teach you that some, if not many, jobs can be done by people - not girls or boys or men or women - but people. You are a person and there is a job that needs doing. It can be done more quickly by two than by one - so I am asking for your help."

"Suppose so. Alright."

So the dishes were done. Then mother used the same trick - would I load the washing machine, help hang out the washing, brush off the dining table, tidy up the sitting room – not forgetting the cushions. She then allowed me to concentrate on my own stuff . By eight o'clock, I had done a lot and my room was rather tidy – yukk.

In the morning, mum did the same manoeuvre on me - strip and make the beds, tidy the house, vacuum the downstairs, wipe the tables, dust the windowsills – on and on and on. It didn’t seem right to argue but it did also feel strange to realize how much was going on that I had never noticed before. To the surprise of both of us, I said “Thank you, mum” when we had finished.

We sat in the kitchen while she asked me to make the tea. "Just one last job, dear. I'm really proud of you. You could have got really tiresome about this, going on about girls' jobs and boys' jobs. But you haven't. Do you think there's as much difference between girls and boys as you did before last night and this morning?"

"Well, there is and there isn't. I mean, this has shown me that some of the jobs can be done by, well, anybody. I know I've done most of these jobs before - but I've never thought about them as part of an indoctrination process until today. But now I don't think the jobs they are asked to do doesn't have much to do with how boys and girls actually behave the rest of the time. Look at Rachel when she comes over. I'm dressed in my nice, comfortable, well-worn, occasionally scuffed trousers and stuff. Whatever we do, Rachel looks as smart as a pin. She can wear colours and stuff that boys can never do."

"I never realized that you had noticed. And the description you want is not 'scuffed', it is dirty, grubby, filthy and soiled or ‘boyish’. Like most boys, you attract dirt. Within seconds of putting on clean clothing, you have managed to wipe it, smear it or stain it. I would almost admire your skill if I didn't have to wash everything so often. But Rachel is a girl. She has been trained to keep herself clean, spotless and sparkling. Since she can do this simple task, she also gets the benefit of pretty clothes, delicate fabrics and a much wider range of colours. If you were able to keep clean then you'd be able to wear things like that. Not actually girl's clothes, of course, you'd look silly in those. Think of it like those nature programmes - males in nature need bright and vivid plumage to attract the female – in the human western world, the plumage usually involves money and the other masculine labels. Strangely, in this century in the western world, the colourful plumage now belongs to the female of the species. Fortunately, that stage of life where you need to look to attract the female is some years ahead of you."

Mum looked at the clock, "Goodness, we must dash with these last jobs. Be a good person, dear, and give me a hand. Will you be coming to Rachel's with me?"

"Don't know. I haven't decided yet. Probably, yes. I might give Rach a call first."

As we did the last few chores, I asked why she was smiling.

"Oh, its just that daft comment I made about how silly you'd look in girl's clothes and then thinking back to last summer."

"Why silly, mum - and what happened last summer?"

"Well, there was one time, you three were all wearing shorts and t-shirts and I actually called out for John and realised that I was shouting towards Rachel. If I can't tell you apart when you're dressed alike, perhaps it would actually be funny to see you in a dress."

"Don't make jokes like that. Or aren't you joking?"

"Oh, don't worry so. Perhaps I was half joking. You're quite small still and, if anything, a tiny bit smaller than Rachel, so the opportunity is there isn't it. I mean, if I really wanted to try this out. No. The whole things stupid.

"But the idea did make you smile! Would you like me to ask Rachel if I could borrow some clothes for a laugh. I could say it was your idea. Would that be fun?"

"Oh, don't take me up on something like that. I’ve already said no – and so, no you don’t need to borrow clothes from Rachel. As if."

"You did say there were things boys did and things girls did. I've spent all morning being a helpful person, perhaps it's time to get a girl-lesson next. That was what you threatened me with, wasn't it? I seem to remember something of the sort, mummy dear."

"You are pushing it a bit, darling. Who’s wanting this to happen – I can’t tell anymore. Alright – you’re going to get a girl-lesson just to teach you not to be so silly. I suppose I don't mind you trying something anti-boy for once. But only so you can get a bit of understanding. You're my son and I would prefer it if you stay that way. Dressing as a girl is to show that it's possible, for a laugh. Why not. Do you want to ring Rachel and set it up.”

“I’ll pretend it’s a prank of some sort. Like we did last year. I’ll call Rachel.”

“If she says no, then obviously the whole thing is off. Do be sensible about how you ask, dear. It could so easily become embarrassing."

I had no idea who would be most embarrassed. But, of course, I had rushed into the hall and was on the phone almost before she had finished speaking. I tried to tell Rachel the exact conversation so that she would be able to prepare her mother. This was getting so complicated. When we arrived, she would pretend to my mum that the whole idea was silly, but just as a one-off, she would let me borrow some of her things. We would go upstairs and I would get dressed-up. How the situation would change when I came downstairs as a girl, we could not guess.

So that was what happened. As mum got the car out while I set off on my bike she asked if I was still willing. I tried to be nonchalant, "Oh, don't worry. It's just a bit of pretend. I'll put on a dress, look rather daft in it, take it off again. End of story." I was still unsure of which way I wanted the story to continue.

“I’ll be popping to the shop and be with you in about 10 minutes, okay”

When I got there, Rachel was really excited and her mother was trying to be cool and calm. She told us that she wanted us back downstairs in ten minutes when my mum was due to arrive. Rachel was wearing a new pale blue frock and matching ribbon which my mum commented on.

We went upstairs both Rachel and I trying not to get too excited while Mrs Goodfellow waited downstairs. Apparently unaware of what we were doing upstairs.

Rachel had got a costume ready for me. It was really pretty. All laid out on the bed, sandals, stockings, panties, vest and accessories, everything except a dress. She giggled that she and her mum had bought some of the things especially for me the previous evening. The pale-blue frock she was wearing was actually for me – she slipped it off and changed into the similar looking green version. If my mum could mix us up once, why not make it really confusing for her.

I got dressed as quickly as possible so that we could spend a little longer on the makeup. I wanted to show mother how I could be a girl as well as a boy. To make the game harder, Rachel arranged my hair to look as much like her's as possible. She put a lovely alice-band in my hair which made me look so different and she put on my necklace and other jewellery.

Of course, we had to work out who should go downstairs first. Should I go first in 'Rachel's frock' or should Rachel go first. In the end, I went first and my gang-partner waited just out of sight so that she could hear everything.

"Is John ready, Rachel dear?" asked Mrs Goodfellow with a smile as I came into the room. I smiled back and went to sit beside my own mother. She looked at me with some surprise - why would Rachel sit beside her. Then she realized.

"Oh my gosh! It's not possible. Why Johnny darling, I'm so sorry, I mistook you for Rachel. Oh, it's not possible. I can't believe you look so good, so gorgeous, so feminine."

By now, Rachel had joined us. As agreed, she now wore a lovely pale green frock almost identical to mine. We had spent a few seconds upstairs wondering whether she should stay looking as like me as possible or whether to change to emphasise that she was different. Eventually, there had been no time and so it looked like there were two sisters in the room.

"Oh, Rachel love, Johnny, please sit together so that I can admire you both. Oh, you look so lovely. Oh. I still can't believe this is possible. And this is in just ten minutes. Oh golly."

"Don't be so exaggerated, mum, I'm still Johnny. I'm not a girl."

"But, darling, you look so real. I'd defy anyone to detect that you're a boy. If I wanted a daughter, I've got a ready-made one already."

Rachel interrupted on cue, "It'd be so much fun if Johnny would play dress-up once in a while. We could have such fun and, like he said on the phone this morning, he'd learn a lot about girls too. It'd be nice to have a new friend to teach about girlish things. I might even learn something myself."

"Have you been rehearsing this, Rachel."

She went scarlet.

"Oh," said my mum, as she realised that there was more to the story.

"I think it's my turn to interrupt here," said Mrs Goodfellow. "It's only fair to tell you that this is the second time Johnny has worn one of Rachel's dresses. Last week, the three of them came in from the park absolutely soaked. I insisted they put on dry clothes, and, of course, the only spare things around belong to Rachel. So, I had the three of them perched like birds on a fence wearing pretty dresses. Rachel insisted on going a bit further and, well, nobody argued. In the end, three little girls sat by the fire, giggling and carrying-on like anything. When I heard this morning that you had teased Johnny about the difference between girls and boys and, more or less, dared him to dress-up, it seemed inevitable somehow. So Rachel and I decided to do our very best to show you how adorable we could make this young darling. Isn't she lovely? This was really what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to apologise for doing such a strange thing to your son. It's not the sort of thing one mother should do to another's child."

"I'm gasping. I'd never have used the words adorable or lovely about my own son. But yes, in a dress like this, she's sweet. I heard you say 'she' and it's not possible to call this little cutie a him. Will you be a daughter for me once in a while, darling? It's not fair to keep a girl like you locked up in ordinary boy's clothes. If you look this good, I'll let you dress up if you want to. Do you want to?"

"Mummy, what am I supposed to answer. It was fun doing it last week. But it's different now. You're calling me sweet and lovely and all sorts of words that just aren't me. Well, weren't me. If I'm sweet in a dress then I guess it's reasonable to wear a dress when I want to be sweet and pretty. When I'm being a boy, I'll wear my usual clobber. And if I'm wearing a dress, then I'll be as good a daughter as possible. I can't mind if you call me 'she' instead, 'cos it'd be horrid if anyone realised I was Johnny Cove in a dress, Yuk."

"If you look this lovely, darling, nobody on earth is going to guess that you're a boy. I'll agree for the moment. It's just impossible that this is just the second time, my darling daughter has worn a dress. It's going to be such fun. Shall we go shopping, dear? Buy you some clothes for yourself?"

"I can't be much of a girl if I don't want to go shopping. Rachel's taught me that one. How can I argue. If I've just agreed to wear this dress and be a girl for a while then I should do girl-type things. Alright, let's get going."

Just then the doorbell rang. We'd all forgotten about Charlie. The door opened and Charlie wasn't there. Instead Faith was on the doorstep, holding his mother's hand. He looked really worried until the door opened to reveal four females.

We went through the same explanations. I can't remember the details but in no time at all, a troop of six set off to the shops, three women, one girl and two sort-of-girls. We went in the Goodfellow's car because it was the biggest. My mum was the thinnest so she sat with the three of us on the back seat. She had Charles on one side and me on the other. We squeezed together and she put an arm around each of us. It felt different this time from how she normally hugged me. Somehow it seemed as if she hugged me like I was a girl.

It was like early Christmas or a giant birthday treat. I had never spent much time in shops like this before. We bought so much stuff. Once again, I was measured up, down and around. I enjoyed almost every moment except when Charles' mum insisted on buying a bra for him. This made my mum decide to get one for me. What was I supposed to do? Shout out in the middle of the shop that I was a boy! I think that would have been a BAD idea.

So I stood there, arms out while I was measured once more. Then I was escorted into a changing cubicle while mum and the sales assistant put my first bra around my male chest. It felt really ghastly, confining, uncomfortable. It got worse when the assistant chirped, "The dear girl doesn't really need one yet, I think. But it really is better to get them used to a bra before their breasts start to develop. And I'm sure your daughter will get used to this pre-teen trainer we've just tried."

I smiled to myself and thought let's tease mum a bit. "Mummy, I don't really like this bra. Isn't there anything prettier?"

The girl smiled at me, pleased with the opportunity to sell something more expensive. My mum frowned at me for a second, then giggled quietly and winked at me.

After a moment, the girl came back. She was in her mid-twenties I would guess. She had several boxes and a hanger as well which had a complete set of undies. She put the boxes down and tried the bra from the set. It was much prettier than the trainer-thing. Then she passed me panties off the hanger, "This is the prettiest set of undies we have for your size. You'd better try them on and see if you like them."

I was so excited that I forgot my previous decade of boy's clothes and began to take off my other clothes to try on the panties. Mum wasn't quick enough to stop me so I stood there in my bra, naked apart from my shoes. The girl was to one side so didn't see my difference at first. I almost had the panties on when she gasped. But she was a professional. To my amazement, to all our amazements in fact, she smiled quietly, looked around to see that nobody was near enough to overhear, and gave us the most startling news. "It doesn't matter to me what my customers wear. In fact, I don't really care who my customers are. I've just realized that this pretty young girl who I've just sold a bra too is, er, otherwise endowed. I'm surprised rather than shocked, however, as it has happened to me before. It really is of no importance, as far as I'm concerned the customer is always right. Nevertheless, I would suggest that in future, if this dear girl is going to dress up often, that you always ask for Leonie when you shop here. I'm always glad to be of assistance."

Despite gasping a little with shock, my mum replied, "Well, my dear, in that case we shall indeed always ask for your help. It seems that you may be able to give considerable help as my daughter grows up."

As we left, Leonie passed my mother a card. Mum flipped it over to read the message and her eyes widened once more as she did so.

As we left the room, I couldn't help exclaiming to my mum, "That was amazing. Everything. I mean, she didn't get upset when she found out I was a boy, and she offered to help. And what she said, it must mean that there are other boys like me."

"I think it does, yes. There must be other boys who love dresses as much as it seems you already do. But isn't it fun. At least, this card makes it quite clear that Leonie is aware of several shops that are willing to help out. I had no idea.”

I had to smile, "Yes, it actually is – this is fun. I've been wearing a dress for only a few hours and it's really fun. It's not just wearing something so soft and so on, it's so much brighter and more colourful than anything I've ever had as a boy. It's the opportunity to be a girl, even if I'm only a pretend girl. I'm enjoying it all so far."

"You may be only a pretend-girl, dear, but you're pretty and attractive and so for the moment you're my daughter too. And you're right, let’s keep having fun. Let's join the others and decide what to do next."

"Charles has asked me if he can have another name when he's wearing dresses. He says he likes the name Faith," said Mrs. Miller, his mum. "Do you think Johnny wants a new name too."

Mum looked at me with a smile, "Oh, that's a lovely idea. Have you any suggestions, darling. Perhaps you've thought about this before, you naughty girl."

I pretended to think for a moment, "Do you have any preference, mummy. After all, if I was your real daughter then you would have christened me as a baby."

It was her turn to pause. After a few seconds, she said, "There was a time I thought I was getting a daughter. I was going to call her Juliet."

Just as she said this, I said, "I'd like to be called Joy. I think that's a really lovely name."

The two names hung in the air. Mum mused, "Juliet, Joy, they're both pretty. But I think your suggestion is the better. Somehow, Juliet is in the past, a bit of history now, Joy is new and young and everything. Yes, so it's hello, my daughter Joy. Let me give you a kiss and a hug."

We were in a tight hug, all six of us. Now we were six girls with real names. Rachel suddenly called out, "There's my hairdressers over there. Do you want something done to your horrid, boyish hair. Girls like Faith and Joy deserve the best on a day like this. Wouldn't it be great to let them have a proper makeover, you know, the lot, hair, hands, makeup."

I looked at Ch...Faith beside me and she was clearly split. She wanted to look as pretty as possible, but a complete makeover would surely leave telltale signs. "Mum, do I have to. I thought you only wanted me to play at this. Won't a new hairstyle be a bit obvious."

"Well, Joy is getting one," said my mum. "We can't miss a chance like this to show her how gorgeous she can look with a bit of effort. It's just the sort of thing you'd give a teenager as a birthday present. I've got thirteen years of presents to give my new daughter. I might draw the line at dolls and things though. I think the complete one-year-old up to teenager catch-up might be a bit out of order. Unless you want a dolly or two, darling."

"Are you going to force me to do this, mum?"

"I wouldn't force you, dear. But just think of it as an extra lesson in how to be a girl. You'll learn more in one afternoon being treated as a girl in a salon than anything I can do. And it gives us so much more opportunity over the holidays for you to learn your girl-lessons."

"Alright, it looks like there's not much choice. But what are you going to do meanwhile. Doesn't it take ages getting your hair done."

"Yes, it does. But we can stay and watch for a while, or perhaps the three of us will leave you with Rachel. We might go shopping after we've had a chat about our three daughters."

Rachel decided to have her hair trimmed as well. But her instructions to my stylist were much firmer. "My cousin needs her hair really done over. She's such a tomboy and she needs to be helped to look as feminine as possible. Just give it a little trim to tidy up the split ends and stuff, then do the best you can. But the important thing is, the more feminine the better."

I winced as I realized that I really was going to be feminised. I would leave the salon looking like a girlish girl instead of the tomboy that I was sure I was. Was this what I wanted?

I entered that salon as a thirteen year old boy-in-a-dress, straight brown hair down to my collar at the back and with the minimum of makeup that my tutors had allowed me. When I left I was a beautiful young girl, the assistants all said so. My hair had been trimmed, curled into a gorgeous page-boy style, given a few sun-bleached highlights and my makeup had been enhanced even more. My eyebrows had been plucked, but only a little; my fingers had been manicured and the nails painted too. The only thing I had been able to refuse was to have my ears pierced. Rachel had been quite cross about this, but I got my own way on that issue.

Charles was done next. His hair was shorter than mine but somehow those clever girls managed to primp and colour it into the most delightful reddish-ginger mass of curls. He looked so sweet. Also it did make him look quite a lot older, almost sixteen I would have guessed. Charles was about to leave his chair when our mums all came back in. They gushed with excitement at how wonderful we now were, how impossible it was to see any evidence of non-girlishness. We were girls. We were daughters.

Rachel complained, "Joy refused to have her ears pierced, but I think Faith is willing."

This wasn't really true, I could tell from Faith's expression of shock. But it seemed that his mum was instantly eager to have that mark of femininity to complete her son's transformation. "Oh, of course you must have it done. If you're brave about it, I'll buy you something really special as a present, that red dress, perhaps - and several pairs of earrings. I haven't got any clip-on ones anymore so let me get you ones that can't get lost."

Faith was excited by the idea of extra-special red dress that we had noticed him admiring in the last shop, but worried about the pain of the piercing and the long-term concern that the boys at school would notice and tease him/her. His mum saw this and said, "The holes will heal in a day or so if you're worried about them showing after the holidays."

Faith's expression suddenly cleared as she made her decision. She nodded eagerly, flashing a sneaky smirk at me as she did so.

I looked in the mirror to see if I looked older or younger and saw Rachel watching me with a smile. As I looked back at her, it was a pleasant surprise to see those pencilled lips curve into a smile - and those lips belonged to me.

My mum interfered now, "I'm think I'm glad that you're less eager to be permanently marked as a girl than Faith." She paused for a moment, "Really, Joy, you pulled such a face when I said that, you're not jealous of her are you. I'm really not worried if you're not as ready as she is for this but I do want you to get that sour look off your pretty face."

"Mummy, will I look even prettier if I do get my ears pierced?" I found it easier to say Mummy now. It did feel a little twee, a bit little-girly, but then I was dressed that way - it felt right.

"If you want it, then I can't refuse, darling daughter. What do you really want?"

"I'm not sure. Let's say that if I see some earrings that I really want and they need me to have my ears pierced, then I'll have it done. I don't quite like the idea yet."

"Er, darling, would these be enough of a temptation?" she dangled a lovely pair of hoop earrings before my dazzled eyes.

I giggled, it wasn't a laugh such as I would have used before. It really sounded like a giggle. "Oh, they're sweet. Are they for me? Oh, yes, alright. Let's get the deed done. Brand me with my new image."

I wailed, more with fright than actual pain as my ears were stabbed with the needle. As soon as the little gold studs were in place, I stared into the mirror, suddenly excited by the fact that I, a mere boy, was looking so boldly feminine.

That was nearly the end of our wonderful day out. We drove back in our loaded cars and went back to Rachel's. My mum and Faith's went off immediately to 'get things ready' at home, while the three girls played with our new clothes and toys. Yes, we had been bought some suitable toys as well. Faith had a lovely doll with hair which exactly matched her own. We had smiled when she had wondered about calling it Faith-too. Eventually, she settled on calling it Hope. I had a really fun-looking set for making bead jewellery. I tried to pretend to myself that I would be able to make efficient, boy-type organised patterns - when what I knew would happen was that the three of us would actually make the most garish things possible - and we would absolutely know that they were pretty and neat.

About an hour later, Mrs Goodfellow took us home. The three of us piled into the back of the car so that we could continue to be 'the Team'. My house was nearest so we went there first. I had sort-of guessed what my mum had been doing. I was right. My room had been reorganised. Not completely, it just wouldn't have been possible in just over an hour. But my clothes were all hanging in the wardrobe, the drawers were open in my cupboard, showing where all my undies were stored. My desk had been swept clear so that my makeup and so on was on show. I was excited but just a bit horrified too. Was I being turned into a girl permanently or was it going to be just for the holidays as I had agreed. Fortunately, mum answered my fears, "I've only done a ultra-speed tidy up, Joy dear. At the end of the holidays we can put it all back quite quickly."

"Oh, mummy, I love you," and I rushed into her arms to give her a kiss and a hug. At that moment, I felt more of a girl than I had ever expected as I pressed myself against her warm soft body and smelt the perfume she always used.

I was too excited to leave my own, Joy's, room so Rachel and Faith went over to his place by themselves. I would see it for myself tomorrow. I was so tired I just wanted to have a nice lie down in my half-boy half-girl room. That was my intention, but it soon became clear that Joy didn't like half the things that John had on his walls and lying around. Joy spent hours, even with mum's help, taking down the posters and tidying up. At the end of it, I almost collapsed onto the bed. Mummy helped remove my makeup, (I didn't know how, did I,) then insisted that I have a quick shower, I could use some of her showergel rather than John's. Then she cooked me some eggs while I sat in the kitchen in my nightdress and dressing-gown. It was quite late when I reached my little bed, but now it felt like the room belonged to Joy instead of being John's room.

As we had a last chat, Mum gave me one more surprise. "I love you as my daughter more than I would have guessed. Despite the apparent humour, I'm not joking when I tell you that my new daughter Joy is a great joy to me. I'm so pleased that you've chosen such a lovely name. But, seriously, there will be times I want to have your brother Johnny around instead. I'm not going to insist either way for this holidays, well, not too often. So, generally, if you want to be Joy or Johnny for each day or any part of the day, I'll be very happy. Now give your mother one last kiss, my little princess, and go to sleep to dream of skirts and dresses, panties, stockings, lace and frills."

I woke happy and refreshed. I wriggled around the bed, delighting in the squirmy feel of the shiny satin on my skin. I looked around and smiled at how the room was beginning to look feminine instead of boyish, especially my stockings hanging on the back of the chair. I had had ideas last night for posters and ornaments to improve the whole image. While I lay there relaxing in a contented half-doze daydream, Mummy came in with a comb and brush.

"Come along, dear. It takes longer to get ready in the morning for us girls. We can't just leap out of bed, pull on a t-shirt and shorts and rush out. We have to make sure our hair looks nice, that we smell good, that our clothes are nicely co-ordinated. It does take a little longer, but I believe it's much nicer being a woman."

"So I'm a girl again today. Oh, lovely. Can I wear my pretty blue frock?"

"Don't be silly, dear. I'm not making the decisions about whether it's Joy or Johnny who gets out of bed each day. My darling princess went to sleep last night. This morning I may be chatting to my lovely daughter or I may be talking to Johnny who to my apparent surprise is wearing a girl’s frilly nightie, but may about to change out of it. The decision is made once you’ve got dressed for the day. If the program for the day requires the attendance of Johnny, then he’ll be there as required. On other days, the decision is yours. Get me. Right. You –not me.”

"Oh, yes, I get you. But as for this lovely frothy nightie, I don't want to take it off yet. It's so smooth and swishy, it feels so swirly and snaky when I walk around in it." I woke up a bit more, "But aren't we going over to Faith's as soon as possible. I've got to rush. And if I’m going to see Faith then it’s a girl day and I’m not taking this off until I’ve decided what to wear. I just love the feel of it against my skin."

"No, dear. No rush. Girls take exactly as long as necessary to get ready. I'll come back in a moment to help with your hair. So, scurry along and get washed."

It was all new to me – but quickly I scampered off to the bathroom and sat down as that felt more suitable. Washed and scrubbed, back in the bedroom, I looked with concern at all my new clothes – somehow I couldn’t decide what would make a superior costume.

When mum came back, she said that my hair needed attention first in order to prevent any tanglements and snagglings. There was so much more to the getting-up process now that I was a girl. But it was intriguing despite the extra effort. It had been one thing having my hair done at the salon, but this was me and my mum. She brushed and brushed until all the tangles were gone. My hair did feel different already, fluffier and more alive. Mum did allow a dash of makeup. She said that a little encouragement to make me feel more of a princess was quite proper. Then back to the rigmarole of choosing the clothes for the day. My wardrobe wasn't big but I already had the correct attitude that nothing was really suitable. Mum said that I already had the most important requirements of a girl. Absolutely together, on cue, we wailed, "I haven't got a thing to wear.' We hooted with laughter at this. Eventually, I was ready for my first full day as Joy.

I had on my new pink panties, pop socks and strappy sandals, a vest rather than an unfilled bra, and the blue frock I had wanted. I looked in the mirror to smile with love at my sister. Mummy joined me and we gazed with delight at the image of daughter and mother that we saw.

Downstairs for breakfast. It seemed natural to be more helpful with getting it ready and tidying up. As Joy, I even used a napkin. Johnny would have been horrified. When I helped with the washing-up, I put on an apron too so that I wouldn't splash my pretty clothes. I had realised how important this was without being told, although Mummy grinned at me when I took several moments to choose the frilliest one.

It seemed only moments and we were on our way to see how Faith was getting on. His mum had been the more eager to buy clothes and things for her new girl, but then she did have more money. We never mentioned it, but her family was noticeably better-off than Rachel's folks or mine. It was just one of those things. But just now, Faith was going to be getting more assistance with the physical paraphernalia necessary for a girl than I would. Rachel had encouraged me by saying that since I was her size I would be able to borrow her things. That made me so happy. Borrowing clothes seemed to be such a girl-thing. Actually Faith was close in size to both of us so it seemed likely that there would be a lot of triple-swapping. What fun we would have.

We arrived at Faith's just as Rachel turned up on her bicycle.

"Hello, Joy. Hello Mrs Firth. Aren't you excited about this, Joy? Faith wouldn't let me come up to her room last night. She wanted to share the first time with you too."

As soon as the door was opened, we ran upstairs. Faith was on the landing waiting for us. She looked super, in a peach and cream trouser suit which she told us had belonged to her sister. Gloria was several years older but so tiny that a lot of her smart late-teenage clothes already fitted Faith. He and his mum had ransacked both Gloria's and Faith's rooms. S/he had got to bed at after ten o'clock. When we reached the bedroom, both Rachel and I gasped. There were clothes everywhere. On the bed was a huge pile of underwear, on the nearest chair was a pile of dresses and everywhere else were more piles of colourful, enticing fabric.

I turned to my friend and hugged her lovingly, "Oh, you lucky thing. You've already got such a fabulous selection."

She hugged me back and giggled, "I'm so happy now that you're here. Mummy and I had so much fun buying these things and, time after time, we told each other how much fun you and I would have sharing our new things. I can't wait to see you in this lovely red number. And we even bought a matching set of red undies to go with it - and you're going to be the first to try them. I can't wait. Come on, get going, I want to show off to Mummy. And Rachel, these are for you. Mummy said that it wouldn't be fair to leave you out. And how could I leave you out - you're part of the Gang and the Gang does everything together."

Rachel giggled too, "And now we can all be girls together too. It makes it just so much more of a pleasure to see how much you two are enjoying this."

"Aw, Rach, it's not just enjoyment anymore. This feels right. You sometimes seemed to be the odd one out in the three of us, now you're the leader. You've got so much to show us and we're just dead-keen to learn from you. Mummy shows me how to do my lipstick but it feels more, er, proper to learn from you. You talk the same language as we do."

"Well, my gang-member new-girls, as your leader, I instruct you to pick your new costumes and I will then begin this afternoon's lesson." She giggled and began to invent a song to the tune of Hokey-Kokey. "You take your old clothes off, you put 'em on a chair; you pick up your pretty bra and wave it all about, then you put your left arm in and give yourself a twirl, then the right arm in and clip it all around." She struggled on for a few more bars before collapsing into a heap on the bed.

"Hoy, get off, those are my best panties, don't crumple them." Faith shrieked and snatched at the microscopically crumpled silks. No hint of anything but an irate teenage girl in her reaction to the desecration of her underwear.

Rachel howled with pleasure at her friend's discomfiture. I could only stand there pink with embarrassment at how effeminate my best girl friend had made my other best friend. Then I realized that I was wearing a bra too - that I looked just as much a girl as either of the others. I tried to ignore the other two and just get on with getting dressed. I rolled the stockings carefully up my leg and attached them to the suspender. It felt so easy now that I had done it a few times. I squeaked as the clip came undone and smacked at my tender skin. As I relaxed a little more I realised, not for the first time or the last time, that it did feel very much nicer to be wearing frills and dainties instead of jeans and such.

"You'll have that happen lots more times. The time to worry is when a clip comes undone in the middle of the town. But if that happens, it's also a great way to prove to the boys that you're wearing stockings. And if we do our job properly then there will be boys watching. There isn’t a boy born who can resist peeking when you lift your leg to reveal a stocking-top."

"But we're boys. What d'you mean we'll get the boys watching."

"Now, come on darling. You're wearing a gorgeous dress with scrummy undies, you're calling yourself Faith. That makes you give the distinct impression of being a girl. It's nothing to worry about - I've been a girl for years and it's absolutely wonderful. In fact, I want to be a girl for the rest of my life. As for you two, you're going to have a wonderful time seeing what life is like from a feminine perspective. I promise you it'll be super. I'll look after you. We're all going to have a good time this summer."

"Golly, I was really worried for a moment there. I'm still not sure I like the idea of being on display to the boys. I mean, I know lots of them from school. What if they recognise me ? It gives me a horrid feeling in my tum now that I've begun to think about it."

Rachel gave Faith a hug and a kiss. "I'm not worried about it and I promise you that no one will detect the faintest bit of boy. If you didn't believe me yesterday, you will as soon as you look in the mirror. Dressed like that, you are a girl and you look scrummy. Relax. You're safe with your big-sister Rachel. I'll look after all the lessons you'll need as a new-girl. And the first lesson is to be comfortable in your new clothes. This will make a real difference in how easy it is for you to look and act confident. And you too, Joy. You're just as pretty. I'm sorry now that it took so long to get you into a dress. I've missed having Sandy and Fiona around - but now I've got two girls of my own age to do things with. It'll be such fun," and she gave me a hug and a kiss too.

Then Faith joined in. When we separated, we all giggled because Faith had left a lipstick smudge on both Rachel and me. This led into a quick lesson in how to blot our lipstick dry - for those occasions when we'd be allowed to wear it. Rachel ticked Faith off for dressing up too much for the daytime. Rachel made us all laugh about how she'd plan a party where we could all wear our prettiest frocks and get specially made-up to impress the boys.

We spent the rest of the morning exhausting ourselves once again. We tried on everything in Faith's squeezed-full wardrobe. We dressed up in simple skirts and blouses, summer frocks, slinky dresses (which were really a bit old for us), and the most lovely nighties. Then after lunch, all of us went into town to buy yet more pretties and frillies. It was just such fun.

Rachel decided that her idea of having a party was too good an opportunity to miss. It just had to be a good idea to introduce her new girl-friends to everybody.

---------------
It was a week or more before the party was arranged. We wore our pretties, we got dressed up every day. We practised our lessons on how to look like a girl and how to present as a girl. We all got very excited about the party as we would be able to dress up in something extra girly and sparkly for the occasion. Our mothers got excited too.

Her elder sisters Sandy, Fiona, cousin Sarah and their friend Alexandra were there. They gave us each a copy of a story called 'The SisterDom of Woman'. When we read it, we realised that we were part of the ongoing saga of how the women of our town had helped us learn about being feminine.

I was really happy that we were still a Gang. Even if it wasn’t anything like the Gang I thought I had joined. I loved being pretty. I loved being lovely. I really loved the swoop and swish and swirl of my skirts and dresses; the stretch and pull as they brushed against my stockings or tights. The pull of the stockings (or tights) as my legs walked along, the different feel of the shoes with heels; the smell of the makeup, the different tension in the skin as the makeup flexed; the strange waxy, shiny feel of the lipstick on my lips; the glitter of nail-polish and probably most of all the loveliness of sleek, satin and silk underwear; the shape of my breasts outlined by my blouses. I loved it all. And I loved doing things with Faith and with Rachel.

Are you wearing a bra?

Just how do you answer that question when you ARE wearing a bra – and you’re a man.

Just how do you answer that question? Out of the blue. Suddenly. When it makes you upset and embarrassed.

It’s a reasonable question to any woman. If you ARE wearing a bra then the answer is obviously ‘yes’. UNLESS you SHOULDN’T be wearing a bra. If, for instance, you’re a man. Then you have to answer with more, er, care.

There I was, on the phone to my wife, Caroline, and for some reason there was a pause in the conversation. I was at our cottage by the sea, more of a large shack really. But it was where I went sometimes to get work done on special projects. There really was no spare room to work in our tiny flat in London – so my Uncle’s old shack on the Kent coast was a really useful escape. And I could work on my own personal projects too.

“What’s up? You stopped for a moment.”

“I was just adjusting something, er, fixing something”

“What would you be adjusting while you were on the phone? Don’t tell me you’re wearing a bra again. You know how upset I get when you do that.”

“No. I’m not wearing a bra.”

“Well then, exactly what are you adjusting?”

I don’t think really fast when I’m embarrassed, lying, wearing a complete outfit of my favourite feminine and frilly clothes, and thereby completely in the wrong. “Adjusting my pants, they’ve got twisted.”

“Oh yeah, that’s believable. So it’s not a pair of panties then, frilly and lacy and hugging tight to you in a way that your usual BOXERS don’t. You’re useless at lying. You hardly ever wear pants do you? If you’re adjusting your so-called pants then you’re wearing panties. And that probably means you’re wearing everything else too. Don’t lie to me. It undermines everything when you lie to me.”

“But. And why would I lie to you?”

“Er, why would you lie? Because you’ve been caught out. You’ve been caught out AGAIN to be accurate. You’re wearing a bra – probably from M&S as usual - with those C-cup fillers you ordered on Amazon. You’re wearing panties – again from M&S because I know you enjoy shopping there. What you are wearing otherwise I’m not sure about.”

I was trying to work out what to say. I was trying to calculate exactly what mood Caroline was in. She was coming across as distinctly irritated but not venomously angry, not outraged beyond control – this was not the reaction I expected. I didn’t know how to react. I did think, in one corner of my mind, that whatever I did was already or going to be out of my control.

I don’t know what possessed me. I told the truth.

“Okay. As you asked. I’m wearing a short-sleeved blouse in pale peach satin and a lined knit skirt in dark blue, calf length, by the way. I am wearing a bra, and panties too – matching in white with pink roses. As for shoes, I’ve found a rather pretty open-toe pair of sandals with a three inch heel.”

“You’ve never spoken to me like that. What’s happened to you?”

“I’m suddenly tired of the whole keep-it-hidden-from-you thing. It’s something I have done for years before I met you and, as rarely as I can cope with, at times since we married. I have no real explanation. However I can tell you a few facts. And they are not opinions. They’re not guesses. They’re not excuses. These are facts. I’ll start with the ones that might worry you most. I’m not homosexual. I’m not wanting to become a woman. I’m not even wanting to live as a woman or pretend to be a woman. I’m a man. But I have an addictive element to my character in that I really enjoy the touch and feel and look of clothes which are, these days, expected to be worn only by women.”

“So you’re not gay you’re merely a pervert.”

“Oh, dear me, no. I’m not a pervert. I don’t get a sexual thrill out of this. It’s not a fetish, either. I don’t have weird dreams of dressing up and going out with you as if we were a pair of lesbians. Dear me, no. You really need some up-to-date guidance. I may do something that is seen as odd, for reasons which I am unclear about. That it to say I dress sometimes in clothing deemed suitable only – in these current times - for the opposite sex. Strangely, there seems to be no such discrimination or disapproval when a woman wears the clothes of the opposite sex. That confuses me. But as I say, you need guidance – and I’m probably too involved to give you clear advice.”

“What do I need guidance about – how to live with a pervert?”

“I repeat – I’m not a pervert. What sort of person do you think I am then? The husband of many years who you know very well and who you frequently call your lover, best friend and so much more.”

“But you’ve kept this secret from me.” It was almost a wail.

“I don’t think I’ve kept it very well hidden, do you.”

“But a secret is a secret – and there’s this whole part of you that I don’t know about.”

“Now, you did know. I told you and you told me to ‘keep it to myself, you didn’t want to know’. So that’s what I did. I kept it to myself. In addition, I worked really hard at keeping it to a minimum. So, instead of dressing up when I wanted to, I forced myself to do it much much less than I wanted, to do it only when I felt I had to.”

“Are you pretending this is some sort of stress relief?”

“No. I don’t think I’m claiming that. If I had easy answers then you can be sure I’d have worked them out for myself long ago. I’d have shared that information with you, you can have no doubt about that. But I don’t know when the need will get to me. I don’t know whether I can transfer it into something else or ignore it for a time. It’s not stress that does it, or not simply stress. Sometimes it’s when I’m feeling already relaxed. I don’t have a simple and easy explanation.”

“So, how often do you dress up as you call it. How often do you indulge in this perversion?”

“A few times a year. Not even once a month actually. And cool it with the perversion word. It’s not right.”

“Do you dress every time you ‘go to Uncle’s Shack’? And perversion seems the right word to me.”

“No, as regards the first response. Almost to my surprise, I don’t dress every time at the shack. It’s the easiest place. I could do it every time. But I don’t. To indulge like that would feel wrong too. It would be, I don’t have the words. Perhaps I think it would be unfair to you.”

“And doing it in secret like you are doing isn’t unfair to me. I never knew about this part of you. I never knew you were dressing up in secret and doing whatever you do when you’re dressed up. And how you can try to define how wrong or what parts of your behaviour are ‘not wrong’ – I’m lost for words. Well, lost for the right words.”

“Er, like I said. You told me you didn’t want to know. And I don’t do ‘whatever you’re talking about’ – I just dress up and get on with my work or pass the time or whatever. I don’t flaunt myself, parade about, go on the pickup, masturbate or anything weird. I just dress up as nicely as I can. That’s all.”

“And you don’t call any of that ‘weird’? But if it was and is that important to you, didn’t I have a right to know? Don’t you understand at all?”

“How much of my life or my behaviour can you, honestly now, say has been unfair to you. Evidently we had the cliché of ‘a failure to communicate’. Of course I would have preferred to share this with you. But I didn’t feel there was ever a good moment to ask any of the possible questions. When was the right moment to say ‘does my bottom look too large in this skirt’, eh? Or ‘can you help me get this bra to its best fit?’ Tricky really. ‘Does this shade of lipstick suit me?’ You said you didn’t want to know.”

“And you’re accusing me of a failure to communicate that I needed to know about your ugly habit.”

“Oh, no. Communication requires two people to work together, one sends a message, the other listens to it, absorbs it and reacts. Then a response is sent in the return direction; and so on until an end is reached. And, it’s rather obvious, at some point probably both of us sent a message that was poorly heard. You never heard that this was important to me but that I would keep it discrete. I never realized that you had a need to know and that you might be hurt by me keeping it secret from you. Even if I had been told – or thought I had been told that you didn’t want to be aware of the details. For my contribution or even my failure to accurately contribute – for all of that I am truly sorry.”

“Put like that, so damnably reasonably, I have to calm down and agree. But I still don’t understand this need you have. And I don’t like it either.”

“Darling, I’m fairly sure what you mean by ‘it’ but I need to be sure. Are you objecting to me keeping my dressing-up somewhat hidden from you or the dressing-up itself.”

“It’s the whole bloody thing – and don’t try to get round me with the occasional ‘darling’. That won’t work. Not right now. Both things upset me. The dressing-up because I don’t understand it and I don’t like it. The secrecy upsets me probably more but in different ways.”

“We have to find a way forward ……. don’t we? The alternative’s pretty ugly.”

“Patrick, I’m taking a deep breath here. And I’m asking a big question. Since I know you adore wordplay – perhaps even as much as you enjoy dressing up, yeh, - do you dress up and look pretty or ugly or pretty ugly? I’m going to have to know. And then we need to decide where we go from there. Do I scream, panic and divorce you for unreasonable behaviour, do we separate and hope we can get back closer or do we find a way forward as a partnership. What do you want – going forward.”

“Now that my dressing is rather more out in the open – I guess I want the wonderful partnership we’ve got but without the secrecy. If I want, no, if I get the need to dress then I want to be able to do it. I’m not going to flaunt it in your face. I’m not going to parade around the house or in front of the neighbours. As regards parading and flaunting, I’d say that when I’m dressed up I want to look as near average and ordinary as I can. I don’t think I look ugly and I certainly wouldn’t claim to look pretty. I’ll go with pretty-ugly for the moment. But something like that isn't really for me to judge. I can promise I don't do the drag-hag thing, I don't do the Brolita or Sissy megafrills and petticoats. I aim at looking like a typical mid-thirties woman."

I took a deep breath and continued, "I guess I want, need, sufficient acceptance from you. I really really need to get out of your head and your heart any of the ideas that it’s perverted, sexual, fetishist. I would love it if you could get as far as ‘not wrong just different’. I know the degree of, er, differentness is a bit much for you to get hold of right now. But I’ll work with you if you work with me. A special effort at communication about a difficult issue. But I have to tell you – dressing like I do is part of me. I’m realizing that it’s deeper and more significant than I’ve been telling myself. It’s not an addiction – I don’t think it’s that. But we need to talk. Talk deeply and openly. Maybe you have a thing or a few things that you’ve never opened up to me about. Just build on the fact, the certainty that I love you – thicker, thinner, lower, higher, ups and downs – and that we have something good shared between us.”

“Too many words, darling, too many words. Come back as soon as you can and we’ll talk. And I’ll start thinking if there’s ways ahead. No, no ‘if’ – I withdraw the ‘if’. I want there to be a way forward, okay. I’ll get myself comfortable with the idea of sometime meeting Patricia. At least, I’d guess you’d choose a name like that.”

“That sounds like one small step towards wonderful. And no, I don’t call myself Patricia. I’ve never really attached a name to my dressing up. That might be unusual but then I’ve never met anyone else who dresses up, not that I’ve ever known. But on the net, there’s groups and so on – but I’ve never fancied that level of involvement. It’s all been for me by me and only me. I have pondered the name Alys. No particular reason why. Don’t know. Let’s call this alter-ego Alys for the moment.”

“Deep breath again. Come home soon Patrick Alys, come home.” Click

----------------------------------

It took some time to get home. I did have to finish the work I was doing. As an architect in a small practice doing some private work on the side, I couldn’t work on private stuff at the office and there was no room at home. Uncle’s Shack was essential. So that took some hours. I emailed Caroline to give her a timetable. She did understand that getting the work done was important. Well, obviously, it paid the bills. But at too many moments during the day, I hesitated, trying to decide who was going home. The invitation was to Patrick Alys, wasn’t it. Did I know what Caroline expected from Patrick-Alys? Did I know how to be Patrick-Alys?

I dithered. I dallied. I wondered what to do. I nearly went on the internet to ask on one of the websites I occasionally wandered onto. Sorry, that was wrong. On the occasions I wandered the net, looking for general information or looking for dressing or, more often, looking for stories, I found a variety of sites of varying usefulness.

To be blunt, some were really unattractive. I can’t say they were actually ‘wrong’ – because what I do is wrong in the views of some. But forced stuff, dominant women with ugly agenda, sissies, bimbos – yuk. And the photographs. What persuades some of my fellow travellers that miniskirts on old legs is attractive, that exaggeration of breasts, waist, lips, hair or whatever adds to any form of appeal. They must believe it or they wouldn’t do it. But really. Like a wig on a walrus.

In the end, I just did as normal. Stripped off, had a swim (quite brief as it was cold that day), a shower and changed into some ordinary casual clothes. I had tidied up all evidence of Alys before the swim – it helps to have a routine for that sort of thing. Hiding a regular activity only really works if you’re organised. And on Alys’ behalf, I was organised. The outcome of a wandering pair of panties on even a well-balanced marriage is not worth being casual about clear-up. So Alys went back to her suitcase in the loft and Patrick set off back to south-east London.

I’m not quite six foot tall, still sporty and quite solidly built. I kept an eye on my weight and needed it to be towards 11 stone rather than 12. Otherwise my small collection of skirts and dresses looked dreadful. I kept my average brown hair long, not shoulder length but well onto the collar. I told myself that being in an arty profession made this allowable and acceptable.

I had no illusions about being able, even if I wished, to look genuine as a girl. All my dressing was on my own, in the quiet, solo. The sites I did go to which I thought were sensible and the stories I read which felt real – they all said that ‘the aim is to be comfortable’. If you want garish, brassy, brazen, overt then there were stories and examples for that too. But not me.

I’m 39 and Caroline is 36. She’s a bit shorter than me, skinnier, less sporty, longer hair and so I can’t wear anything of hers and actually wouldn’t dare.

It was getting towards evening when I decided I had done enough. I rang rather than emailed. “I’m on my way home. I’ll be about an hour and a half as usual unless traffic snarls up.”

“Will it be Patrick coming home or Alys?”

I was stunned. “Patrick of course. I wasn’t planning on anything else.”

“I’ve been on the web all day, darling. I’m not accepting or understanding all of it – but I’ve got to meet Alys sometime.”

“Okay, honey. But I don’t think it’ll be today. If you can, relax with a glass and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

I drove on through the summer evening. I couldn’t really concentrate because of the extraordinary things that were bouncing around my brain. And, no, I’d taken off the bra and inserts quite some time ago – so THEY weren’t bouncing around at all. I’d changed out of my seaside sundress and was back in shirt and trousers.

I was so used to the changeover from Patrick-boy to Patrick-girl and vice versa. But this time, with the faint promise of change, I felt different. Stressed, no doubt about that, but strangely confident too.

I got home perhaps 5 minutes later than usual and was met at the door by Caroline.

“Hi, darling. I don’t know about you but that emotional outburst this morning has me flop-down exhausted. I haven’t had a drink. I was worried that I’d either fall asleep instantly or drink the whole bottle and be pissed when you got home or even worse I’d drink the whole bottle and be stone-cold sober.” She paused. “I spent some time on the interweb. Well, not ‘some’ time, I’ve been on it almost since we finished talking. And I have to say, that some sites I left with my face scarlet and my brain spinning. Thank god, I’ve got quick reflexes and can hit the exit button fast. Some of it was ‘yukk’. And some of it was far worse. I’ve looked at either too much or too little. If I wasn’t emotionally exhausted already I’d be mentally wiped out as well. Give me of drunkenness, darling. And if you want that sweet little word, I’ll add NOW.”

“I should never have let you watch the Addams Family. Vot a mistakea to makea.”

“I know that we ought to be talking really seriously and deeply and significantly and all those big long words – but I just need my husband. Just for now, I’ve got to slow down and stop.”

“Fine by me, dear. I’m not going away and you’re not going away so whatever problems there are will still be there – ready for us to get to grips with them.”

An exhausted mumble came from beneath my arm “But we’ve got to talk and we’ve got to be nice and each take a deep breath before we say something, in case it’s silly or too much of a reaction. Promise me.”

“That I can certainly promise. We nearly made a big mistake – we can do better.”

“That’s nice.” And it might have been at what I said or at the glass of wine which she laid down carefully or at my stroking her hair. It didn’t really matter. We were going forward. How and when and where Alys would come forward for her debut, I couldn’t guess. But Alys was coming out of hiding. And somehow, I knew that things WOULD get better.

-------------

It was some ten days later that I raised the subject of Alys myself. Caroline hadn’t said anything at all. No direct comments, no indirect comments, no snide or sarky or nastiness. Nothing.

“I was going down the High Street to the bank and I saw a dress that I’d like to check out.” I hesitated and said out loud, “Take a big breath here boy and say it - Do you want to come and look with me – there might be something you’d like too? It’s a big sale.”

There was a pause while Caroline sat up and looked at me. A long minute. “Well, that’s not keeping Alys very secret is it? Going shopping in our own high street. What am I – some sort of camouflage? If that’s the idea then NO. No, no, no.”

“Honey, I am not hiding behind you. I am inviting you along because I want to. I want to show a glimpse of Alys to you. No flaunting. No showing-off. No parading in public. Just two people looking at some dresses.”

“Just two people looking at dresses?”

“That’s what I said.”

“But what exactly did you mean.”

“I don’t think I could have been clearer. I saw a dress. I saw a sale. Dress plus Sale equals more interest. Alys is not going to hide from you. Alys wants to check out this dress and invited you for two reasons – to look at the dress together and to let you look at the sale too. No baffling double-talk. No sly attempt at manipulation. Just two people looking at dresses.”

“But you’re a man and men don’t wear dresses.”

“Okay, I’m an unusual man. I sometimes like to wear a dress.”

“Hmmmm. Just your run of the mill pervert then.”

“I went through this last time. I don’t aim for a sexual thrill from this. It’s something I enjoy. It often relaxes me. Lets me unwind, perhaps. I made a genuine offer for us to go out – even if it’s a little bit different from the average.”

“Ha, you can say that again. It’s not normal is it? A man wearing a dress or even thinking about wearing a dress. It’s just not normal.” She was glaring at me now.

“It’s a little bit different, that’s for sure. And all the research I’ve done says that cross-dressing is the largest trans group and far more common than any of the transgender options. And, by golly, aren’t they getting into the papers on a regular basis pretty often. What I enjoy doing – and it’s only sometimes is not illegal, immoral or fattening. I could be clever and say that doing an Alys now and again actually helps keep my weight down.”

“You said ‘doing an Alys’. Don’t you mean pretending to be Alys or something about your inner-girl?”

Wow, my lady had some snap and snarl ripping out. “No. I’ve tried to make clear that I don’t want to be a woman. I don’t pretend to be a woman. I’m not gay either. I like being dressed and it seems more suitable to label this as ‘doing an Alys’. Just to try to keep things clear, y’know.”

“More suitable ………. In what way does a man putting on panties, bra and a dress fit the description ‘suitable’? But despite this f..in weird behaviour of yours, you expect me to join in?”

“For me, there’s not much choice – secrecy or not. So, I’m not hiding it when, previously, I would have hidden it.”

“I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. You do know that.”

“Yeah, but you like me keeping it quiet much worse.”

“I’m not sure I can cope with the choice between ‘very worse’ and extremely worse’. Secrecy or dressing-up. It’s all a big yuk.”

“I ask again – will you come with me. I’m not hiding, not being secretive. I’ve promised to be open …….. Come or Stay?”

“I’ll come. Not willingly. But if you’re going to continue with this – then it seems I have little choice. And don’t quote that oldie from Philosophy 101 – ‘There’s always a choice’.”

I have to confess I had to conceal the little smirk that meant I was about to say it. “Okay then.”

“What right now. You’re going out to look at dresses dressed as you are?”

“I’m only going out to look at the dress. If I buy it then I make sure I can take it back if it doesn’t fit or I don’t like it. Although a few shops allow one to try a dress on if it’s quiet.”

“I’m not sure which is worse – going to look at a dress as you say you intend or coming back with a likelihood of taking it back.”

My eyebrow raised in question. “What would you expect me to do then. Go to the shop with a full set of underclothes, panties, bra and all. I don’t do that. I dress for myself, by myself, in private, for my own comfort and pleasure. I don’t go out dressed. Never have. Never intend to.”

“Okay then. Your way. We go to the shop. You look at the dress and presumably whatever else you have your eye on – then I do the same if there’s anything suitable. Then we come home. You try on the dress and either keep it for later or decide to take it back. Right.”

“Yeess.” I hesitated and made it clear there was a question hanging.

“What’s the hesitation?” There was a lot of tension to deal with.

“It’s such a beautiful evening, I’d like to stay in town and go to one of the pubs on the river …. Rather than coming straight home.”

Glare. “And you won’t be doing any of this Alys stuff while we’re out.”

“No. I wasn’t even thinking that.”

“Hrumphh. Alright then. Look at the dress, maybe look at the sale. Then the pub and home. Right.”

“Caro, if the evening goes like that then we’re planning too far ahead. Let’s enjoy the evening as I suggested.”

“Hrrrrummphhh, yurrrr, alri’. I’ll go and put some evening at the pub clothes on. Be a minute or two.”

I wondered what she’d choose. And then I wondered what I would wear if Alys were going out to that pub.

An hour or so later, we’d done our shopping. I had bought the dress and some new undies too. And a sheer satin blouse. And a lined pleated skirt. And some other bits and pieces. And Caroline hadn’t stayed annoyed. In fact, she had suggested that I buy the undies and the skirt.

She had bought a couple of things too. We walked back to the pub as it was only a short walk back to the house. And parking even in the early evening was vile so we had left the car behind.

We sat outside with our bags tucked under the chairs. Suddenly we were enveloped in hugs and kisses and backslaps from a huge group of our friends. Well, it turned out to be only four of them actually. Rick, Susie, Angie and Patsie.

Patsie was the one who did the damage. She tripped over my legs and fell into my bag of shopping. It fell over and there for all to see were my purchases.

“Ooh, fashion show” cried Susie. “Let’s see.”

Caroline didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to say. There was an ugly silence.

========================

The dress which had fallen out was red. And not a red suitable for a redhead such as Caroline was. Perhaps I shouldn’t have bought it because it would clash so badly with her – but I never expected to wear it within a thousand miles of her. I was still thinking in terms of personal Alys-time at the Shack. I wanted that dress for me.

Angie was the one who found some words. “I’m guessing you’ve got a costume party to go to, eh?”

“Unh.” Was all I could come up with.

“Patrick, I’m not as stupid as some blondies. You’re blushing like a blushing thing. Neither you nor Caroline are saying anything in response to ‘Fashion Show’. Typically, Caroline would say ‘just a dress I’ve picked up today – nothing special – you’ll see it soon. But it’s just wrong for her. So ….. it’s for you. Which means a costume party obviously.” But there was a sneaky glint in her eye as she said that.

“It’s okay. We all enjoy a bit of dressing up, a bit of a party. Fret not. Perhaps you might join us some evening?” There was a tone to her voice that worried me. As if she had guessed that the bag under my chair was indeed under my chair because it was my bag. And that therefore the clothes in it were for me. And, therefore that I sometimes wore ……….

I didn’t like the direction things were going. Having suddenly come out to Caroline didn't mean that I wanted anyone else to know. Like I said earlier – I kept myself quiet, solo, private. That is to say, I kept Alys-self very private.

I tried to not react to her. But Susie was looking at me too. A sort of expression on her face that, if I hadn’t known better, was something like ‘so you’re one of those, are you?” Sort of as if she knew something special about me that she’d only just realized. Again, I hoped that I was thinking wrong.

By now, Rick and Patsie were coming back with the drinks so they had missed the whole dress fiasco. Fortunately.

Angie sat next to me. Once everyone was busy talking, she murmured to me. “I know a lot of people who enjoy dressing-up. You ought to give me or Susie a ring.” Then she raised her voice and said “Patrick, that’s a great idea.”

There was a chorus of “What’s up? What’s a good idea?”

Angie was taking over and leading this in a direction I thought I didn’t want to know about. “Getting some of the girls over for a party. Get back into the Big Sisters thing, y’know.”

What on earth were they talking about? Over the next few hours it became clear that, some years before, Angie had been a leading light in a local organisation called ‘BigSisters’. I had read the stories about Aunt Jane and her very selective and specialised school (by Brandy DeWinter & Joel Lawrence if you didn’t know). I had also read a lot of the Janet Stickney stories. Sadly both authors seemed to have gone into abeyance. There were others, mostly on the BCTS site. I liked the preference for ‘forced’ stories on Fictionmania much less. But we all have personal partialities.

Anyway, this BigSister group focussed on men who they felt would benefit from some training in feminine skills. They encouraged the wearing of panties as often as possible. They encouraged many of their clients to wear dresses and go out ‘en femme’ so that they could learn feminine habits and behaviours which would counteract the macho and masculine habits which were, in the BigSisters’ view preventing the development of the complete person.

A core belief was that a complete person would have a modicum of the personality traits of the so-called ‘opposite’ gender. They were in no way aiming at the complexity of a 50/50 masculine-feminine persona but they wanted both their male and occasional female clients to move away from the 100% extreme.

Angie said she had a few old leaflets which explained things better. She also said that the organisation had rather changed over recent years as the personal touch had been rather pushed to one side with the new web-based systems. For that reason, she was definitely not in favour of the modern approach.

It did become clear that there was a large group of men who took part in the old BigSister scheme and that Angie knew many of them very well. She said that they didn’t need much of an excuse to get together – and finding a new candidate was as good an excuse as any other.

I spoke for some time with Patsie. After a while, something she said made me wonder what was going on.

“Angie does get a little over-excited. She’s always been like this. It can be a bit wearing having a wife like that – but as her h..'partner.” Patsie blushed and tried to excuse her blunder as a stammer. But I had been listening hard – and it wasn’t a true stammer.

“Erm, Patsie, you said h..’partner. That sounded awfully like you were going to say ‘husband’’ and then you thought I would do or say or react badly? Umm, yes?”

“Whoops. Caught out again. Like when I first met her and I was wearing stockings under my trousers. Yes, Angie’s my wife, I'm a male beneath all these lovely frills.” And she ?he giggled like any other girl I had ever met. How many exclamation marks and question marks were going through my head – like grammatical butterflies.

We talked a lot about the BigSisters operation and methods. Patsie was very much in favour. She had been a pretty good rugby player but with a penchant for the pretty things in life too. I was fascinated.

I could see Caroline talking with Susie. I asked Patsie if Susie was another dressed-up man or a real girl.

“That’s not really a question we encourage. There are a few markers and signals that our boys and girls can sometimes wear, if they want to be obvious. But the training is designed to ensure that boys look real and confident when they go out en femme and the girls look as good when they go out en macho.”

By the time we finished talking, I had a lot to think about.

By the end of the evening, Angie had got very excited and pretty much decided that she was going to get an old-style BigSister operation going in the town. As she spoke, I began to realize how many of the shops and businesses in the area already had knowledge of or, indeed, would encourage such a development.

By the end of the evening, I had been pushed, encouraged, told and expected to go to Angie’s house for some coaching a la BigSister. Caroline’s endorsement of the idea had been the final confirmation. It was not so much that she did endorse the idea – it was the way she said it. I could feel the love, the care and concern she had that it would be good for both of us. And that she was no longer as worried about existence and occasional presence of girl-me as she had been for so long.

And I was looking forward to it – as well as being, just a little, fearful. How much would I change? Would I stop being ‘me’?

NOTE - The SisterDom is a group of wonderful women who know that it is important to help their men to access and, when they are comfortable with the concept, to release their inner girlhood. These women are willing to train and transition their new-girls using a variety of simple techniques, sometimes with a touch of ‘domination’ and strong encouragement.

Several of the stories in the group involve overlapping characters.

"Aunt Jane preferred that the girls in her shop dressed well. Eventually the whole family accepted a new arrangement for Wendy."

~o~O~o~

~o~O~o~

My parents called me Peter when I was born. During my teens, it became obvious that changes needed to be made. At sixteen, nearly seventeen, I was near to leaving school and I needed a holiday job. I had done aright at my exams but couldn’t see much of a future. I was small and skinny, uninterested and probably pretty uninteresting.

As Lady Luck would have it, my aunt offered me a job working in the storeroom of her ladies’ boutique in Swanton. This is how I remember it

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Peter Yeats, you just sort out that pile of dresses, when I tell you. You want to have extra pocket-money, then you have to earn it by helping out. I don't care what you think, I'm far too busy at this time of day. As long as you have clean hands, you will sort out those dresses and put them onto the correct hangers. Your sister did her share when she used to work here, and she never with all the fuss you are making. Sometimes you drive me wild. I love you dearly but I do agree with your mum when she says that boys are hard work."

This was not making me happy. Sure, I wanted the extra money and my aunt did have this shop - but really. My plans had been to do some casual do-it-yourself around the house - new bulbs, fuses and simple things like that. With my sister Susie, we went round to auntie's house to see what needed to be done. Then, with no real explanation, the next moment, I'm in the car with Sis on our way to the shop while Aunt Jane babbles about how useful it will be to have us working as a team every day through the winter holidays. This was not what I wanted, not what I expected and not what I felt I deserved. However, as it turned out, this was just the beginning of my new career and my new freedom.

We arrived at the shop and got out of the car. Auntie saw my glum expression and told me to cheer up. 'You'll find that if you begin by pretending that it's fun, all of a sudden you'll find that you are actually enjoying yourself.'

I muttered, 'Can't see that happening. This is just too much'.

Aunt Jane giggled. I couldn't see anything to laugh at.

Nevertheless, with dragging feet I followed them into the back of the shop. I had not been in their often before and never with the intention of staying for long. This time, while Auntie and Sis talked about what she would be doing, I found myself looking around with much more attention. From what Auntie had said, I would be spending a lot of time here. She noticed the change and winked at me. I flushed and tried to pretend that I was more interested in my boots. It got worse when I saw a bright blue ribbon beside my toecap and bent to pick it up. I could have done something more stupid - but this was good enough.

I could feel the alertness in Aunt's voice, 'Found something interesting, have you. Oh, you've found a pretty ribbon have you? Well, pick it up and then I'll show you where it should be put. You're going to learn where every pretty, frilly, fluffy thing in this shop must be stored. In case you haven't guessed, you're the temporary stores manager. The Christmas rush is just beginning and I need every girl working in the front. If I have confidence that the backroom is being run properly then the whole job gets easier. You actually have no idea how important it is that you do a good job. Two Christmases ago, I had your cousin Leo working here and he finished with a very good bonus.'

I realized that I hadn't seen Leo for quite a while. We had never been great pals as he lived two counties away and was, of course, two or three years older than me. I did remember that we were both on the small side as was common in our family. Mum was about 5 foot 3, Sis and Aunt an inch taller - but neither Dad, Leo nor me could say we towered more than an inch or so above that.

I began to ask where was Leo, when Aunt went on with describing the tasks I would be doing. Somehow, the moment passed and it was quite a long time before I remembered to ask about Leo. It was even longer before I found out what he was now doing.

I spent all morning cleaning, tidying, sorting, stacking and getting the backroom ready for The Big Rush. Somehow I could hear Aunt using capital letters whenever she referred to it. Gradually the arrangement of the stockroom began to make sense. I was sorting things I had only vaguely heard of, let alone seen any of my friends wearing - suspenders, corsets, strapless brassieres, garters. It was getting towards lunchtime when I began work on the stockings - every size, colour and pattern you could believe and I had to match them to the delivery note. One of the packets was torn so Aunt Jane said I should put them on the model-legs in the corner. I began doing so when my hands, rough from fifteen years of sports and such, snagged on a thread. Jane was just passing by and saw this.

'Can't have you doing things like that. You must have smooth, clean hands to handle the goods we have here. You'll have to use handcream every day until I say your hands are good enough. Just rub some cream from this bottle in as soon as you arrive every morning, and after lunch too. You'll soon get the habit of doing it.'

I picked up the pot and splashed some on as required. I didn't like the strong perfume smell at all. I saw that Aunt Jane was smiling as she turned away.

The next morning, Sis got confirmation about the permanent job that she had been waiting for. She had told Auntie that she might not be able to work at the shop for long, but this was a bit sudden. Nevertheless, she came to the shop with me. She spent some time with Auntie in the office before coming into the back to say goodbye to me.

Sometimes, I had to deal with the phone. Normally, I could rely on Aunt Jane picking it up. Late one evening, while I was still tidying up from the day's sales - it rang and I was the only one left in the shop. To my amazement, it was cousin Leo. I didn't recognise his voice at first. It was when I answered, "Lady Catherine's Dress Shop, can I help you? This is Peter," that he realized who I was.

"Wow, Peter, are you helping out this Christmas. How exciting for you. I must make sure I'm back in time for the party this year. I've never looked back since I spent the whole winter working at the shop. It was such fun."

I didn't recognise Leo at all except by what he was saying. He sounded different and he had never been so chirpy. I remembered him as quite macho. Despite being so small, he had been good at sports, especially swimming, and popular with the boys and the girls.

"Is there some special party? You talk about it as if it has a Capital letter. Don't you just mean the shop's Christmas party?"

"Of course, I do. If Auntie hasn't talked about it, then she hasn't made up her mind what the theme will be this year. Whatever you do, don't snoop. She really hates that. Just wait until she tells you what's going to happen. You'll love it so much more. I'll ring in the morning, you don't need to bother telling her I called."

I didn't think much more about the call for more than a week. As it turned out Leo didn't get back for the party so his comments slowly faded from my memory.
-----------------------------------

It was my third Monday morning, Auntie called me into her office which had windows into both the front-room and the store-room. "Peter, dear. I've been very pleased with the effort you’re putting in to your work. I was a bit concerned at first with your attitude, but you're much more willing now and much more helpful. For example, I know that my insistence on the handcream annoyed you, but I couldn't have you damaging the expensive fabrics and so on with your rough hands. Do you find the work easier now, dear?"

"Oh, yes. And I did understand about the handcream. Some of the things are so dainty and flimsy, I still hardly dare touch them. They feel so weak, as if they would tear at a touch. Beats me how those designers dare make clothes out of them."

"Oh, it's really very simple, dear. The best clothes are made to fit properly. I could put a girl into the filmiest, most insubstantial dress, for example, and as long as it fitted properly, it would be fine. It's amazing what you can reveal and conceal in a well-fitted garment. I would be willing to bet you that I could put you in a dress and no one would be able to tell."

"Don't joke about things like that, Auntie."

"Oh, don't be silly dear. As if I would do a thing like that to you. I'm far too fond of you. You're working really hard for me and I don't want to spoil a thing. You get back to sorting out those piles of panties and bras. We need them done as soon as possible for the sale. And, only joking, of course, if you find a pair you want for yourself, then you can have them as a bonus for your first week's efforts."

The effect of Auntie's joke was amazing. Ten minutes before, I was just a helper in the backroom. Now, whenever I picked up a pair of pants or whatever, I found myself wondering whether this was the pair I should try. It was horrid, but fascinating.

By eleven, I had done only 3/4 of the pile and I knew I was working too slowly. Auntie eventually came through to see what was happening.

"Good grief, Peter. What's happened to you. If you had worked this slowly last week, I'd have shown you the door. Come on, get on with it."

I did get a move on - but the sudden fascination with the frilly and lacy underwear which I had to handle and touch and smooth and pack-away was a great change from the previous weeks.

The next day, Auntie made me sort out the tweed skirts and jackets. I hated it. Instead of the lovely smooth lingerie, I could feel my hands roughen minute by minute. When Auntie came by as I was putting on more handcream, I said so. I was quite surprised to see her break into a broad smile as she told me my next task.

"Well, don't worry, darling. As soon as you've done these, you can go back to the underwear section for some last checking. But this afternoon and for the next few days, you'll have to look after the dresses and skirts. You may even have to take delivery of the new spring dresses. They'll need sorting and checking as usual."

I was surprised that Auntie thought there was no more work to do with the undies. I found myself a tiny bit annoyed that I wouldn't be doing a task I had almost begun to enjoy. Auntie's departing line didn't help. "Don't forget my offer, dear. If you want that bonus pair of pants, you should take them now."

Once more, it was exhausting working through the boxes of lingerie. I was almost at the end of the last box of new spring stock when the impulse got too strong for me. One of the last pairs was a delightful pair of thin, almost sheer, white cotton panties with a lovely yellow lace frill and a pretty matching bow at either side. Without thinking, I stuffed them into my pocket.

Several hours later, I was just packing up to leave when I felt Auntie's hand on my sleeve. "Excuse me, Peter, but I just want to know why you have a pair of my most expensive new panties in your pocket. I know I joked with you about a pair for yourself - but you haven't asked me about these, you haven't taken from sales stock, as I expected, but from the very newest spring line. You know the difference, what you've done is almost theft. Well, speak up, I haven't got all day to listen to a silly boy like you think of excuses. I'm really quite cross. You obviously haven't learnt anything while working here. You may not even have taken the right size."

"I'm sorry, Auntie. But you said I could have a pair - and these were just so pretty. I didn't think about the size. I know that was silly, but all of a sudden, I had the impulse and, I dunno, I just stuffed them in my pocket."

"Oh, darling. I shouldn't be so cross. I suppose it's my fault for making you work so long in my shop. But really, you've crumpled them, you haven't checked the size, you've taken new stock - I have every reason to be cross with you. Well, lets get the first thing fixed. You stand here while I get the tape-measure. If these panties don't fit, I'll get another pair. And then you can iron these trouser-crumpled ones. Let's try to rescue something from this situation."

I stood rigid while Auntie measured me - not just my waist and hips. She seemed to go into remote-control, measuring everything else too. I was so stupid, so careless, so unlucky, I thought. Why had I nicked those knickers - like Auntie said, they were the wrong size anyway. However, somehow Auntie seemed quite pleased with what had happened.

After a moment or two, she was back with a fragment of coloured lace in her hand. "Here's a pair from the sales rack, dear. You can have them instead. They're by the same designer so they're just as pretty. It would only be important to you if you were an up-to-the-minute fashionable teenage girl."

I was unable to speak.

"Well, when are you going to try them on, dear. What's wrong with right now. Then we can see what else you might like to have. There is a matching set after all. I've got the panties, suspender-belt and petticoat if you want them. They're really top-range things."

I was still in shock.

Auntie went on. "I run an expensive shop, dear. None of my customers leaves here without clothes that fit properly. In this case, you have taken a pair of panties, expensive ones, so it is important to check them for fit. So, get on with it. Slip into one of the cubicles if you're so silly as to be shy and modest in front of your Aunt, and put on this lovely piece of scanty lace.

I turned without a word and scuttled towards the front of the shop. I didn't need to go in there often. Auntie felt that her customers wouldn't be very keen to display themselves in front of a young boy. There were sometimes occasions where some lovely lady would have to parade and pirouette in some expensive lingerie. Not suitable for a young boy to see, she thought. More realistically, she knew that it would have damaged the atmosphere and style of her shop.

Auntie turned to watch me go out. Unknown to me she brought some extra things from the shelves as she followed me.

I quickly removed my t-shirt and slacks, then more slowly removed my boxers and picked up the frilly blue panties. I eased them over my shoes and socks then called out to Auntie. "Shall I put my trousers back on?" I suppose I knew the answer already.

"Of course not. How can I tell in the underwear fits if it's underneath something. Now step out and let me see."

"Oh, that's not bad at all. Those actually fit rather well. Now what do you think? Just smooth your hands down the sides. Doesn't that feel nice. Soft, satiny and comfortable. Yes? I thought perhaps so. Well, there they are. Your first panties. Now get dressed and go home. You can also take these other pairs for yourself. I've already told you to wear panties from now on every day. So, I've raided the sales stock to get some extra pairs for you - and as a special treat, here's that pair you wanted earlier. They're a design called Wendy. The ones you're wearing now are called Juliette. And just so that you remember what began it all, from now on, I'm going to be calling you Wendy as a private joke between us. I'll keep the suspender-belt and so on to one side, just in case you're a naughty boy again. But remember, I want you wearing panties every day as a reminder not to steal from me."

At work, Aunt Jane never asked whether I was wearing pants or panties, but somehow I didn't dare disobey. I wore panties every day. At first, when they glimpsed the frills of my panties and realised what I was doing, Jess and Judy teased me, but I don't think they cared whether I was a boy-in-panties. I worked in the back of the shop and they worked in the front. As long as we got the work done, everything was fine for them.

We worked really hard every day right up to the night before Christmas Eve when the shop stayed open late for those last-minute purchases — and, more importantly, the last-minute fittings and adjustments. That was also the night of the Shop Party.

There was always a Shop Party for the customers - and the theme this year had been 'Black & White & Red all over'. Auntie had let me help with serving the food and drink. I could sense that she was upset about something but I put it down to stress. The evening before the party, I just overheard her on the telephone. When she came out, she mentioned that it was Leo and he wasn't going to be back in time for the party. She seemed almost pleased about it, I was puzzled.

The party was quite a riot. It soon became clear that I was the only one not dressed up for it. Mother and Sis were both there of course but I felt very much out on the edge. I was almost shocked when one of the customers came up to me and said, "It's a shame you're the only man here. Perhaps you should have dressed up so that you could join in properly instead of having to serve drinks all evening. It can't be much fun for you." I had actually served her in the shop once and knew her name was Mrs Brand. I didn't know what to say as her words seared across my mind. I stammered something about just being helpful and she replied, "That's exactly it, dear. You're being helpful to the shop, why shouldn't the shop be helpful to you."

Towards the end, Auntie came up beside me and said, "I'm sorry about this dear, but everyone knows everybody else and they're just relaxing. But after Christmas, we have the little party for the people in the shop. That's a lot more relaxed. I'll make arrangements so that you can join in instead of having to stand out like tonight. Perhaps I'll do as Mrs Brand suggested." She saw my expression. "Don't worry so, Peter dear. I'll sort out something."

I wondered for a moment exactly what she meant by that. I knew that she was very clever with words and could make a simple sentence mean more than one thing.

That evening, both Mum and Susie teased me about being the only man at the party. Susie actually said that she was quite surprised that Aunt had let me join in at all. She reminded me about Aunt's frequently stated rule that she would only ever have girls working at her shop. I must confess this was the first time that I wondered how Aunt was going to adjust for me working at the shop. Despite the fact that I was now wearing panties everyday, I never thought that the adjustment might involve me rather than her.

Then the Christmas weekend passed and when I went back to the shop it was much quieter than before.

It was in the days between Christmas and New Year that the shop caught its breath, finalised the stocktaking and relaxed a little before the January Sale. It was also the time when we had our own in-house staff Shop Party.

The In-Shop party was, as usual set for the period after Christmas but before the New Year Sales in the High Street. Aunt didn't have sales like that - just a small rack of old stock which she always sold the day of the party. When the day arrived, it was a real rush. The customers just kept piling into the shop. Backstage, it was exhausting. Eventually, it got to just after five o'clock and Auntie managed to close the doors. After tidying up for a while, we had the front-room ready for the evening. This was when Aunt took me aside and asked, "Are you ready for this, dear? Do you want to join the girls out front? You know my rule about only having girls in the shop. Are you coming to the party and will you let me dress you up ?"

I had somehow guessed from what Aunt Jane had said at the big party that she would want me to wear a dress. I grinned at her. "This is the only party on tonight, Auntie. If I have to dress up to go to it, then I'll let you do it. But only for tonight, mind you."

"Of course, dear. Now you just hold still while I measure you and get a couple of things from the shelves. I'm going to make you look just lovely."

She put me into a gorgeous mid-length grey silk dress. It was just right for an anorexic model so the fact that I had no bra and nothing to put in a bra was actually perfectly suitable. I decided that I liked the feel of the smooth slinky cloth against my bare skin. It was warm in the shop, so all I wore was my panties, the dress, tights and a pair of Aunt's lowest-heeled shoes. Jess and Judy both exclaimed at how pretty I looked. Jess even helped put a little make-up on me. As a final item, Aunt let me select a necklace, bracelet and set of clip-on earrings. The necklace felt quite strange but the earrings hurt a lot until my ears went sort of numb. Jess took a photograph of me. I was too surprised to be cross but I asked her not to take any more. My protests were pretty feeble but she did promise only to take one or two more and to give me the copies. She then insisted on a close-up and a couple of poses. Aunt didn't object so I more or less felt that I had to agree. It felt quite odd posing for a photograph while dressed completely as a girl.

The party was wonderful. There were only the few of us who had worked in the shop during the year plus the part-timers and some of the local suppliers. It was somehow exciting to be wearing my first dress. I was introduced as Aunt's niece which surprised me at first. But clearly I should not be her nephew while I was wearing such a lovely feminine dress. We ate, drank, chatted, bopped to one or two of the records. At the end I was even more exhausted than before. I slipped off the dress and changed to go home.

But I made a mistake by being so tired. I didn't look ahead when I dropped the panties in the wash-basket with my other things. I didn't think any more about it until I got back home in the evening to find Mum waiting for me as I went into my room. "Do you know anything about these, Peter dear? They were in the wash but they're the wrong size for me or for Susan."

My face answered for me by going beetroot red. I sat on the bed, weak with the surge of horror that her words triggered.

"Oh, so they are something to do with you. What on earth is going on here. Just because you work in your auntie's shop is no excuse for pilfering. I can't imagine that she knows about this, let alone gave permission. Don't try to lie your way out of it. I'm most displeased. I shall call her at once and discuss the situation. In the meantime, you can think of a suitable punishment for a boy who steals panties." She threw the offending garment at me. I caught it. I saw the strange look on her face as my disobedient fingers instantly smoothed and stroked the soft satin fabric.

Mum was always a bit too keen on the 'right punishment for a crime'. It had always been the case. I remembered when I was much younger and I had still wet the bed occasionally. I must have been about six. Mummy had put a nappy on me when it had happened for the fourth or fifth time in a fortnight. Even worse, it had been impossible to put my pyjamas over the top, so she had put me into a nightdress too. I had stopped that business quite soon after that, so it had never made a great impression on me. It hadn't been one of the major memories of my childhood. But now I realised that she must have been aware of the potential to put me in a dress more often, because she had mentioned it more than once in the next year or so. Usually, she said something like, 'You behaved so much better that one time so I'm tempted to dress you up again whenever you get too dirty.' But I didn't remember any comment of that sort in the last two or three years.

I thought some more - what had actually happened all those years ago? Had that triggered some deep impulse in me to wear dresses or in her to make me wear dresses? I was a boy not a girl, I shouted inside my head. Then, once more, I noticed my hand stroking those lovely panties. I liked the feel of them against my fingers. 'And against your skin', my whirling heart reminded me.

I could hear her voice on the phone, not the words but the tone came across the landing quite well. I sat on my bed. Waiting. Caressing my panties.

Eventually the voices stopped. It could only have been a minute or two but it felt like forever. I had an instant headache from the embarrassment. At last I heard Mum come back into the room. I glanced at her. I couldn't tell from her expression what she was thinking. I stumbled into an explanation, but what could I say, "I ..... It's not ..... How could you think ...," I stuttered to a halt. There was nothing I could say to make the situation better and several things which would make the situation worse. So, I sat on the bed, waiting for her to say something. The panties lay unattended beside me.

After a moment's silence, she spoke, "I don't know what to say either. Just a month ago, you finished term where you spent your time getting dirty and muddy and spending hours playing soccer with the school team. Then the holidays began and you would stay out for hours in the park with Sam and Greg and the others. Now, it's all different. Just a couple of weeks surrounded by pretty frilly clothes and you're stealing panties for yourself. What are you? A girl or a boy? I'm sure I don't know what to think. At the moment, according to Jane, you're a boy in panties. She even says that you wore a dress last night at her party. I'm not going to make you prove whether this is true or not. Your flaming red face tells the truth more than any attempt at innocence. Apparently, you want to wear panties every day now. She says she doesn't know why as she hasn't forced you to. I came upstairs to ask about these extra panties. They're just out of the wash, so normally I would iron them. But as a boy-in-panties you might as well iron your own. Jane says you are quite competent with an iron. There's quite a lot to do. In the meantime, I'll spend some time thinking what sort of a punishment would be suitable for my sixteen-year-old son who steals panties."

She turned back, "Are these your only panties ?"

Numb, I opened my cupboard and she picked through the five other pairs. She frowned and went downstairs without any comment but she left my panties in my cupboard.

There was still nothing to say. I followed downstairs to the workroom with stumbling feet and stumbling brain. Just yesterday, I had accused myself of being stupid, careless and unlucky. Now I had done it again. Horrors. What stupidity could I inflict on myself next?

Mother waited until I came down. I was wearing jeans but Mother made me slip them down far enough to check that I was wearing the telltale panties. I felt terrible. First Mother made me finish the washing-up. Since I was going to get splashed doing that she insisted on putting an apron on me. I felt silly and complained. Wrong option.

When that job was done, Mother made me get the ironing board and the iron and begin on the pile of slightly damp washing. It seemed that there was a ton of it to do. Eventually the pile began to get smaller. Just at that moment, Susan came back. She was annoyed to see that I had her best French knickers under the iron. It seemed that she was already annoyed with the world, and boys in particular - so she really exploded at me. When she finished her tirade - everything got worse. I had been so stunned at her outburst that I hadn't been completely careful and her best knickers had a very faint scorch mark. Now she went completely over the top.

She burst into tears, "Mum, it's impossible. I hate boys, I hate everything and now that rotten brother has ruined my best clothes. He has no idea how to look after pretty things - I mean, he's useless. I suppose he has never had the chance to learn but now he's ruined my best pants. How could you let him do that. I want you to punish him for it." My sister always used to ensure that Mum did punish me for petty little things like this. She hadn't seemed to notice that I was already being punished.

"Mum, if he's going to ruin my panties, then make him pay me for them - or at least get a replacement pair from the shop.

Mother made it worse. She said, "Peter, go and get those new panties from your room and let Susan choose a replacement for herself."

Susan gaped. "What do you mean, Mummy. What's Peter got panties for? He's a boy, isn't he?"

"Don't interrupt, Susan. Just wait. Get on with it, Peter. Run."

We both did as we were told.

When I came back, Mum had obviously told Susan. She was sitting at the table convulsed with laughter, grinning from ear to ear with wicked mirth.

"So, my nasty little brother steals panties, eh. And now he has to wear them every day. Ha, ha, ha. Oh, that makes me really smile. I'm going to keep a close eye on you. If Mummy thinks that giving me a replacement pair of panties is enough of a punishment for ruining mine, I don't any more. I'm going to sort you out, little brother. As far as I'm concerned, if you wear panties, then you're a girl."

Mother stood beside her, looking at me and, to my concern, nodding in agreement. "Yes, I suppose that's fair - at least for now."

Susan grinned more widely still and said, "So, Peter, I have a sister at last."

Mother interrupted, "Jane said that she sometimes calls him Wendy at the shop."

"Oh, so he's got a new name already. Lovely. I'm not sure I would have chosen Wendy, but if that's the case, then Wendy it is. Right, Wendy darling, from now on, it'll be pretty frills and lace for you. I'll let you have one of my nightdresses for now, but I expect you to get your own as soon as possible. Clearly, you have to learn a great deal in order to avoid embarrassing us, my new and special extra sister."

I winced at this but fortunately neither of them noticed. I am sure that would have brought me some extra punishment.

So began a new and much more thorough indoctrination into the ways and wiles of being a girl. I went to bed that night and found Susan waiting for me. She had just placed a nightdress on the bed and was now carrying an armful of my pyjamas and things. I saw no point in asking what was happening. My boyhood was disappearing - I was going to be treated as a girl and I was now expected to behave as a girl. Somehow it was obvious that the punishment inflicted by Mother was going to continue for much more than a day or two. By hindsight, I was surprisingly calm about it.

The next morning, I was about to get up and get dressed when Mother came into the room with fair load of packages. She opened them while I stood open-mouthed at each new surprise. She had been over to the shop to get new clothes for her new daughter Wendy.

So for the first time, I dressed myself as a girl. Head to toe - frilly pink ankle-socks, flat strap sandals, panties, trousers, and on top a vest and blouse. Mother saw me glance at the vest and smiled, "Come on, dear. You don't have anything to fill a bra-cup with. It would be silly and unattractive to make you wear one. If you would prefer a bra, then it just confirms that you are actually even more eager to be a girl than I ever guessed. I did feel that you were rather too willing to work at Jane's shop - but I never suspected that it was because you had such tendencies."

"But I didn't, Mum. I don't. It was just so convenient to have a good job so close. I didn't want to have to go to the industrial estate. I never had any idea of 'being a girl', as you call it. I'm not queer."

"Now don't be like that, dear. I never said anything about you being queer. And that's not a nice word. I'm talking about wanting to be a girl. As far as I'm concerned that's completely different. If you want we'll talk about this later - but right now I want you dressed up and off to work."

I looked in the mirror and saw that I was neither girly nor boyish anymore. But there was no time to change and no time to argue either. After a quick orange juice and toast, I was out of the house and on my way to work. I felt glaringly obvious, certain that everyone would know that I was only a boy-in-panties. I knew that my hair was too short and somehow wrong for a girl - but my costume was also indefinably no longer right for a boy. To my amazement, no one commented, not even a curious glance or a smirk. Even when I caught the bus back from the shop because it was raining. I didn't know whether to be pleased that I was not detected or amazed at how unobservant people must be. I hated the trip to and from the shop. I was always certain that someone would realize and shout out the amazing news.

After a couple of days of this, Auntie called me into her office when I arrived at work. I went in and shut the door. Auntie told me to pull up a chair and sit down. She told me that she was a little upset at how quickly her sister had interfered. She had only meant to tease me a little. The idea of making me wear those panties had been a bit of a joke really, not a deep laid plan to embarrass me and force me to do anything I didn't want. I listened to what she said and sympathised with her predicament. She said that she was quite upset that she was being forced to accept that I was now a full-time girl, at least until my mother said the charade was to stop.

"Please understand, Peter/Wendy, this wasn't my idea but I'm going to have to join in with it. If you have any problems, you just speak to me about them. In the meantime, I'll let you have anything you want from the shelves. If you're going to be forced to dress as a girl, then I want you to be as pretty as we can possibly make you. I think it makes the best of a possibly painful situation - and it gives us the chance to turn the tables on your Mum. We'll teach her if she wants to twist my game into something more serious. What do you say, darling?"

I found myself smiling at her. I hadn't guessed at how upset she would be. Only later have I learnt exactly how much or how little of what she said was true.

Eventually, I said, "Well, Mummy has said I've got to be a girl until I'm forgiven for stealing that pair of panties. In that case, I want to make absolutely sure that I never get mistaken for a dressed-up boy. I was crawling with fright and worry all the way here. I hated the feeling that any moment someone would shout, 'Look at that sissy'. I'm not a sissy. I'm not queer. I'm just being punished by being put into panties. Since that is the case, I accept your offer. I will tell you whenever I want to borrow or buy something and I would love your help to turn the tables on Mum. If she wants me to be a girl, then I want to look my best. Please, Auntie Jane, help me be beautiful."

"Of course, my darling Wendy. As a start, when you're with me, I'll always call you Wendy - unless you are actually doing something boyish. I called you Peter/Wendy earlier to emphasise that I see you as both a girl and a boy. But if you're asking me to help make you beautiful, even as a ploy to turn the tables on your mother, then that's a girl-type thing. That makes you into a Wendy for the moment. As for clothes and things, for this morning, what you've got is fine. But at lunchtime, let's see if we can't make a few improvements. You work with me and I'll make you into a truly gorgeous girl. I'll make everybody proud of Wendy."

That afternoon, I expanded my collection of clothes quite considerably. Auntie helped me choose things that were stylish yet comfortable. I also got a second pair of shoes which were much more comfortable than Susan's cast-offs.

For the rest of the holiday, each day I would get dressed for work at the shop. Mother would sometimes come in and check that I had done a proper job. After Auntie gave me that first matching bracelet and necklace set, Mother would sometimes let me wear them - but not every day.

Susan was not particularly involved in the morning as she would be off to work a good while before me. But in the evening and at weekends, she spent ages with me, showing me how to do simple make-up and how to style my hair which was now in much better condition. It was also quite long but still just about boy-length.

After being there for a month, the two girls at the shop invited me out for a drink. Jess was so excited at the idea of the three of us going out together. Aunt Jane did remind us that I was underage for drinking, but I hadn't started drinking anyway.

For the last evening of the holidays, Mother asked if I wanted to be Peter or Wendy. I had to say that I was so tired from sorting out my things for school and doing last minute homework that I couldn't be bothered to change. So, the traditional last-night dinner party was for Mother, Susan, Aunt and Wendy.

In the morning, my old clothes, not just my school things, were piled up on the fold-up table in my bedroom. Mum came in and said that she would sort things out so that Wendy's clothes were put separately. This was my first inkling that Wendy was only going into temporary storage.

As it happened during the term, there was little mention of skirts and dresses. I did boy things and dressed as a boy. My wardrobe was refilled with my old clothes and all my girl-things were taken away for storage at the shop, except my four panties which were in a different drawer. I hardly ever thought about the horror and the pleasure of dressing up except one time when I passed Aunt's shop with Mum and saw the grey silk dress in the window, the one I had worn at the party. It didn't feel right to have that on display for someone else to wear but I kept my mouth shut even when she said what a lovely dress it was.

At Easter, Jess moved on to a new job so I was asked to I stay on doing another holiday's work at Aunt Jane's emporium. I found I was glad to be back at the shop, doing work which I had found that I was good at. The first day, I wore trousers but Auntie was clearly a little put out by this as this time she wanted me to work in the front of the shop too. She didn't let Judy and Jess wear trousers except when they were backstage all day. She had hardly ever reminded me that I was a boy-in-panties - I was one of her staff. Clearly something was amiss, although Judy was just as kind and helpful as before and quite happy to share the front and back jobs.

As I left, Auntie reminded me that I was to be working in the shop in future and would have to dress properly. So when I got home it was no real surprise to learn from Mother that I was to be wearing skirts again. Somehow, it became clear that I was now expected to be dressed as a daughter almost all the time in the holidays. Later that evening Susan came into my room and took my pyjamas away. I wasn't sure whether to be grateful that she gave me the most gorgeous nightdress as a replacement.

Once or twice, I insisted on going out as a boy and playing with my mates as before - but there was very little time for that. I was spending so much time helping with the housework and other indoctrinating tasks. Mum had me making a lovely red crushed velvet dress for my birthday party. I was in torment with that dress. I loved the material but I also somehow disliked the idea that I was making it for me to wear. My birthday was at the first weekend of term so there was a clear statement that at least sometimes during the term-time I would be expected to become Wendy rather than Peter. I still really wanted to be a boy, but their efforts to soften me were continuous and, well, I never really complained. I liked them liking me and taking an interest in what I was doing. The fact that they liked me more as a girl made me more willing to be a girl to get the extra affection and warmth.

After a few days of wearing dresses every day, I came home to find that there were more changes. Almost all my proper i.e boy clothes had been removed once more and my wardrobe and chest were filled with a huge variety of girl's things. I ran downstairs to confront Mum. When I rushed into the room, I found her already talking with Auntie Jane and Susan.

She pointed to the sofa and made me sit beside Susie.

"Hello, Wendy, dear. As I can guess from your expression, you've already found out about the changes upstairs. Now, you can just sit quiet while you hear about the changes elsewhere."

She paused.

"When this began last winter, I was planning it as a short sharp shock, a punishment for theft. But I have begun to think again. You've been so much more helpful, so much more polite, so much nicer in fact, that I think it is actually good for you to stay in a dress. Jane reminded me of that time when you were younger. I don't think that time makes any difference to my decision though. That was then, this is now. I'm really proud of the way you've made such an effort to join in while we primp and prettify you. But with Jane's help, it's time to make a decision. I love you so much more when you're wearing dresses and looking like another daughter. I would like to help you make the most of yourself as a girl. Will you let me keep you in dresses for the rest of the holiday. It would make me so happy."

I was speechless. My mum wanted her son to wear skirts and dresses.

Susan leant over and kissed me on the cheek. "Please, Wendy. You're so much nicer now. I think you look so pretty too."

Jane joined in this attack on my fading masculinity. "It's so happy in the shop, dear. I'm so pleased to have you working with us - but I have had a few comments about how much more satisfactory it is now that my nephew has gone. Some of my clients think you are my niece. So I must agree with them, I do prefer you to be wearing dresses every day. And you are so beautiful."

I think it was because they said I was beautiful and that they were proud of me that helped me make the decision.

From that day onwards, every evening I would come home and Mother or Susan would give me lessons in what they called 'proper behaviour'. It was exhausting. I learnt about makeup, hairstyles, posture, language as well as all the complications of bras, suspenders, stockings. Every evening, I finished looking in the mirror - amazed because I was looking back at a young girl.

As the prospect of going back to school loomed closer, Mother promised that on the last but one night before school began Wendy could have a proper evening dress-up session so that she got some practice before the birthday party the next weekend. It had already been agreed that both Peter and Wendy would have a birthday party. I was going to put on my best dress and have my hair done. I could have a complete makeover before the nasty business of going back to the drab, dull, colourless existence of a young boy. She did insist that the next day I would have to go back to the hairdresser and have a more boyish style put back. She did hint that she would try to negotiate a unisex approach, well, rather more the girly side if possible, she smiled.

Eventually, it was the last week of those Easter holidays. My pal Sam dropped in to get me out playing kickabout. I hadn't seen him all month as he had gone away to the north with his parents. Because we had been out getting school clothes, I was wearing a sweater so that at least my costume looked boyish for the first time in ages. I was about to run off with him when Susan called me back.

"Peter darling, just hold on a second. I need your help for a moment for something very important."

I came back to her furious whisper. "Are you daft. What if you get too hot and take off your jersey. What if the boys see your pretty blouse and vest instead of your usual t-shirt. Are you ready to share your new hobby with a bunch of dirty boys who will tease you forever. Either run upstairs and change or stay here with me and have another lesson in hairstyles."

I was stuck. I had been pestering her for days about how to do some really fancy looks which I had seen in one of her magazines - but the boy-part of me wanted to go out and run and shout and be a boy again. The holidays were almost over and I knew that I would have to go back to being a schoolboy.

So I sat there for a moment, my eyes bright with pain. I wanted to do boy things just as much as the new me wanted to learn more about how to be a beautiful girl. Susan could see my problem and offered a way out. "Can you come back later, Sam. Say, in about an hour. I need Peter to help me change some things around."

Sam went away quite happily, calling, "I'll come over and we can go over to the park."

Susie and me spent a lovely time working on hairstyles for my birthday party in three day's time. Of course, I changed into a dress and a dab of lipstick - plaits and curls didn't feel right with a boy's clothes. Because it was almost the last opportunity of that holiday to get dressed in my best things, when Susie had finished with me, I put on my new Easter present dress, a rich red corduroy with white piping, my frilled white blouse peeped over the collar. I had on my new white shoes with the 2 inch heel and a fabulous pair of pale pink sheer stockings. I felt wonderful.

Unfortunately, I didn't keep an eye on the time so when the hour was almost up I wasn't nearly ready for the knock on the door. Even more carelessly, I went to open it - to find Sam staring at me with amazement.

"Golly. I was about to say 'Sorry, wrong house, miss' - but it's you, isn't it, Pete? You look smashing. You look prettier than any of the girls at school. How do you do it? I want to change my mind about going to the park to play football. Obviously, you're not dressed for that so would you like to come for a walk with me instead?"

This was a new aspect to my friend Sam. I knew the nasty little rumours that spread through a school. One or two of them had noticed his lack of success with girls and twisted it to mean that he liked boys. I had never believed this - he was my friend and as normal as anyone. I looked at him boldly. I knew I looked good - but this was a boy, my best friend, admiring me.

Nevertheless it gave me a real boost to know that someone else thought I looked so lovely.

Susan was at the door now. She pulled me back in and hustled Sam into following. "Samuel, did I just hear you asking Peter to go for a walk in the park with you. Did I hear you saying how pretty he looked."

"Yes, yes, you did. Pete looks divine. I could never look that good. I don't have anything as pretty as that dress."

If I had been shocked to see Sam at the door, I was, once more, stunned into silence. My best friend was another boy who liked to wear dresses. How many of us were there ?

If I was shocked then Sam was too. We could tell that he had never meant to let those fatal words slip out. His eyes were wide with horror and he was stammering with embarrassment as he tried to cover up.

Susie ushered him into the house and we sat on the sofa together - Sam in the middle. Eventually we all got ourselves a little more composed. I was so excited that I just gushed at him, "What did you say, Sam, I had no idea. Do you mean that you wear dresses at home too. Isn't it fun. I'd never have guessed. What does your mum say?"

"Ah, that's the problem. She doesn't approve so I don't wear them at home except when I'm alone. I've got a little case under my bed crammed full of pretty things. She says that it's not possible for boys to look real in a dress - they just look like they're boys-in-dresses. She did once say that if she ever saw a boy wearing a dress and she couldn't tell, then she'd think again about me. Please, Pete, come over and prove to Mum that it is possible to be a beautiful boy. Please."

Susan and I looked at each other with deep concern. I dressed as a girl almost every day, but I hardly ever went out unaccompanied. Here was my friend, suddenly revealed as another dresser, telling me I looked pretty and wonderful and could I go out and fool his mother. Wow.

Sam was looking shocked too. He obviously hadn't meant anyone to find out about his own fantasies - but seeing me on the doorstep - the real-life proof that it was possible had blown away his concealment. He was looking so horrified that Susan was more concerned about him than about me. Surely I was equally upset. Being found in a dress by one of my soccer pals. Ghastly. But I realized that I wasn't upset, I was excited, pleased in fact - because he loved wearing dresses too. I could sense that his hand was stroking my dress. When he saw that I had noticed, he smiled at me and shrugged as if to say, 'I can't help it.'

We kept on talking about how to arrange things. After a while I could tell that Sam was more excited about the fact that I was encouraged to wear dresses while he was discouraged.

It took a lot of fast planning. Mum would have to be consulted. Sam would have to get his timing right so that it was just his mother, him and me. I was agreeing to all this before I had a chance to protest. When, at last, I did say something, Susan silenced me instantly. "I've been watching you. You have been getting more and more awkward about only dressing-up at home or when we say it's alright. This is a lovely opportunity for two boys who love dresses to do so at each other's houses. When you show Sam's mum that it is possible to look so good in skirts, then she has to let Sam dress-up too. It's all going to work out perfectly and you'll be able to dress up more than before.

The event was fixed for the next evening. I would walk round to Sam's house in the relative concealment of dusk. Sam would let me in and I would spend time just chatting with his mum, Mrs Wickham. At some stage, Sam would accidentally call me Pete. He said that he would introduce me first as one of his friends from school. Sis didn't like that idea. You've got to give Peter a name - your mum knows you don't often have friends come over, and you can't begin with 'This is Peter wearing a dress'. I'm afraid it's over to you, Peter dear. What do you want Sam to call you. We can call you Peter because we know what's been happening - but this is out in the real world where there are very few girls called Peter. Have you got any idea what you want to be called?"

I pretended that I had really never thought about it. My name was Peter or Pete. I was a boy who was lucky enough to be able to dress either as a boy or as a girl and my mum and sis liked me either way. This was different. Sam needed me to be a girl and then to be 'found out' as a boy-in-skirts. Mucho problemo. Clearly, a decision had to be made - and fast. "I dunno," was my contribution.

Susie giggled, "Why not Wendy since that was the design of those infamous first panties back at Christmas."

I saw Sam's eyes light up with interest. He hadn't yet realized that this had been going on for several months.

"I've not thought about it, but that's a lovely suggestion, sis. Yes, I'd love it if you called me Wendy. I still think of those first yellow panties as something special."

Sam was glowing with excitement. "That's a really pretty name. Wendy, it suits you somehow. Will you really do this for me, Wendy. I would so love to be able to dress like you. Can I stay this afternoon and try on some of your things. I'll be so careful with them. Please say yes."

Things were happening so fast. Now I was being asked by my best friend and football pal to help him put on a dress. I decided to push him a bit further. "Do you mean just a dress, or do you want the whole thing, undies, makeup, hairstyle, shoes. What do you want?"

We could see that Sam was bouncing with energy. "Oh, whatever you want. I would just love so much to be a girl and have lovely soft dresses to wear instead of just jeans and workshirts. If you've got anything else that I could try on, I'd be so happy. I'd love whatever you let me do. None of my stuff fits properly. I've managed to get a few things from the charity shops and so on and a few things that Mum was throwing out. I have bought panties and a few other little bits for myself - but it would be so much better to try a few things on in peace and safety."

It was impossible to deny the poor lad. Sis went off to her room to 'get things ready' for Sam. She told me to bring him round, dressed, in about fifteen minutes. Some of Sam's comments did make me think how horrid it must be for him - and indeed how different it was for him. He wanted to wear dresses and look like a girl but couldn't while I had been forced to dress like a girl and had been given every encouragement.

I skipped upstairs taking Sam into my new bedroom. Since Christmas, I hadn't let any of my old friends in there. Well, it would have been a dead giveaway. I had makeup all over my desk and pairs of stockings hanging to dry on the bedside chair. There was stuff everywhere to show that Pete was sharing his room with some sort of girl. Not the image I wanted my old pals to find. But now I was eager to share with Sam.

Sam pounced on the things on the bed, fingering them and stroking them with sheer delight all over his pale face. I scolded him in case he damaged them but I could see that he was trying to be really careful - it was just that he was almost out of control with excitement. "Oh, Pete, this is so wonderful. I'll just sit here while you show me your prettiest frocks."

"Don't be so daft, Sam. You want to be a pretty girl, then there's no time to waste. I'll try to help by letting you borrow as much as you need. I've got quite a few lovely things and you'll look so sweet in some of them. So, stand up and let me measure you, then I'll know what might fit you best. We've got to hurry, Sis is getting things ready for you too." I didn't go into detail.

Sam stood while I hurried with the tape. Fortunately, we were much the same size, Sam just an inch taller but about the same in the waist and hips. It meant that I would indeed be able to lend him some finery. Get him out of those drab, dull denims into a fancy, frilly frock. I realised what fun this was and what I had missed not being able to do things with my friends. I realized I was playing dress-up with a boy. I flinched as the thought hit home - 'playing dress-up with a boy'. What did I mean? Was I no longer a complete boy if I could think of Sam as something different from me. I realized that my role had changed, transformed somehow. Now I was even thinking like a girl.

At the shop I was now allowed sometimes to do the simple measurements so doing the same for Sam wasn't difficult. Mostly I had done it when the shop was quiet and Auntie wasn't worried about the effect a boy, or rather a boyish-girl, would have on her clientele. She had demanded with increasing stress that I dress in a suitably unisex style. I wore t-shirts but in pastel shades, I wore moccasins with a tiny heel, I wore slacks. On one occasion, Jess put a bracelet on my wrist and it felt completely right. After that, I insisted on wearing bracelets every day, except when working on the more fragile and scanty lingerie. Auntie even let me wear a necklace from the accessory section once in a while. I loved the feel of these truly feminine items tinkling and rubbing against my skin. Auntie had said that it was much more convenient now that I looked so much less macho. Jess and Judy hadn't seemed to care. They came to do a job every day and went away with a monthly pay-packet. They didn't bother whether I was a boy, girl or boyish-girl as long as I did my share of the work.

Sam was in heaven. Even when I told him to strip and he blushed as if I had been a real girl instead of one of his football mates. I passed him a pair of my favourite panties and told him to put them on. I then passed a suspender-belt around his waist and began to put on a lovely sheer pair of stockings. Sam groaned with pleasure. To my horror, I saw his prick stiffen. I tried to ignore it. What would a real girl have done?

I concentrated on getting my pal into his first frock. It was a cool day so the choice was quite limited. I still didn't have that big a wardrobe. I looked at the lucky boy, about to get dressed as well as I and Sis could possibly manage. It didn't take long before Sam was done.

After the panties, I had put a vest on him. Well, there's no point in a bra with nothing in it, is there, I thought. He had on a pair of my low-heeled shoes and was teetering all over the place. The shoes only just fitted. As usual it was the extra slipperiness and sleekness of the tights that let his feet slide in. He had on a simple dress with puff-sleeves over one of my prettiest blouses with buttons all the way down the back. Of course, I had had to help him with those the same way Sis had to help me. He also wore my only petticoat. I added that so that he would get an additional sensation of swishing across his nyloned legs. Since that was one of my favourite feelings, it seemed unfair not to let Sam try it as well.

While I helped him dress, I asked what frillies he had hidden away. He blushed a little, then said, "I've taken some things that Mummy was throwing away. A skirt and blouse, but they're not at all pretty really. I've got some tights and things too. Last year, I bought some panties at the supermarket. And at Gillian's house last year for her party, I, er, found a bra and panties which I just had to have. I suppose, really, that I stole it - but she had lots of other stuff. Really pretty things too, I just had to have something for myself. I'm sure she didn't realize that it was me. I've got a cardigan with the sweetest flowers sewn on. And there's some other things, but none of them fit me properly."

"I thought you said you had a dress."

"No, I didn't. I don't have a dress of any sort. I said I didn't have anything as pretty as the dress you're wearing. It's so divine. It makes you look so cute."

I smiled. How could I help smiling when someone said with such emphasis that I looked pretty.

"Do you want to wear a blouse and skirt or a dress?" I asked my friend as he stood there in my spare lingerie.

"Oh, a dress please."

Between us, we looked through my few dresses. Sam wanted to try them all on but there was no time for that. Eventually, we settled on one of my older things from last winter.

I stopped him looking in any of the mirrors by tying a scarf over his eyes before we set off down the corridor. He tried to stop me until I said, "I really don't want you to see anything at a halfway stage. Just wait until Sis has done your pretty green eyes, then you'll be amazed at how gorgeous you look!"

Somehow I found it easy to use these girly phrases when I was properly dressed. They seemed more comfortable, nicer, better. When he was ready, I hugged him tight and said, "You really do look like a pretty girl already. It's going to be so wonderful when Sis has done her magic." It felt right to hug this pretty friend of mine - we were both wearing dresses and that's what girls do - isn't it. For a moment, I did wonder whether to kiss him too. I felt so soft and tender towards my new girlfriend.

As Sam was blindfolded, we walked arm in arm to Susie's room. She had arranged everything so that Sam wouldn't see anything while she worked to make him beautiful. She had practised all those months on me, now it was for my best mate. I took the blindfold off and saw Sam smile with imminent delight. While I sat on the bed, entranced, Susie rushed around, her fingers dipping into pot and potion like humming-birds.

After a little while, Sam quietly said, "This feels so right. I do so want it to continue with me becoming a girl like Wendy. Can you call me Samantha from now on. I don't like being Sam anymore."

Sis leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. "That's your first kiss as a girl. I hereby christen you Samantha."

When I heard that, I jumped up and gave Samantha a kiss. She smelt lovely and as I gave her a hug, I felt her wriggle with pleasure.

Sam spent the whole evening with us. We were in seventh heaven with a new toy, our own doll to dress and makeup. She loved every minute of it too. I used my new camera to take pictures of us and Susie took pictures of Samantha and me. It was such fun that none of us wanted it to end.

Eventually, we had to accept that it was late. Sam sadly took off his pretty dress and washed his face. He smiled a little when I asked him to come back as early as possible tomorrow. "It's a special day - your mum will meet her gorgeous Samantha's friend Wendy. I promise with all my heart that she will never guess and that she will agree to the release of her daughter Samantha."
And I gave my special friend a kiss on the cheek to brand him with my lipstick.

The next day, Sam was knocking on the door before I was up. He scampered upstairs so that he could watch me dress. I felt a real girl as I tried to decide what to wear for our day out. I just knew that I had nothing to wear to give the right impression. In the end, I wore my favourite yellow and cream dress with the orange piping at the collar. I really loved that dress as it was the first one I had chosen and bought by myself.

When I put on my bra, I saw the look of interest from my partner. When I continued and picked up the new pink jelly inserts, I heard a muted gasp of astonishment. I didn't care - I was having so much fun getting dressed while my friend watched. When I had snugged them properly into their pockets, I turned and grinned. "That surprised you didn't it. But they make me feel so much more real that I try to have them all the time. They're jolly expensive, but Mummy eventually allowed Aunt Jane to give them to me so that I would look more ordinary. Auntie said that it wasn't right having a totally flat-chested girl working at a posh dress-shop. Auntie took me to a little shop hidden away at the back of the park."

Sam hesitated for a moment, "I knew you were helping at a shop, but I never knew it was a dress-shop. Was that where you started dressing up or have you been doing it for a long time? Am I going to call you Pete or Wendy from now on?"

"Don't be so silly, when I'm dressed up, I'm Wendy, of course," I said happily. "But we'll both have to be careful in the future."

But I could see how interested he was in my story so I gave him the basic details. He sat with eyes wide-open as he listened. Working at the shop, sorting out the undies, the whole story up to the fatal night when Mummy found my panties in the wash. He interrupted with, "That was a bit of a Freudian slip - did you want her to find out."

"It wasn't a slip, it was a pair of panties," I smiled. "I didn't get any slips until later. And I really didn't want her to find out - I mean look at what has happened since. She has punished me, made me wear dresses every day and nighties every night. In the end, she's made me feel more comfortable in these things. I can't believe you're saying that I wanted that to happen."

"I didn't say that - but look at it from the other point of view. Within a few months of wearing your first panties and having them found by your Mum - you're dressing as a beautiful girl and helping your best friend put on one of your dresses. You're expert at makeup and, well, everything. I couldn't believe that you weren't a girl yesterday afternoon. If you hated it, you couldn't look so happy and so comfortable. Peter, my friend, you do seem to prefer being a girl."

It was my turn to hesitate. "Well, I do love being dressed in pretty frocks and lovely colours, being a butterfly instead of a drab, grey grub. Now that I'm used to it, yes I do love being a girl and I wish it could have happened years ago. I wouldn't have wasted all that time being a quite ordinary boy. Nobody ever said I was anything special as a boy. They said I was too small, too thin, too pale. And now I dress as a girl - those are suddenly the qualities which make me look real and pretty. By hindsight, this is the best thing that has happened to me."

"And it all happened because your Auntie wanted some help in the shop. I can't help but feel that some of the things that happened were a bit too coincidental. Your Aunt noticing you steal those panties, happening to have few spare things for you to wear, putting that silk dress on display where you could see it every time you passed. Sometime, I think you should ask you Auntie if she wanted you to start wearing dresses."

I hadn't thought of that as a possibility. Had I been too naive? Was it possible that some of those early accidents had been deliberate? I knew that I would have to find time to think about my recent past.

Sam tried to help me but spent more time looking at all my lovely clothes and holding them up to himself to see how they would look. I couldn't help but smile. When I was ready I sat at my vanity table and began to put on a tiny touch of makeup. I wanted Sam to see how much I had learnt, how comfortable I was with prettying myself up to look like a young teenage girl. Sam sat open-mouthed as I applied the lipstick and a modest amount of eyeliner.

When I glanced sideways and asked if he had ever done this for himself, I didn't know what answer to expect. Perhaps he had stolen a few moments at this mother's makeup bag, perhaps he had been bold enough to buy a few things at the supermarket, perhaps this would be a first. In fact, he didn't really answer, he just leant forward and asked if I would show him how to do it properly. I felt so pleased. Here was I, a young boy, being asked by my best friend to give him lessons in simple makeup.

I tried to remember the stages - they were so nearly automatic to me after all this time. "First, wash your mouth and dry it off, then I'll put the first coat on, quite hard so that it fills the crevices, but not all the way to the edge in case it smudges." As I spoke, I tried to do exactly what I said. "Then dab it with a tissue, so that the excess comes off. We leave it to dry for a moment, then we do the second coat - a bit more to the edge. Then we tilt the lipstick and use the other angle to fill in and complete the package. There you are, with lips good enough to kiss. But since you're a girl for today and we never want to smudge, just a mid-air mwahh for now. Later, when you see your own lips on the edge of your teacup, then you'll feel that this is real. I remember my first time."

Sam grinned. "I want to know so much about this. I want to know how it all began for you. I want to know about your first panties, those Wendy ones you spoke about. I want to hear all the stories - every first that you can remember. Then I can make plans so that I can have all those firsts as well. My first dress, my first bra, my first stockings - I so want to share your pleasure and excitement of being a proper girl."

While Sam had been picking through all my things, I had decided what s/he was going to wear today. I had told him to put several to one side. When he realized that they were for him, he was so happy. He scampered over to the bedside chair and began to take his own things off as fast as possible. He snatched at the tights - I thought they would be easier than suspenders and stockings. I managed to get him to slow down.

"Sammy, darling. Panties first, then tights. If you have to go to the lav then you have to take the tights down first."

He grimaced, "Sorry, Wendy. There's still a lot to learn."

We continued. Slowly another young teenage girl took form in my frilly bedroom. I put his/her first bra on with due attention to 'this is a first for you - your first bra - remember this moment as it hugs you tight'. Samantha was wearing a bra filled with the old foam inserts rather than the jelly ones I now used. Just for a minute, I put the jelly ones in so that she could feel how much more girly they were. But only for a moment as I felt so unbalanced without them bouncing on my chest. As well as the simple white bra, I had picked out a lovely pair of cream panties. I watched as he slid them up his legs and smoothed them over his hips. Then I also gave him a pair of knickers so that he could feel the soft flick and slither of them against his legs as he walked. On top of these carefully chosen undies, I gave him a straight and simple layered skirt and one of Susan's blouses. Last night, I had seen that Sam was a little broader at the shoulder than me so my blouses would have looked wrong. Susie had been quite reasonable about a swap as she wanted to borrow my knitted jersey-dress.

"That's my first bra, first suspenders - oh, all sorts of firsts. I feel so happy I could burst. This is my first time that I've been able to share being dressed as a girl with anyone. It feels so good. I'm going to make a real effort to be a girl for my Mum. I really don't want to be a boy any more if dressing as a girl is so lovely."

"It's not all wonderful, Sammy. I've had to start doing all sorts of girly things which are just tedious. You've got to realise that there's a lot more to being a girl than just wearing frills."

"I don't care anymore. I really don't. I feel better than I've ever felt before. I like the feel of this bra, the cling of these stockings, the swish of the hem across my legs. I'm just not going back to trousers and jeans."

"Oh, come on, Sammy. Even girls wear jeans and trousers sometimes."

"Not all of them, and I'm not going to be one if I can help it. I've just got to be able to persuade Mummy to let me become a girl."

With some effort, I persuaded Sammy to get back to the more immediately important task of practising to look and behave as much like a girl as possible in the few hours we had. His determination did make it easier for him to learn each lesson.

So the morning passed. Sam was on a complete high with the excitement but Susie and I were getting really tired. At last it was time to go over to Sam's house. Sam glumly changed back into his old uninteresting clothes. His high disappeared the instant he began to take off his pretty clothes. I saw how unhappy he was and tried to encourage him. "Come on, be confident. By this evening, you will have got your mother to agree that you can be a glorious butterfly like me - no more boy - a happy pretty girl instead."

"If only."

"Now we can't do this unless you're on the ball. Your mum has to know how eager you are, how determined, how excited. Will it be better if you're wearing panties under those jeans - will that make you happy."

"Ooh, I hadn't thought of that. Oh, yes. If I can feel them soft and silky. That'll be enough. Oh, thank you for that idea, Wendy. Yes," and in moments he had stripped off and put on a pair of my panties.

When we reached the house, it was my turn to be nervous. "No, I can't, I daren't. Let's go home." But I saw the pleading expression on Sam's face and knew that I had to go through with it. "Sorry, Sam, last minute nerves. For you, for Samantha, I'm okay. Let's go and show her how pretty a boy can be."

As we went through the kitchen, Sam introduced me quickly, "Mum, this is Wendy, she's come over for tea like I said."

His mum was clearly busy so just said, "Hello, dear. Hello, Wendy. I'll come and join you later but I've just got a few urgent things to do first."

We went in and sat in the conservatory. This was beside the kitchen so whenever Sam's mum wanted help she only had to call us. We both helped - Sam because he knew the layout of the house, me because I was taking the part of a young teenage girl who was properly housetrained. After a little while, tea was ready and we moved back to the conservatory.

Sam was in the bright sunshine. This was unfortunate as his mother's bright eyes caught sight a speck of makeup at the corner of one eye. "Sam, dear, have you been playing around again. You know I don't like it when you get these urges for makeup and so on. Is it possible you've been doing things with Wendy. You know I asked you not to. In fact, I can't believe you've actually asked for help from this pretty girl. Have you ?"

Sam hung his head and wiped frantically at his eye with his sleeve. The telltale green speck showed clearly the white sleeve. I didn't know what to say.

His mother went on, "I really don't like it when you do this. I've said time after time, boys are boys and girls are girls. You can't make on look like or behave like the other. Look at your friend, I mean, she's so pretty."

Before I could stop myself, I found I was letting the cat out of the bag. "But when I put that makeup on Sam, he looked so lovely. I was only playing and he never actually said 'stop'. We were just playing about. I didn't know you disapproved so strongly."

She smiled at me, "Oh, don't take on so, dear. I'm just quite firm about this. Sam is very important to me. I'm proud of him at school and I want him to be a strong young man moving onwards to college and a good career. I just feel that small, slight boys like Sam and Peter need encouragement to get to the top. Behind every successful man is a strong woman. I want that for my boy."

When she mentioned my name, I jerked and my mouth dropped open.

"Why did you react so when I mentioned Peter? Do you know him?"

I flinched, horrified at her question. This was enough for her to grab me by the arm and pull me, quite roughly, into the light.

She looked even harder at me. Her hands patted my hair and my soft skin. She stroked my shoulder and her hand detected my bra-strap and moved down to touch my breast. Her expression changed to a look of wonder. "I can't believe this. Are you actually Peter in a dress? Oh, but you look so real. No, you're a girl. What on earth is happening here. I want to know what's been happening with you and my son. Come along, my dear."

I smiled. I felt like I was in control for the moment. Her final words had confirmed to me that she thought I was a girl. So I answered her as a girl, "My name is Wendy. I don't have any friends called Peter, so I don't even know who this Peter is. As regards your son, I'm sorry about playing makeup with Sam, but he did look so lovely. It was yesterday afternoon, we were just playing around because it was too wet to go out. It was just a bit of fun to practise with my makeup box. It's different doing it to someone else. I even took a photograph of him, and there's no trace of boy to show. And I must confess too that after doing his makeup and him looking so pretty that I even made him wear one of my dresses." I heard a gasp from Sam's mum but I went on quickly - it felt like this was the crucial moment. "My sister Susan didn't recognise him. He really did look sweet. Can I dress him up for you - you'll be so surprised."

"Damn right, I'll be surprised. I'll be surprised if I even consider it for a minute. I'm sorry to use language like that, Wendy dear, but the whole idea just upsets me so much. And photographs can lie."

Sam spoke, "Mum, it wasn't so bad. It was all a game with the makeup. I didn't encourage Wendy to do it, honest. And I really wasn't happy when she insisted on putting me in a dress. But you did promise, Mum. You did say that if I could be made to look completely like a girl that you'd let me do it sometimes."

"Don't try and manipulate me, dear. What I said was that if I was truly unable to tell a girl from a boy, then I would think about it."

Despite the fact that the conversation had not gone along the right lines at all so far, this was my moment, "Mrs Wickham, please, but you can't tell whether I'm a boy or a girl."

Her expression as she turned to me was complete shock.

"Yes, I'm Peter - but I prefer to be called Wendy when I'm dressed up."

Her expression didn't change as she flicked her gaze up and down. To rub in the moment, I stood and pirouetted before her - showing my pretty shoes and my stockinged legs to her horrified gaze. I went to the table and took the photographs of myself from my handbag. I passed them to her and waited while she flicked through them, looking more and more surprised as she did so. Then I sat down beside her, smoothing my skirt in the approved manner as I did so.

She finished looking at the first pack. "These are hard to disprove. You do look really cute."

I passed her the ones of Samantha.

She looked through the second pack more slowly, finally she held one up in such a way that she could see the real Sam at the same time. "Once more, I have to say that I can't believe it. Wendy has done a wonderful job and you do look just like any other pretty girl. But that dress isn't really suitable."

I noticed that she was still calling me Wendy rather than Peter. Then I giggled and whispered in her ear, "And I've made him wear a pair of my panties too."

I thought for a moment that I had made a mistake.

Mrs Wickham jumped around and glared at me, but only for a moment. "It is very hard to accept what you've done, either of you. I don't approve of Wendy dressing up my boy after my express disapproval. I don't approve of Sam letting it happen. But, it seems that the facts outweigh my opinions. Sam does look lovely in the picture. And I have noticed how many little things have happened over the years - how often Sam has expressed a desire to learn more of the feminine side instead. How often I've had to force him and push him to be a 'real boy'. I never thought of him as sissy or anything like that, just a bit less boy than I wanted. But I still don't see my Sam as a sissy. Being a boy-in-a-dress is one thing, but looking and acting and being so completely girl is different from being a sissy. But I can't fight forever."

She turned to Sam, who had said very little so far. "Alright, dear. Just as an experiment, I'll let you be the girl you want to be. But I'm going to make strict rules about this. Clearly, the two of you have planned this. So what is the next step. You may have planned a whole series of steps up to Sam being allowed to dress up as often as he wants. That is too much for me. But, today, with the evidence you've just shown me, I'm willing to take this one small step."

"I thought you should see Sam dressed up - I brought a bag full of things in the porch."

"Well, you do have things organised. Do you want me to help or what."

"I don't know. I think it's up to you. If you want we can come downstairs in a little while to introduce you to your daughter or you can come and join in and see how much fun it all is."

"I think I'll wait here and decide what to do next - and what rules I'm going to enforce. Off you go to prepare my daughter. Are you really Peter or Wendy or are you teasing me about this." Clearly, she was still unsure.

I tried to use a deeper voice, "Yes, I'm Peter and Wendy together. At school I'm still Peter, of course. But at home and in the holidays, I try to be Wendy as much of the time as possible. Mummy doesn't mind and my sister Susan actually likes me better now. She says it's like having a brother and a sister."

Mrs Wickham looked both pleased and puzzled at this news. She watched as I came back with my suitcase and Sam with a carrier. I smiled to myself as I felt certain she was watching to see if I would stumble as I went upstairs in my pretty white high-heeled straps. Not long before I would have been so much less confident, but now, somehow the idea that I was putting on a show inspired me.

When we got to Sam's room, we hugged each other, ecstatic at the success so far of our plans. I looked around. This was what my room had been like, messy, full of sports gear and typical mess. It felt familiar but wrong now.

I put the bag down on the bed - but Sam picked it up again and led me into the spare room. "It wouldn't feel right in there. I want to be Samantha for today, and I would be Sam-in-a-dress in there. Let's use this room."

As we moved everything across the corridor, a voice came from below, "If you'd prefer to use the spare room, darling, I don't mind." We smiled at each other, glad that all of us were agreed.

Sam took off his clothes while I unpacked the case. I passed him the bra and falsies first which he put on so smoothly it was difficult to believe that it was for only the second time. Then the suspenders and stockings, he sat on the edge of the bed for this. As I watched from the corner of my eye, it was difficult to accept that this was not a girl. Sam had already picked up a thin satin blouse to go with my dark blue two-piece, but now we were looking at the other dresses, skirts and blouses I had brought, trying to decide which was the most suitable when the door opened. I was amused to see how Sam's hands went to cover his chest in a totally girlish response.

"Oh, darling, I just couldn't wait any longer. Oh, Sam, you look just sweet in those lovely undies. I just had to come and join in. I've tried so hard to prevent Sam wearing pretty things. I bought him tweeds and worsted and proper hard-wearing clothes. But he does look pretty already just in those scanty little undies. Oh, darling, what have I done to you. I don't care any more - you can be just like Wendy, a boy or a girl, my son or my daughter."

Sam flew into his mother's arms, choked with excitement as he realized that his dream was coming true.

"Yes, dear. I've come to accept that you are a girl deep-inside. I've tried to keep it hidden but you've been trying for so long to make me understand. You won't believe it, Wendy, but your friend Sam has been trying on my shoes and my stockings for ages - I can tell because they're constantly re-arranged. And sometimes my makeup gets disturbed. And there's a little suitcase full of things at the back of the cupboard. I don't have a key but I can guess what's in there. I'd guess there's a pair of panties or two hidden away. But now it's all in the open and I've got two children instead of just one."

Sam stayed snuggled against his mother, relaxing more and more as her acceptance became more complete. "Oh, Mummy, I'm so happy. I'll be the best girl ever, you just wait."

"Don't go over the top, dear. If we are going to do this then we need to do some planning and some shopping too. I'm not going to let my girl go short of anything. We've got clothes to buy, dresses, skirts, so much to do. Now that I've made myself accept my lovely daughter - and you look lovely already, my sweet - it's time to catch up and show her the real benefits of being a young girl."

This was a dramatic turnaround. Neither Sam or I were able to say anything. In a few minutes, his Mum had completed the task of dressing her son, putting on a dab of lipstick and sorting out his hair. This was my biggest worry, but a hair-clip and a lovely pink beret made it impossible to see a boy. Sam was astounded, delighted and glowing with excitement.

"Oh, Mummy, you've made me so happy. Do you really mean it when you say that I can be a girl whenever I want. Oh, rapture, rapture."

"One line further in the play, dear, you get to 'modified rapture'. I'm perfectly willing for you to be a girl a great deal of the time - evenings, some weekends, some of the holidays, but not whenever you want exactly. There has to be some time spent as a boy. I want a son and a daughter - not a boy who dresses up or a daughter who has to go to school as a boy. I want you to be comfortable as both. You may not understand yet - but we'll talk about it later. For the moment, I want to take two pretty girls to the shops to spend a little fun-money on silks and satins. For today, I want you to make a total effort to forget being boys-in-dresses."

I squeaked with excitement and giggled too. We were all looking forward to this. I was going out on the town for the first time without my mum or my sister. Sam was going out for the first time ever. As for, Mrs. Wickham, I didn't know what she was wanting to happen but she was taking two pretty boys shopping.

We drove to the shops as they were some distance away, too far to walk and bring shopping back as well. As we drove, I pulled down the sun-visor so that I could check myself in the little mirror. I saw a flicker of amusement on Mrs. Wickham's face as I did such an ordinary thing, well ordinary for a girl, anyway.

Sam was bouncing with the thrill of imminent enjoyment on the back seat. After a moment, she leant forward, "Mummy, can you please call me Samantha when I'm your daughter. It would make me so happy."

There was a short pause, "Alright, dear. I might find myself calling you Sammy all the time. I do think Samantha is a bit obvious, but I don't feel I can refuse you anything today."

Sam and I exchanged glances - was there any limit to what we could get to happen on this magical day.

By the end of the afternoon, it seemed not - there was no limit. Samantha had more clothes than I had collected over the last four months. Both she and her mum had run riot in the shops - buying some heavier clothes from the sales racks for the last of the winter but spending even more time on the new summer stock. Sam had picked a lovely frock in a gorgeous flowery printed-silk pattern. His mum had picked another in blue-green rather than yellow-orange, so, of course, both of them had been put in the pile. I was having fun too, but they tried to make sure I wasn't left out. Like any other girl rummaging and trying on, I had held more than a few dresses up to see how they looked in the floor-length mirror.

To my delight, Mrs Wickham had insisted that I buy myself a dress and a skirt. I hadn't expected her to do this but it made me feel so grateful. As the afternoon sped by, I found that I was building up a collection of bags for myself too. A lovely necklace and matching clip-earrings; a new pair of panties - still my favourite garment; two samples of perfume and so on. I didn't have much money with me but shopping is infectious so I had to join in. I loved it.

By the end, Sam had bags of undies too - panties, knickers, suspenders and lots of stockings. His mum said that since she didn't like tights she didn't see why her daughter should wear them either. They had grinned at each other, happy to be so united. In addition, there were two lovely nightdresses and a glamorous dressing-gown too. I was really envious of them and Sam knew it.

We spent time in the shoe shops as well, so Samantha had a full range of shoes too - high-heeled open-toe for special occasions and two pairs of flatter-heeled daily shoes, a lovely pair of slippers with little pompoms. It was fun seeing Sam totter around on his new heels. The shop assistant smiled too, "I always enjoy seeing a pretty girl get her first high-heels. The inconvenience of squeezed toes and aching ankles versus the extra elegance and posture." She had no idea that Sam was a boy.

Last of all, I led Sam to the special boutique where I had been bought my jelly-boobs. I had been able to tell his mum about this while Sammy was trying on shoes. I realised that she hadn't thought about that particular enhancement. I had let her touch the ones I was wearing and she had been quite stunned at how realistic they had felt.

Sam didn't know what we were doing there until I led him to the showcase and picked up the brochure. His eyes glowed and he stammered for a moment. "Have you really got mum to agree to this. Oh, boy." I saw his anguish as he registered exactly what he had said. It was or had been a perfectly ordinary phrase until today - but not any more. No girl was going to say 'oh boy' when introduced to a packet of jelly-boobs. I smiled anyway and Sam relaxed.

At that moment, the proprietor was suddenly at our side. She waited while we told her what we wanted. She was quite straightforward about it. I think she recognised me. I hadn't told Sam or his mum that he would have to take off his top and let her check for size and fit - I hadn't quite known how to say so.

When she told Sam to take off his blouse, his eyes snapped as they glared at me - but he could see that there was no point in arguing. His mum said nothing either, but I could tell that she was a little displeased with me.

Sam hesitated so the assistant hurried him on, "Come on, dear. You're not the first girl in here wanting an improvement in the bust-line." The blouse came off and my friend stood on display wearing his first bra. His hands crept up in a totally ladylike response to cover his chest.

The lady asked Sam if the bra fitted well. He almost whispered his reply, so she told him to speak up. By now, she grinned, more of a smirk really, "Don't worry so much, dear. You certainly aren't the first boy in here wearing a pretty bra. I've got to make sure everything fits or you might never be comfortable. It's really important that you have a good fit. I tell all the boys and girls so. When I first saw you, I wasn't sure, but you're so pretty that it doesn't matter. It's important that a girl like you is proud of her assets, eager to show them off."

There was silence for a moment. Perhaps this was all moving too fast. Mrs Wickham broke in first. "Excuse me, do I understand that you know of several boys who, er, ...."

"That's right. I'm proud that I can provide a complete service. I offer a beauty treatment service to anyone who can pay. I don't discriminate - I supply beauty. If a boy comes to me then it is my duty to make them beautiful. To me, beauty is being a girl, or a woman. I'm not interested in masculine work, I'm not interested in handsome or smart. I supply gorgeous, pretty, luscious, curvaceous, shapely - all words that can only be applied to the feminine. Sorry, I'm almost quoting from my brochure. But it's true. I try to make all my clients look as feminine as possible. Here we have a lovely looking boy, slender, pale-skinned, potentially exquisite. I can do wonders for him. If he prefers to think of himself as a girl, I can even do wonders for her. I don't fuss about it. I just adore beauty. That's what we sell here at this beauty-parlour."

"My name's Samantha, please," came a whisper from my underclothed friend.

"Oh, that's such a pretty name. Well, Samantha, does the bra fit properly with those inserts."

"They're wonderful. They make me feel so different, they're lovely." Sam smiled at all of us as she slowly turned on her heels. Her silhouette was no longer that of a teenage boy ready to play football - this was a sweet young thing ready to go out on the town.

Sam and I wandered around the smart little shop while his mum paid the woman for her son's new lovely, bouncy teenage-girlish boobs. Nevertheless, I did see a note pass between them at the end of a brief but obviously intense discussion. I wondered what was in the note.

So, we set off back to Sam's house with the car full of frocks and frills. We rushed back into the house giggling and hooting with excitement. To and fro from the car, we carried bags and boxes. Just as we were finishing, the next-door neighbour came to her front-door to see what the noise was about. Sam and I sped into the house, more eager to start unpacking than worried about the neighbour seeing two strange girls rushing into the house. Mrs Wickham was still by the car, locking up, so she found herself making excuses for our noise.

When she came in, she was looking very thoughtful. She sat down and patted the sofa beside her. We sat either side waiting for her to speak. I was very conscious that we might have embarrassed her with the amount of noise we had made. She began, "Wendy, I was quite cross with you at that shop - but I suppose I have to forgive you. I was as excited this afternoon as you. I think it all got a bit over the top. But I made my promises and I will stick by them. I have to agree, Sam darling, that you make a wonderful girl. I'm proud to have you as my daughter and you can stay in your dresses until Monday morning when you go back to school as Samuel. That's the first decision. There will be other rules and conditions for how we fit Samantha and Samuel together during the termtime. But for now, dears, you can help me get dinner ready and then you can get ready for bed and I'll take Wendy home."

I must say I was tired already, but I wanted to see Sam in her new nightie so I agreed. I did ring home to tell Susan that I would be home in a little while. I got the impression that I shouldn't have stayed out on the last but one night before school but that she did understand why and would tell mum.

We had a quick snack and then I went up to say goodnight to Sam. He was back in his own room but already there was evidence of his new persona. The room was much tidier, and his makeup was carefully laid out on the desk. I smiled when I saw this, as it had taken me much longer to get to this stage. It was evident that Sam was much more eager than I had been to be a full-time girl. I wondered what problems were in store.

I said nothing to my new girl-friend but leant over to give her a goodnight kiss. Sam smiled back at me and put his arms round my neck to hold me tight. Anyone watching would have seen two lovely girls. In a quiet voice, I asked him if he was enjoying sleeping in a smooth, satin gown instead of rough, cotton pjs. His smile told me all I needed to now. That, and the flicker as his hand caressed the glossy material beneath the bedclothes.

As we drove home, Mrs Wickham asked me question after question. Was I happy being both a school-boy and a holiday-girl? Did I think she was doing the right thing for Samantha? Since she asked about Samantha rather than Sam, it was obvious which answer I gave. I even told her things that I had kept secret from my family - in particular, that I now found that I was even dreaming as a girl.
I no longer dreamt about scoring a match-winning goal or climbing mountains, now I dreamt of shopping, buying pretty clothes, spending time at the salon.

At this, she smiled and said, "and boys. Do you dream about them too."

I blushed, "No. I don't do that."

"You're blushing, dear. Does that mean you're worried you might start to do so."

"No. Nothing like that."

"What then. Don't tell me you're wondering what it would be like if the boys did start to fancy you."

When I reacted as if a flare had lit my face, she held my hand and patted it with sympathy. "Oh, darling Wendy. Don't worry so. I'm sure you and Samantha will be able to look after yourselves after a bit of advice."

This was not the reaction I wanted. Was it ?

We were almost home before either of us spoke again.

"I'm still unsure about how this thing with Samantha will continue, you know. And I will have to talk with your mother so that we get some sensible rules for you two girls. Oh, I still can't believe I can say girls and mean my son and his best friend. But it does seem easier each time I say it. If I thought this was only a passing phase I would be much less accepting - but Sam has been playing at being a girl for so long that it does seem clear that he has more than a little bit of girl inside his character. I nearly said 'in his makeup' - but that's just too much of a bad pun, isn't it."

"I rather like it. It's true anyway, no one is 100% male or female - there's a bit of both in everybody."

"I know that, Wendy dear. But all that psychological jargon is one thing, seeing my fifteen year old son so happy to wear silks and satins is a different thing altogether. But we're here now, so out you get. Before you arrange to meet Samantha tomorrow, make sure you ring first."

I was bursting with everything as I went in to tell mum and Susan all the exciting things that had happened today. I could see that they wanted to know everything too, so we spent ages talking it all through. Susan was really happy for me and for Sam that we would have each other to do things with in the future.

The last but one evening of the holiday was my first Wendy-party. It was such fun - just the four of us. Mummy, Susan, me and Aunt Jane. I wore the loveliest summer frock with little roses and lace trimming. My bra-straps showed at the shoulder too, which I thought showed me to be much more real than before. Samantha came to see me for a few minutes before the party although she could not stay. She wore an Irish-style dress, green with white edging and frills at the cuff. As a final treat, even though it would be obvious at school, Mum gave in at last when I pestered her to let me have my ears pierced. Although Samantha was not allowed to have hers done.

The very last evening of the holiday I was again given the choice of being Peter or Wendy. I had much less difficulty this time in deciding to stay in my lovely dress. In the middle of the evening I went upstairs to change into my prettiest nightie so that I could curl up in front of the television with the other ladies of the house. Mummy said it was really lovely having such a nice all-girl time.

The first weekend of the term was my real birthday. On the Friday night, I met with some of my Peter-type schoolmates and we went to the films and had burgers afterwards. As soon as I got home I changed into my newest pretty nightie. I always slept as Wendy now. In the morning, I went with Samantha and Susan to have another makeover so that I would look as pretty as possible in my now-finished red velvet dress. Saturday was going to be Wendy's birthday party.

It was so much nicer being able to share my pleasure with a friend of my own age. Parents and relatives are one thing, friends are another. It was very different now that Samantha was sharing girlhood with me. We spent quite some time chatting with the make-up girl about how much effort we girls had to put in to being pretty. We even said that the boys had it too easy.

Carol said that she had tried to show her boyfriend how long it took to get pretty and he had been amazed. Somehow I got the impression that she was actually saying that she had done this to him rather than just making him watch.

Sam was bold enough to ask. "What do you mean, Carol."

"Oh, he was going on and on about how long it took for me to get ready in the evening. So I told him that he just had no idea. We got into a silly argument and eventually he said that it just wasn't possible to do it as slowly as I did. In return I said that it could take even longer. Somehow, we dared each other that if I made him up and he agreed that couldn't have been done any faster and if it took more than two hours, I would win the argument. It was really silly, I suppose. But in the end, we went ahead. I even borrowed some clothes for him - I wasn't going to do his makeup without showing him that it was a proper job. He wanted makeup, well then, he was going to look like a girl or else. It was just so daft that we both joined in. We started that Sunday morning at eight o'clock in the morning, watches synchronised and all. By half past, he had showered and had shaved twice. Then I had to use nearly a whole tube of hair-remover around his neck and wrists. He didn't like that bit. 'All the fellas will notice, etc'. By nine, I had begun on his eyebrows - and he really began to complain. I was in no mood to listen. I kept saying that the makeup part is quite quick, it's all the preparation that takes time. I was explaining every step to my gradually-feminised target and he seemed to be quite interested. I suppose most males never get the opportunity to learn why girls do spend so much time making themselves beautiful. It was nearly ten before I began the actual make-up stuff. By ten forty-five, I was working on his hair with the instant tongs. Not long after eleven, I had him wearing this lovely frilly blouse and skirt. Eventually I passed my man the mirror and said, "Do I win?"

He didn't actually answer the question. He just said, "Golly, I'd never have believed it."

Then to my annoyance, he said, "Alright, you win, now help me get all this stuff off."

I said, "Hold on a minute. What exactly do I win? What was the bet?"

"Er, don't think we ever actually talked about that did we. What do you want?"

"I've just created this gorgeous woman. I think the least you can do is let me enjoy a little while with my new friend. Let's sit down and have a coffee while I think about the penalty for losing."

He scowled but agreed. So, for the next hour and more, we had this huge girl, all 5' 11" of her, walking to and fro as the frilly petticoat swished around her legs. After some minutes I let him sit down but as soon as he slumped into the chair I ticked him off and made him do it again and again until he did it properly - you know, with the flick of the wrist to arrange the skirt so that it wouldn't crumple. He sat for a while. Then I noticed him rubbing his legs together as the slinky nylons did their job. I asked if he was enjoying it as much as it appeared. He went so red. I said, 'if you're that much of a girl that those pretty nylons excite you then I'll have to make you wear them more often.'

Samantha giggled and asked what happened next.

"Oh, nothing really. We never did it again. A few months later he left me and later still he left town. I've got a new fella now. But I've never tried dressing him up. He's far too macho and anyway I like him the way he is."

"Have you ever seen any other boys dressed up," said I daringly.

"Only for silly parties and things like the Rocky Horror Show. No, never. I did have my suspicions once about a mother and child who used to come here regularly - but I don't really believe my suspicions. I think it was just a boyish looking girl. I can't accept that any mother would let her son dress up as a girl."

I was quivering with delight. She really couldn't tell. She had been doing our makeup for over ten minutes now - two boys in dresses talking about how unlikely it was that boys would wear skirts - and she hadn't guessed. I was in heaven. I could tell that Sam was too. Susan was smiling but took the opportunity to change the subject to a less specialist topic.

Soon afterwards, we were both finished - beautiful maids ready to dazzle the boys at any party. Susan was quite cross as we walked home. "That was really silly of both of you. Have you no idea how much trouble you could be in if the wrong person realized that you're actually a boy-in-a-dress. Get some sense, darlings. I'm not going to tell Mum or Aunt this time, but you've got to be more sensible. You can't go round tempting fate like that."

This second Wendy-party was more fun than the first one. Almost the best bit was how jealous Samantha was about my lovely handmade dress. In the end, we had to go upstairs and swap, just so that she could feel it for herself. The party was much bigger than I had expected. As at my first party, at the end of the previous holiday, Mum, Susan and Aunt were there - but now Samantha and his mum were there too. Jess and Judy from the shop were there too, even though Jess had left the shop some months before. She couldn't believe how pretty I looked and how confident I was. She said that she would have to see if her young cousin would improve as much with proper encouragement and training. This led to a long discussion about how much the world would improve if all the boys had to spend some time in frills. Samantha and I tried to say that not all the boys would benefit but it was all very light-hearted stuff. So the whole party was just girls, of course.

I got some lovely new clothes and Mum insisted on having some proper photographs of me. Some were taken of Sam too, then me and Sam, then me and Susan and all the other combinations. We used the whole film up.

It was quite tough at school, even though Sam and I were able to work as a team to deflect criticism and defend ourselves from attack. By the end of the summer, the headmaster had noticed the change in our appearance. We made quite an effort to hide any evidence of girlishness, although the ear-piercing was a very obvious error. Our hair was allowed to grow longer and we did make mistakes. I found myself talking to the art mistress and using words like 'pretty' and 'sweet'. Mistake.

Sam was both unlucky and lucky because his class teacher ran the drama club. Sam was undeniably the prettiest of the boys - so - a shortage of girls in the cast for the annual school play 'Four couples entangled' meant that Sam was asked to help out. He tried to get out of it, well, he told the teacher he didn't want to dress up like a girl. His protests were in vain. In fact, the teacher sent a letter to his mother expressing his disappointment that such a good young actor wasn't able to put real effort into his performance. Would she mind encouraging Sam and giving him some extra tuition. What an unfortunate coincidence.

Eventually, Sam had to 'do his best' and, though I say it myself, he looked every bit as good as the other 'real' girls in the play. Actually, I thought he was a lot prettier than at least two of the other three. To our amazement, so did the reviewer in the school magazine. Needless to say, Sam got a lot of teasing about this but he managed to fool almost all the people that it was 'just one of those things'.

One of the other girls in the play, Jennifer, asked him to come over to her house the weekend after. She had actually let him borrow some of her clothes and had helped him with his stage makeup, so her excuse was so that Sam could take his borrowings back. Jennifer had other plans though. To Sam's concealed delight, she wanted him to be one of her girl-friends. He would be welcome to come over anytime he wanted as long as whenever he was at her place, he wore what she called 'proper' clothes and by this she meant 'hers'. Sam had to pretend shock, dismay, horror. But Jennifer was insistent. She flattered the 'unwilling' Sam about how pretty he had been. She teased him about perhaps going out as a couple of girls, about how much he would learn about girls by being shown how to look like one. It was music to his ears - and he had to keep the pretence of being reluctant.

In the end, he agreed but only after Jennifer had suggested that she would tell all the lads at school that he had asked her to dress him up. Her blatant attempt to blackmail the poor dear was the last straw, of course. Sam gave in. "Alright, Jennifer. You've got me in a fix. If I don't do as you say, you'll tell the boys I want to be dressed up. If I just do exactly as you say, then you'll keep doing it anyway."

"I know, isn't it cruel of me. Aren't I a heartless vixen," she smirked.

So Sam went to Jennifer's for the afternoon. She dressed him in her underwear, in her frocks and blouses, in her sister's shoes. She played with his hair, put makeup on him - in fact, she treated him as a doll. Sam really wasn't enjoying this at all. This wasn't what he wanted.

"Come on. Jen. This isn't fair. I'm not a toy. I don't mind dressing up for a play where there's a complete role but I'm not a piece of entertainment for you. If you want me to be a girl, or to pretend to be a girl, that's one thing. But not all this stuff. If you want me to join in then let's do this fairly.

Are you wanting me to be your friend or to be a plaything ?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sam dear. No, I really enjoyed the play and helping you dress up. It was fun seeing how pretty you were as a girl and I wanted to do it again. I suppose I wasn't thinking. I didn't see the difference between a stage part with a given role and how it would be back here. I'm having fun and it won't continue to be fun unless you join in."

"Well, it's a lovely day, so I suggest we dress up and go out for a walk. Perhaps you can tell me some best-friend secrets and I'll tell you some too. This time, I'll have a go at doing my makeup, 'cos I've been watching you do it for me."

Jennifer watched in amazement as Sam did his own makeup at least as skilfully as she had been able to do. And still she did not guess. They went downstairs through the empty house and out into the sunshine. They walked slowly onwards, sometimes hand in hand, sometimes arm in arm, two girls together.

Onwards to the park, where they played on the swings, their bare legs showing as their skirts flew higher and higher. Their antics attracted a couple of boys but somehow they scampered off. Breathless, they got back to the market square where they sat for a while. Jennifer complimented Sam on how fast he was even in high-heels. She actually said, 'Nobody would ever guess that you'd never worn shoes like that before."

Sam grinned, "I wore them for three nights in the play, didn't I."

Jennifer nodded, "So you did ...... I forgot for a moment. Shall we have a look in the shops while we're here." She didn't wait for an answer but led the way into the nearest teenage boutique.

Sam was nonplussed for a moment. How should he react? Jennifer came back, suddenly aware of what she was doing. "How about it, Sam darling. Do you want to come in and learn all about frills and undies from an expert?"

The boy smiled, and with a practised Victorian curtsey, said, "Oh, my dear, I don't mind if I do." They both giggled and the real-girl took the pretend-girl onto the scented boudoir. Sam said afterwards that it was such fun. Jennifer kept on choosing the frilliest and daintiest things and dragging the completely unwilling Sam into a cubicle to try them on. She even got a pair of foam-rubber falsies. Sam could hardly say they weren't as comfortable as the ones he had in his own bedroom - but for a moment or two he was tempted.

By the end of the afternoon, Sam had been bought a few special things which Jennifer said she would keep at her house for him to wear in the future. When they got home, the two girls curled up on the sofa and chatted away about their afternoon. It didn't matter that they had both been there, both done the same things - just like any other teenage girls, they had to talk about every minute of the time they had spent and every piece of clothing they had looked at or tried on. After a while, Jennifer had commented about this. "Sammy dear, I really do feel that this is two girls talking. I don't get any feeling any more that you're a boy in a dress. Isn't this fun?"

"Jenny, er, do you prefer Jenny or Jennifer?"

"Don't mind at all, you call me whichever you prefer."

"Jenny, I don't know what to say really. Sitting with you like this, I don't feel much like a boy - so I suppose I'll have to do my best to be a girl for the evening."

"Don't say that, Sam dear. Don't say just for this evening. I want to do this more often. I want you to be one of my girlfriends. Please say yes. Please say that you'll let me dress you up whenever possible."

Sam's eyes were alight with excitement. Was this to be his opportunity to get himself a girlfriend who liked him wearing dresses. We had learnt over the last year that there were some girls who did this - but neither Sam nor I had ever met one. Was this going to be Sam's chance? Sam paused then softly nodded his head, smiling as his newly waved hair bounced against the side of his face. "Yes, I think that would be fun. I'd like that too."

"Ooh, thank you darling Sammy. Can I call you Samantha when we're like this?"

"How can I argue - and I don't think I want to. I think I feel more of a girl with a girl's name. Sam and Sammy are okay - but after all .." and here he hesitated realising that he was about to say he was called Samantha at home too - but he managed to stop himself, "I mean, there's that girl in the year above us, the one with the lovely red hair, everybody calls her Sam and it suits her - but for me, I'd prefer it if you called me Samantha."

"Thank you, Samantha dear. And for letting me call you that, I'll lend you one of my nighties too. You can sneak it home and wear it whenever you want. So that you can remember that you can be a girl as well as a boy. I think it will be fun for you to see both sides of the fence. I want to show you how much fun it is being a girl."

Their game went on for the rest of the term. Sam would go over to Jenny's house and play dress-up. At home, he would wear dresses whenever he wanted. At school, he would wear ordinary boy's clothes. As for the two of us, we still spent quite a lot of time together. We even went out with the other lads in our old gang sometimes, just to prove that nothing had changed. But we also spent
time as Samantha and Wendy as well.

There really wasn't much of a uniform - but everyone wore grey skirts or trousers, white shirt, blue tie or scarf and a grey or blue top - jacket, jersey or coat. The overall effect was of a uniform but without the expense or peer-pressure. Gradually, Sam wore more and more a sort of unisex outfit - and so did I. Once Sam wore a blouse instead of a shirt. Of course, the only real difference is that they button up on different sides - but at least a couple of the girls noticed and teased him about it. He got out of it by saying that their washing-machine was broken so he'd borrowed it from his sister Gloria.
This seemed to satisfy the immediate question but Sam did get quite a lot of good-natured teasing over the next few days.

However because he was spending time with Jennifer, we did spend less time together. I didn't like this much. Sam was the only one I could dress up with outside my own family. We talked about this quite a lot. Was there some way to introduce Peter/Wendy into the Sam/Samantha and Jennifer arrangement.

As it happened, we found no solution during the termtime. The second day of the holiday was when it all happened. Sam and I were in the park, or rather Samantha and Wendy were in the park and we met Jennifer. She was amazed, horrified, excited - all at once.

"Oh, Sam. I never guessed that ..., I mean, what are you doing on your own, I mean, who is this with you." It was just so obvious that she believed I was another girl-friend of Sam's. Her eyes flashed jealously, angrily - did I know that Sam was a boy? She was trapped, unable to ask any question and furious at Samantha's apparent double-timing. "I don't believe this. I hate you. You can forget about coming over to my place ever again."

A pure teenage fury. Sam was stunned too, dumb with surprise. I already knew about Jennifer and I couldn't see my friend lose his female guide and mentor. "Jennifer, don't be angry. Sam and I were just talking about you." I chose my words to show that I knew Sam was a boy-in-a-dress.

"What d'y mean?"

"Just what I said. Sam's my friend and I've been lonesome without him. It's been no fun on my own. It's been so lovely knowing that he's found a girl who likes him to wear dresses."

"Wwww, whhat d'y mean. He's found a girl, aren't you a girl? Just who are you?" Her eyes were round with surprise. She was shaking with the emotion of the moment. First, the surprise of finding her friend Samantha outdoors in a frock, then the shock of my words.

"Jennifer dear," said Sam, "This is my friend Wendy. She's another really good friend of mine. She's a girl too, just exactly like I am," and he smiled shyly at her.

"What - exactly like you?", her intonation meant she realised.

"Unhuh. Exactly like me."

"Oh, wow. But who is she?" She turned back to me, "Who are you. Come on, tell me. I feel I ought to know you - but somehow ......, come on, put me out of my misery. I really, really want to know how a girl as pretty as you can be pretending to be a boy."

"I'm Wendy, and I'm not pretending to be a girl or a boy. When I'm wearing lovely frocks and pretty panties, I am a girl. But you might remember that I used to help you with your maths homework." Pause.

"Can't you guess yet. I used to sit behind you on the bus home." Pause.

"I've been Sam's best friend at school for the last year."

Her expression changed to bright wonder, "Oh my, you're Peter. You're not Peter, you can't be Peter. It's not possible - but you look like a girl. I can't see a trace of boy. But you're so lovely. I can't believe it. Samantha, please tell me the truth. Who is this? Is it really Peter Yeats? Why does he dress as a girl? Is this some sort of trick?"

"Yes, yes, it is. I've wanted to tell you for weeks now - and can't you call him Wendy too. Wendy and I have been dressing up every holiday and almost every weekend for over a year now. In fact, now we only spend schooldays as boys. It was so hard keeping it secret - but we didn't dare let anyone know. We all thought it would be the end if the school got to know about it. Then you tricked and teased me into dresses - and well, that's the story."

"What do you mean 'that's the story'. Are you telling me that when I put you into a frock, when I lent you one of my nighties, that this was nothing new to you. That you were just pretending to it all. Were you just pretending to be my friend too."

"Oh, Jenny," Sam was now hugging the frantic girl, trying to hold her while the tears poured and the emotions racked her. "Oh, Jenny. Never, never. I loved every minute of our time together. How could I not love you - you were giving me my sweetest wish. The chance to be a girl with other girls. I wear your nightie every night. But, it wasn't my first time in a dress. You never had to force me to wear panties and stockings. But you made it so much more wonderful for me. Oh, Jenny, my love, don't cry."

It was my turn to be speechless. Here we were, my best friend and myself, confessing all our secrets to an outsider.

"Come on, Jenny. Slow down, take a deep breath. Let's sit down and sort this out - three girls together. Come on, please," Sam took Jenny's arm and led her to a nearby bench. We sat down in a flurry of swishy skirts. Well, they did, but I sat too fast and had to stand up to sweep them properly out of the way before I could sit tidily. I saw Jenny notice me do this and realized that the gesture confirmed to her the details of my female impersonation.

She smiled through her tears, "I have to believe what I see. The camera may lie but this is real, isn't it. I'm sitting here on a bench in the park in the middle of town with two boys from my school wearing dresses just as pretty and feminine as mine."

She leant towards me, "Wendy, are you wearing panties too."

"Of course."

"And what else ?"

"Do you need to ask .."

"Yes, dear. I have to. I can guess what Samantha's got - but not you."

"Well, starting at the bottom, or rather, at the toe, mustn't be vulgar - today Miss Wendy is wearing pale peach stockings attached to a very fetching pale blue suspender belt. Her panties match as does her bra and vest." I heard the soft sigh as she realised that I was wearing a full set of undies. "Her frock is a pale brown shade of soft linen with a self belt. Her scarf is from Italy and her bead necklace from France. Her handbag and matching sandals are in soft brown suede, the sandals have a two inch heel. The range of makeup used today is Boots Number 7, and her lipstick is a subtle colour called Salmon." I tried to copy the way the magazines give a description and she was giggling when I finished.

"What sort of underwear does Miss Wendy prefer ?" she asked with a smirk.

"Like any modern girl, Miss Wendy likes the convenience of tights but prefers the more pleasurable feel of stockings and suspenders."

Jenny waved a hand to stop me. "Oh, that was fun. Oh, you're sweet, Wendy. I love you almost as much as Samantha. And now I've got two girls to be best friends with. I want to know everything. I want to know how this all started, how your parents got to know. Everything. I mean, it's so exciting." She leant towards me once more, "And there's this too," her hand brushed my breast, "This is something extra, isn't it. What have you got here that looks so real, that feels so real."

"Don't do that," I pushed her hand away. I was shocked. No one had ever touched me like that, outdoors, in public. Later, I realised almost with pride that my reaction was exactly that of a girl.

She blushed at what she had done, then she hurried on with an apology, "I'm sorry, Wendy. I'm really sorry. I'd never have done that to a real girl. I'm truly sorry. That was so rude of me. And then I made it even worse by saying that you weren't a real girl. Oh I don't know how to apologise. I feel almost sick, I never meant that to come out the way it did." She was almost in tears again. Sam was blushing beet-red too and I was breathless with shock.

Almost unconsciously, we hugged each other for support. When we recovered, it felt as if minutes had sped by. I was sure we would be the centre of attention - but nobody was noticing three teenage girls having a gossip.

Sam recovered first. "Wow, that was something. I'm exhausted. Can we go and get a drink or an ice or something. I've got to have something or I'll just die."

Jenny answered first, "Okay dear, but I'm not letting you out of my sight until you've told me all. I just have to find out your girlish secrets."

I smiled quietly, very happy at her complete acceptance of us as two more girls. So, once more, the unobservant crowd saw Peter/Wendy, Sam/Samantha and Jennifer stand up, brush invisible dust off their dresses, fluff their hair and walk out of the park in search of refreshment. Two boys and a girl walked out of the park chatting and giggling about hair-styles, bras, makeup and all sorts of other delightful girlish topics.

We spent a long time in the coffee bar. But it was holiday time, we each had pocket-money saved up. It was inevitable that we would begin talking about the pretty clothes in the shops, the shoes, the accessories.

As it happened, the coffee-bar was in a fairly busy corner of the shopping mall so there were plenty of places for us to rummage and scour for pretty things. I think she found it difficult to believe that both Sam and I were as eager as she was to look at panties, bras, makeup and the complete range of female accoutrement. I saw her looking sideways at us more than once as on or other of us made some frantically girly comment.

In the end, I had to point this out to her, "You're almost making it obvious that there's something going on here. That last assistant was quite sure that something odd was happening."

She glared at me. "Oh, and you're suggesting that there's nothing odd about two boys buying dresses for themselves. Oh, stop worrying, Wendy. I'll cool it down a bit - but it's just so amazing seeing how confident, how happy you are about all this. I mean, would you ever have guessed that the boys in this shop outnumbered the girls."

I looked around. She was right. We were the only customers. We hadn't realized how late it was getting.

"Come on, Sammy. It's late. We ought to get back. Mum will be wondering where we've been all day."

"Just let me try on this lovely red velvet bolero first, Then I'll be ready."

Jenny and I waited for our eager shopper. "Jennifer, I think we're going to have to tell our parents tonight. I think you'd better come too. I don't know about Sam's mum, but mine ain't going to be too happy about this unless she's completely confident that you are willing to keep this a secret too. Is that okay with you. I suppose we can delay telling them for a day or so, while we make some plans to cushion the blow - but we've got to tell them soon. They're not stupid - they'll guess that something's been happening."

She looked at me with amusement. "What do you expect to happen? Their sons go out for the day, dressed like butterflies and come back with a third girl. If they're not stupid they will have guessed that you will, or already have met people while out shopping. You think they'd prefer it if you came back with a couple of boyfriends! Don't be silly. Tonight, tomorrow or whenever suits you - I'll come along and meet your folks. They don't scare me - I'm Jennifer Beckett."

I was caught up in her bravado. "Sounds like the gallant knights of old. One for all, and all for one, that sort of thing."

"Wendy dear. I don't think the knights of old all wore dresses. But I agree that we should stick together. We're teenagers, it's our duty to rebel and give our parents a reasonable amount of worry. And having a son who looks as pretty as any of the girls at school must be a sort of a problem."

I had to ask, "You really think I'm pretty?"

"Don't be such a bozo. Of course, you're pretty. You're beautifully dressed, your hairstyle, your makeup, everything says 'gorgeous girl'. Even your figure looks good. You've got to tell me about those boobs, they're just so super. You look like a girl, all your gestures and mannerisms. There isn't a trace of boy left. In fact, honey-pie, whether you know it or not, you're more of a girl than you ever have been a boy."

As she said this, Samantha rejoined us - and she had bought the little red jacket. She did a little pirouette to display her new apparel and we all had a quick hug before we set off.

Nobody actually made a decision but nevertheless we all finished back at Sam's house. His mother was there and clearly not pleased at the delay. We had said we'd be back by mid-afternoon and it was now after six. Jennifer's presence made it difficult for her to say very much.

"Hello, Samantha dear, and Wendy. And, er ...."

"Mum, this is Jennifer. You've heard me speak about her, she was really helpful with the play. She's the girl who lent me some of the clothes. We met in town. I was with Wendy in the park and she recognised me. She was kind of surprised to see me in a dress so we had to go off for a coffee and explain things. She hadn't met Wendy before. We talked and then went shopping all afternoon. I've got a really new good CD. Her parents aren't home until late so I thought it would be sensible if she came home for a while. If dinner's a problem, I'll walk her home and be back in ten minutes."

With less than subtle emphasis, his mother said, "It's not the dinner that's the problem, Samantha dear."

"Well, Jenny already knew about teacher asking you to give me lessons for the play, so she guessed that I had to practice with dresses and stuff. And you know I've been going round to do homework."

"Was it just homework, dear."

"Of course, you didn't think ...., no, mum, of course not. Just homework." But his face was pink with embarrassment.

"I will not stand for lies, white lies or adapted truths. If Jennifer has been helping you dress up, that's one thing. If meeting her in town was a deliberate plan, that's another. I will be told the truth."

"I'm sorry, mum. We were just trying to keep things simple. You're right with the first guess - Yes, I did dress up once or twice at Jenny's. But only after we'd done our homework. But meeting in town, that was a complete accident."

"Jennifer, is that the truth?"

Gulp. "Oh, yes. We had such fun with the play, I just had to see if Sam looked that good in some of my other things. And he did look quite nice. In fact, I did wonder if we'd be able to try again sometime. I really hadn't thought too much about it for the future - but then in town, I was in the shops and I heard this voice I recognised. I was amazed, delighted, excited, everything when I realized that the dainty maiden behind me, pawing through the racks of underwear was my friend Sam. And he didn't look just ‘quite nice’ any more, he looked completely feminine, confident that he was gorgeous. I couldn't believe it. I just had to interfere and find out what was going on. So, we spent all afternoon together, and now I'm here."

"And what about Wendy?"

"Well, it became obvious while we talked this afternoon that Sam and Wendy were at the same school. I know, I absolutely know, that if Wendy was at school with us I would remember and recognise her. Since I didn't, it became the only logical solution that my friend Samantha, my boyfriend-in-a-dress, had another friend who wore dresses. I loved the whole thing. It makes me wonder how many other boys there are who have secret lives."

"Mmmmmmm. Come and sit down all of you. I need to think about this." She pointed to the sofa to tell us where to sit.

"It is not my responsibility to tell other parents how to look after their children. My duty is to Samantha, my son and daughter. She can do almost anything she likes as long as it isn't illegal, immoral or fattening. This activity breaks none of my rules. I'm not keen about boys dressing as girls as a joke, but you look so confident, so happy, so real that it is just obvious that this is more than that. As far as I am concerned you are just a group of three teenage girls. I'm going to treat you as such unless you turn up here as boys. But I'd prefer it if you didn't do that."

Sam and I looked at each other and then at Jennifer with happy smiles. We had never expected such a result from a chance meeting.

So the holidays rolled on. Instead of two of us being girls, there were now three. It was much more fun and all our parents were much happier. A group of three is going to get much less hassle from boys than a single girl or a couple. We went to the cinema and all that sort of thing. It was lovely. When Samantha started driving lessons, he did so as Sam rather than Samantha. Then he decided to try a different school and went as Samantha. He said it was completely different. He'd never been in a Sam/Samantha situation before where it was possible to see how people treated the two people differently. He decided to watch for such situations more closely as a possible project for his Social Studies course.

Later he told us about the journalists who had been transformed by costume and makeup and a lot of training in acting in the right way to ‘become’ black or arab or chinese people so that they could report on the reality of racism. He got us all wondering if we could do something special on sexism.

Jenny was the one who first suggested a party. She would have an all girl's party, a slumber-night. Videos and midnight feasts. She thought of two or three friends who could make up the gang. It was really fun. There were eight of us in the end, Jen, Sam and myself and five more friends of Jen's. Jen had met them over the years and only one of the other five went to our school. Of course, they had no idea that Wendy and Samantha were any different from them. Just like any other sleep-over party, we played around, told stories, made up feeble jokes, and then had a midnight feast. Gradually, one by one, we crept into our sleeping bags and joined the pile of nesting teenagers scattered around the floor.

The next morning things got really complicated. Sam was the last to wake up and one of the other girls was watching too closely when Sam put on her bra. Fortunately, only the three of us were left in the room. I was just coming back from the bathroom on my way to breakfast. All the others were already downstairs squabbling and giggling over their cornflakes.

"What on earth are those, Samantha. Let's have a look," said Jean.

Sam was too horrified to argue and the wretched girl picked the soft bluppy silicon pad out of his bra. She was very interested in it. "I had no idea that you had so little development, dear. I thought only old women who'd had their boobs chopped off had to use things like this."

"Well, now you've had a look, give it back. I need it."

"You'd certainly look odd with only one titty, dear. Or is the other fake as well? Oh, it is too. What a surprise. What a problem you must have to need more than the cotton-wool the rest of us use."

Sam was white with shock and red with embarrassment. He snatched the pink pad back and put it back into its pocket. I watched from across the room - unable to say anything. What could I say? I could just as easily make things worse as sort them out.

Sam finished dressing and moved over to the vanity table to tidy up her makeup. As she did so, Jean, slipped onto the seat beside her. "Do you want any help with that, Sam dear. If you've only been doing it for a short while, you might need some advice."

"Don't be silly. I've been doing this for ages. I'm fine."

"I wouldn't offer advice to an ordinary girl, dear. But in your case, I'm willing to make an exception."

Sam's face turned towards her, as if on a string. His complexion was simultaneously scarlet with shame and white with anxiety. He felt truly alone.

"Yes, dear. If, as I guess, you're only dressed as a girl, then I think we need to have a little chat. Who else here knows that you're a boy?"

Jennifer came back in at this second, and stood horrified as Sam's eyes widened and Jean made the correct guess that she knew of the masquerade. Sam's expression pleaded for us to rescue him from this sudden danger.

"Jen, why didn't you tell me about this. It's so thrilling. You must have known that Samantha was special."

"Jean. Shut up for a moment and let me sort this out. Nobody knows except those of us in this room. I want your promise not to talk about this until we can be absolutely alone and you can get the right end of the stick. And no accidentally clever comments either. I've heard you trying that before. I know some stories about you that I'm sure you want to be kept under wraps. Well, this is just as important. You keep quiet for an hour or so, and I'll keep quiet."

"Bully," Jean said with a sort of a smile. "Just because you know how I work. Alright, Guide's Honour. I'll keep quiet. But I really do want to know more about this. I love the idea that one of my girlfriends is actually a boy. I've always wanted to know how boys think without having to worry about them pawing and poking and leching at me. Talking to a boy-in-a-dress seems to be a wonderful opportunity."

After the other four had left, we got talking. It was surprising how sensible Jean was about the whole thing. Her previously aggressive behaviour wasn't apparent when she was talking with Sam. It quite soon became clear that her first comments were the truth. She really wanted to get to know what boy's thought without their macho, brash attitudes getting in the way. The three of us spent quite a lot of time together. Eventually it all faded away as she met other boys who she could deal with better now that she was better informed. Also, it became more and more difficult for either Samantha or me to think and act as boys.

I got talking with Susan that night. She commented that once more it was Samantha who had expanded the circle of people who knew about us. Perhaps we needed to learn from this and be better prepared for surprises. We recalled the sequence of events - Sam seeing me at the door, Sam persuading us to help him fool his own mother, Sam meeting with Jennifer, Sam being caught at Jennifer's party. I mentioned that Sam was so much prettier than me that I was surprised that it was he who got caught.

"Wendy, perhaps that's the problem. He's so happy as a girl that he actually worries less about making mistakes. You're no plain-jane, but you're more careful, more sensible. In passing, that makes me ask, are you happy as a girl? We've not given you much choice recently, but I ought to ask.

"I hadn't thought about it much recently. I'm certainly comfortable with dressing-up, but I suppose that way of phrasing it means that I still see it as something I do rather than something I am. I don't actually feel that I'm a girl in the same way that Samantha does. It's become very clear that he really does think like a girl. He's much more feminine than me."

"I'm not sure. You've become a different person. As soon as you put on a dress, you become my lovely sister instead of my bratty brother. I'll help you feel more girlish if that's what you want. You've got to decide soon whether this is a long-term thing or not. I'd prefer it if you stayed on as Wendy who I love, rather than as Peter who I put up with."

"I talked about this with Samantha last week. I do enjoy wearing dresses and feeling pretty. So, I do want to stay on as Wendy - but underneath I'm still Peter, aren't I."

"Let me do some thinking about this, darling." and with that the conversation went off onto more ordinary family things.

It was several months later that Jean realized that I was also a boy-girl. It was just super when she realized. Her amazement made us all laugh out loud. I can't remember exactly what was said. I think Sam said something about football and I made a typical boy-type comment. Jean's eyes opened wide and she turned to me and gasped. "But, Wendy. I can't believe that you're the same as Samantha. I guessed about her because of the fake-boobies. But I never had any idea that you weren't a girl. Tell me the truth, come on now. You've seen how sensible I've been. I'm one of your best friends now. I'm going to have to look at everyone of my friends and acquaintances with a microscope. Are there any others?"

I just smiled. I had been asked this before. I had learnt a simple little speech for such occasions. Better still, it came so smoothly off my glossy lips that now I could vary it to suit the situation. "I've learnt from Samantha that one should never agree or deny such a question. Unless some accident has removed all doubt. So, Jean, dear, I shall say nothing. You know the saying, If it looks like a duck, sounds like a duck, smells like a duck and you cook it with orange sauce - then it's a duck. You've known me for ages now. I look like a girl, I talk like a girl, I smell like a girl and I go to a girl's school with you and Sam and lots of other girls. You've seen me in the swimming pool in my swimsuit. I use lipstick, mascara and nail-polish. I wear bra and panties. I wear dresses and skirts. As far as I'm concerned then all these factors make me a girl. It would make me happy if you continued to treat me as Wendy, your fellow school-girl." Now came the bit where I had learnt to adapt. "If there is any doubt, then our efforts have been less successful than I wish." As a final gesture, I tossed my head to make my hair swirl over my shoulders.

"Oh, Wendy. I wouldn't want to make you unhappy. I love you too much for that. But it makes me even happier to be able to share Samantha with you. I love the idea of boys wearing dresses." She paused. "Does Jennifer know? Who else knows? What did your parents think? How did it happen for you?"

We spent ages giggling together as I told the story of how I had begun to dress as a girl. It made the four of us become even better friends.

Now that I was seventeen, Mummy decided to act quickly to ensure that any late-developing puberty did not have too drastic an effect on her daughter-son. We went to London, to Harley Street, where we met a lovely lady doctor who specialised in such assistance. By the time we set an appointment, I had been dressing every available moment for nearly six months. In particular working as a shopgirl at Aunt Jane's had given me complete confidence that I would not be detected. I was no longer a boy-in-a-dress but an eager young girl making her first trip to town. We arrived with some hours to spare so we spent what seemed like hours in Miss Selfridge and the other stores along Oxford Street. By the time we finished I was glowing with the excitement of buying new clothes, mostly underwear. In addition I was bathed in a variety of perfumes and exotic scents. In order not to be too over the top, Mummy had refused me the opportunity of another complete makeover. She didn't want the doctor to think that I was being too eager.

As it was, it was all very easy. The doctor spent a long time asking questions which were clearly to determine whether I thought more as a boy or as a girl. Somehow I guessed and made just that little extra effort to be girlish. As if I had any choice after spending such a wonderful morning in Girl-land. Dresses, underwear and perfume - what a silly boy I would have been to be interested in any of that.

Eventually, she told us her decision. She thought that I was completely comfortable at behaving as a girl, she could find almost no boyishness in my answers. If I could send a two-page letter every day for the next fortnight confirming that I wanted to look like a girl - then she would prescribe the necessary drugs.

Gosh, it was hard work writing those letters. Everybody helped. Mummy kept on buying me the most sumptuous undies, Susan lent me her most expensive perfume and ensured that a good squirt was in the air while I worked away. Aunt Jane made sure that I was only working with the frilliest and most expensive items. The television was almost always off, except to watch suitably girly movies. It was a plot in which I was an eager participant.

Suddenly, the fortnight was over. I received the box of pills and our local doctor made arrangements to give me injections once a week. Amazingly soon there was a result, I had begun to worry about having to shave but the small crop of hair on my face faded away almost as soon as it arrived. My skin, which had begun to get a little zitty, cleared up. Even more to my delight, my breasts got much more sensitive and a very small pudginess became slowly more visible. It was such a wonderful day when Susan told Mummy that I needed to borrow one of her training bras.

Some months after my change of status, I was working at the shop when a glossy young lady came in, rich chestnut hair, long legs and a lovely figure. I was positively excited with the chance to help her choose something from the shop when she stopped me in my tracks by asking to see Aunt Jane. Obviously this was some relation I had never met - otherwise why would she dare address my formidable relation with such casualness. The lady saw my startled response and said, 'Don't look so surprised dear, I just want to have a chat about her plans for this evening'.

I hesitated, 'Who shall I say it is?'

'Leonora, say its Leonora'.

I started to move to the office when I suddenly realized. I stopped and took a step back to the counter. 'Did you say "Leo-nora"', dear cousin.'

It was her turn to look surprised. 'I don't have any cousins your age. At least I don't think so unless you count young Peter. But first of all, he's a boy and secondly you're quite a bit older than him aren't you.'

'I'll leave you to work it out while I get Auntie.' And I scampered off, smirking, as fast as I could in my new 3" heels.

Auntie rushed out of the office as soon as she got my message. It was indeed the former Leo who had come to visit. She looked so good. Auntie insisted that she have some new frocks for the summer. I could only admire her figure when she stood on the little rostrum. She giggled when she saw me watching. 'Does Peter approve? Does Peter want to look as good as lovely Leonie?'

Auntie told her not to be so naughty. Didn't she know that only girls worked in this shop - my name was Wendy. She hadn't seen Peter for some months now. Perhaps he had gone away for good.'

Leonie was such fun to be with. She completely understood my new life as it was now completely obvious that she had gone down the same path not so long before.

By the time I left school at the age of eighteen, every visible speck of masculinity had been removed. So to speak, my makeup was completely feminine. I loved the feel of skirts and soft satin, the glissade of silk, the small exquisite pain of plucked eyebrows and waxed armpits and bikini-line. I loved every aspect of being a girl. As far as appearance showed, I was a girl. And I behaved as a girl in all but the most important areas. I had had several very attentive boyfriends. We had cuddled and kissed and even french-kissed as you would expect of a senior schoolgirl.

And yes, as I described earlier I now had breasts too. Mother had eventually consented to this and I had eagerly begun the course of injections which would give me what I now felt was my proper shape. Eventually I had been so envious of the other girls as they had begun to blossom and grow into the superior female shape. At last, my entreaties, pleadings and complaints had borne fruit. To continue the metaphor, I had grown from a lovely pair of acorns, to plums, apples and then small peaches. Eventually, I had a gorgeous 34-B pair of breasts which I daily enfolded in the daintiest satin and lace.

Samantha had been allowed to see the doctor before me. She now had the sweetest little pair of 34-C breasts and insisted on wearing low-cut dresses, lacy bras and bikinis. She was just that bit more comfortable and therefore more overt than I could manage. Somewhere, deep inside, I was still a boy and she had never been happy that way. It made no real difference to the two of us or to those special friends who knew that we were new-girls.

Samantha, Jennifer and Jean were still my closest friends. As I said before, Jean spent a lot of time with us too which made us a foursome for most of our last two years at school. We didn't do the same courses but we spent almost all our time as a gang. Sometimes other girls joined us but none of them became permanent members of the team. We didn't spend all out time looking at clothes, trying out different makeup and hair-styles. We did girl things. Sometimes this meant going out with boys for milk-shakes, coffees and so on. I can't deny that we went to the occasional party and even to the pub once or twice - but most of the time, we did things as a foursome.

Even at school this was noticed. The headmistress apologised for making only two of us into 'Seniors', what other schools called prefects. We had no real duty apart from helping to keep an eye on the younger pupils and showing prospective parents around the premises. To my amazement, when she announced the names at the last roll-call of the term, both I and Sam won the coveted posts.

Later the headmistress called us in together. "I know that you are both special girls. I believe this makes you particularly skilled in understanding what is best about this school compared, for example, to the nearby boy's and co-ed schools. I expect the best from you two as you spend the next two terms as ambassadresses for this establishment. I congratulate both of you on your complete dedication to your new lives. I expect no more and no less effort in the near future. I am looking forward to sending you into the wide world with my most thorough recommendations. I am confident that you will find opportunities to succeed as women in Life as much as you have been successful girls at my school."

For the second and last time, she spoke to us as the children we had been. "Off you go, my little Sister Wendy and my little Sister Samantha. I shall never refer to this again but I am glad that you have learnt so much in the last few years. Of course, we have had others like you pass through these gates, but you are especially skilled. I speak on behalf of all the teachers when I praise you thus. Now, enough of this, or your heads will swell more than your breasts. Off you go and be good girls in the holidays."

Sam and I looked at each other with a small smile. In unison, we curtsied to our gracious tutor. Then we rose and swirled our skirts to emphasise the importance of swish in our lives.

When I left college, I found it difficult to get a job. I had lived as a girl and as a young woman for nearly six years but I was still not physically or legally a complete woman. I stayed at home for a while before finding a short-term job working for a charity. The job was not very satisfying nor very remunerative.

Auntie Jane had long-term plans which included the opening of a small chain of branches. To my delight, she asked if I wanted to take on the task of running the very first branch. If it went well, she would be quite prepared for me to become the full-time manager. I felt that the faint possibility of partnership was there too. How could I refuse such an opportunity. I would be able to set myself up with a flat, everything - a complete life as a female. The old joke came back to me, 'let joy be unconfined', because in this instance Joy was going to be a lucky girl.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some months later, Aunt Jane told me about a new customer who was moving to my area. A few days later, this Mrs. James rang, and said that she wanted to have an individual evening session. I was puzzled but agreed. When she arrived with a young boy I was almost annoyed. By hindsight and with my own special upbringing, I should have suspected something when I saw that the young lad was wearing a kilt. I specialised in high quality couture and I found it really unhelpful when clients brought their children. I began to make a mild protest when the wind was completely taken out of my sails. She pointed to the chair beside the vanity table and said, "Now, sit over there, dear. Please don't play with the makeup yet."

She turned to me with a little smile, "I'm sorry to surprise you like this. I've brought my nephew, Antony, with me because I want you to pick out a complete wardrobe for him. I am determined to introduce him to a life in satin and I am told by Jane that you will be able to help."

My flabber was completely gasted. Why had Auntie not given me some warning?

"I spoke with Jane when I learnt that she had opened a branch over here. I met her some years ago when I was buying for myself. But this is something new for me. My nephew came to live with me after the death of my sister, some months ago. I've discovered that I really don't feel comfortable with a dirty little boy rushing around all day, so I've been trying to encourage more refined behaviour. I started with buying him lovely silk pants so that he was less willing to get them soiled playing outdoors. That was so successful that I bought him a kilt, well a skirt really. The combination of kilt and silk panties has made a wonderful difference. Suddenly, the idea came to me - if just those two items can make such an improvement - what would be the result of going the whole way and putting the little dear into dresses all the time."

She went on, "I told the child last week 'if there is no improvement in your behaviour, then I will put you into dresses every day.' I'm not accustomed to uppity young boys and I will not accept it. Last night, I made my decision and rang you to make this appointment. So, can you help me. I'm so looking forward to seeing Antony grow into the demure, sweet girl that I want."

I looked over to the young lad. Antony was about eleven, I guessed. Much younger than I had been when I had been teased and encouraged into girlhood. I wondered what it must feel like to have your whole life changed like this at the whim of a rich aunt. At least, I had been involved in the decision to go through into the world of women. I would have to plan carefully here. Was I willing to do this to another boy? I hesitated.

As I stood there, watching him in the big mirror, I saw his hand stretch out to the lipstick on the counter. With surprise, I saw him open it quietly, like a mouse, secretively and dab the tiniest amount on the tip of his finger. Well, well, well. Perhaps his indoctrination had already been more successful than his aunt believed. My mind was made up for me by that one little gesture.

"Well, I must confess I have never been asked to do anything like this, but let's discuss the project for a little while. What do you suggest we have Antony do while we talk. I don't want to jump the gun, but do you think it would be helpful to let Antony choose his own new panties. It would be a first step and one that was within his control, well, let's let him think so." I didn't really wait for an answer as I saw the gleam in his aunt's eye. Without further ado, I called over to the young child and took his hand to walk him over to the large shelves at the side of the shop. "Come here with me, Antony dear. I'm going to leave you here with this boxful of panties so that you can choose a pair for your very own. If you find more than one pair which you think are extra pretty, then, if you're very lucky you can have them too."

I watched his face as I said this. He tried very hard to keep his sour expression, but I was confident that I saw a glimmer of interest.

The two of us went over to my office-desk at the far side of the salon. "I'm sure you were watching him too, what do you think will happen, Mrs James?"

"I don't take bets, dear, but I do believe the dear boy will either sit there and ignore them, or he'll choose a lot more than the one pair. I think that was a really clever idea. If she chooses anything, then indeed I can make her wear them because she chose them. I think we just keep an eye on her, and give a little encouragement from time to time."

I smiled too.

We kept on talking, not just about how she would encourage, cajole, flatter and beguile her dear little child into the true world of femininity. She took my point that force should be the last option. Subtlety and finesse would be the way forward.

After a little while, I made a little mistake, perhaps it was accidentally on purpose.

"When I was given my first panties, I never dreamed that I would be in this situation."

Mrs. James's eyes sparkled. "I did just speculate about that, my dear. But I wasn't going to bring up the possibility. Something your Aunt Jane said made me just wonder whether you had, um, had a change of circumstance so to speak."

I swallowed nervously. This wasn't something I had ever expected to discuss with a client - I had my reputation to consider.

"Well, what happened to me was rather different, I think. It wasn't planned by anyone, more, it just seemed to happen, a chain of events sort of thing." I forced myself to change the subject, "But I think I'd rather not talk about me at the moment, at the moment Antony is the important issue. Perhaps some other time, when I've come round to the idea that some people are going to guess my secret. At this exact moment, I'm really just a little unhappy about that and so I'm going to ignore it. So, please, let's get back to Antony's situation and your, rather our, plans for him."

"Don't you think you should do as I do and call him 'her' from now on. I have been trying to flatter the dear child. You know, saying 'that's so sweet' when she does something I approve of and 'dirty little boy' at other times."

Once more we smiled at each other, completely in tune as we had been cronies for years instead of minutes.

Mrs. James interrupted this moment of silence, "I've been watching and I do actually think that Antonia has been unable to keep her little hands off those lovely frillies. Shall we go and see." The two of us put down our lipstick-smeared coffee-cups and set off into the front room.

"Oh, I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting, darling - but we've nearly finished and we came to see how you were getting on. Have you found anything you like, dear."

Antony's face clouded over. "No, I'm a boy - not a girl. I'm a boy - I'm not interested in panties and girl stuff like that. There's nothing here."

I attacked - just a little, "Now, don't say you're not a girl when I've just seen you behave like a girl. I saw you when I last turned round, you were stroking these lovely pink panties. I could see you. Don't bother to deny it, your face is almost as pink as they are. As you so accurately say, boys don't wear panties - they aren't even interested in panties. So - since I saw you with your hands in the box , stroking and feeling the soft satin - I am completely certain what I saw when I say this - which have you chosen as your first panties. The ones you looked at are made from artificial silk rather than the real thing, but I'm sure they're going to feel much more comfortable than the rough things you've worn up to now. Well, pick them up, dear, and try them on."

Antony went red, white, crimson, scarlet. He snatched his hands away from the pile of lingerie.

"No, dear. I said pick up your chosen panties and please try them on."

Slowly his hands unfolded.

"Come on. I saw you with them earlier. There was one particular pair you were looking at. I know which it was. You chose them so get on with it."

Closer, closer, closer. His hand touched them, grasped them and took possession. Then to our pleasure, he snatched at a second pair too.

"Come along. Into the changing room. Now. We all understand that this seems bit sudden and that it's a big step but you've already made the first decision by selecting those panties for yourself - will you please hurry up."

My first transformee began his career. He was just so unwilling to take that giant step into the changing cubicle of a women's boutique. We both stood in the doorway while he stripped off and then slipped his gorgeously frilled panties up each leg. I took his old pants and most of his other things away. He stood there in the bright light, a pretty little sissy in pink panties. His hair was already quite long and his figure was as asexual as most other children of his age.

"That looks lovely, dear. They fit you very well. Here's a vest to go with them," and I passed a matching silk vest to the quivering youth. With no real complaint, he put that on too. Then, the shirt and the soft satin shorts, the short socks and the dainty little slippers - with one inch heels - which came out of Mrs James's bag. In a few minutes, a little girl stood before us.

I took the little darling by the hand and sat her in a chair so that I could arrange her hair in a more suitable style. Fortunately, there was no mirror for our victim to see the quality of the transformation - until - voila - I span the chair to present "And here before your very eyes, the new Antonia."

Mrs James was speechless with delight, she clapped her hands and glowed with pleasure.

Ex-Antony was also speechless. Before his eyes was a girl - and it was him. I detected the faintest gasp before s/he whispered, "I don't believe it."

I heard this with undeniable excitement and crouched daintily beside the new-girl, "Yes, darling - and look how pretty you are." And I smiled into the eyes of the girl on the chair, for truly, it was hard to see that it was really a boy anymore.

To my continued amazement, the child's behaviour was quite different when she climbed down from the chair. Gone was the sullen, quiet boy who had arrived. Instead was a dancing, dazzling, chirruping maiden, looking into every rack of clothes, stroking the dresses and saying, 'ooh, pretty'.

Was it really possible to convert a boy into a girl so easily? I felt sure that it had not been so easy with me. I needed to talk with my sister, my mother and my aunt - urgently.

There are further stories of how the SisterHood grew and began to encourage a number of boys and men into a, let’s say, a review of their day to day habits.

~o~O~o~

SisterDom

Introduction and some personal comments; notes about Abuse

The SisterDom is a group of wonderful women who know that it is important to help their men to access and, when they are comfortable with the concept, to release their inner girlhood. These women are willing to train and transition their new-girls using a variety of simple techniques. The stories in the group involve a series of characters.

The aim of the SisterDom is to help males understand that it is not possible to be 100% masculine nor 100% feminine but rather that there is a spectrum of gender. The SisterDom is equally firm that there is a spectrum of sexuality from heterosexual to homosexual but they are less concerned with that issue.

As regards the FeMale spectrum – which they always write in this way so as to emphasise the close linkage of the two aspects – they believe in the yin-yang approach. That is to say, within even the most macho man is a speck of femininity and likewise within the most femme woman there are macho values able to be asserted. And the size of the yin-yang dot is not relevant – some are bigger, some are smaller, some are nearly 50%, some are nigh-on invisible.

The primary aim of the SisterDom is to ensure that the male is able to access his female speck; the dot of the Yin-Yang. The belief is that this will reduce the likelihood of macho ‘powergames’ from which we see so much damage and evil resulting. For the Sisters, abuse of power is one of the worst sins. This puts them into a difficult position because some of their membership do put considerable pressure on trainees ‘in order to reach their femme-core’. And pressure is easily seen as abuse – as it is the trainee-target who must decide whether their treatment is abusive or enlightening. The intention of the trainer is not relevant as to whether the physical or emotional treatment is abusive or not. [See notes on Domestic Abuse]

Generally, any trainer who is found to have behaved improperly is required to stop doing so and they have found ways to maintain such discipline.

The key aim is to help boys and men to learn restraint. Learning how to control their own behaviour will reduce the risk of abusing others by their macho behaviour. Training is designed to show them how behaving in a feminine way is not actually bad or improper but actually allows the trainee to behave in a non-damaging way while still attaining their personal objectives.

Trainees can be called new-girls, girlies, ex-boys, pretty-boys or sometimes-sisters or gurrls. The technique has variously been called girling, femming, pink-blueing or girlhood. In other centres, the SisterDom is called GirlWirld or TransFemmation.

The Glorious Sisters of the SisterDom Revolution know what it is to release the inner man. They have learnt that men are better if their inner-woman has the opportunity for display. They know how men blossom and bloom as the inner bud is cultivated. But the key is that the answer is not the same for any man.

Religion has it right when it says, as many do, that no single person is like any other. But this does also mean that to do the best for and with any single person – so that best may differ from what any other person might need – and that any differing combination of helper and helpee will also require a different package.

Counsellors are right in that any true change must come from within the changee; and that any change that is forced from outside is likely to fail. But there is a deep truth that a change that is encouraged and endorsed and welcomed has a better chance of success.

I do know that my stories are imaginary. I write and I read so much fantasy and fiction that I know one of my escapes is into the charming and interesting worlds of imagination. And I do not accept that escapism is actually wrong – provided that the problems of the real world are not ignored in favour or escape. (and I now admit that I have sometimes gone too far and not done my absolute best at the real world).

I do know that I am not perfect – but there is such a difference between ‘that wasn’t perfect but it will do’ and ‘that was poorly done’; So much difference between ‘Why didn’t you do that’ rather than ’How about next time’; so much better to receive ‘How about this suggestion’ rather than ‘That won’t work at all’.

I remembered back to my days when I first dreamt of the Sisterhood or as I later renamed it the SisterDom. Oh how I wanted someone to care without criticism. How I wanted love without reproach, support without disapproval. Isn’t that what good sisters should provide? I want to know less about cruelty, abandonment, unkindness and hurt.

I do hope that some of the stories I read about where there is truly loving support for those in pain; I hope some of these are true. But my inner certainty is all too often that the reality is so frequently hurtful. They say that ‘the truth hurts’ but that does not mean that it is only true if there is hurt. It is not true to say that Intolerance is Right; it is not true to say that Might is Right. It is not true to say that Different is Wrong.

I know some of what is good and some of what is evil. I know that decency and tolerance and kindness and all the other words that mean love, I do know these are good things. I know that this is what I write about and hope for from Sisters.

But I am coming to more certainty about what I want. I want companionship. I want friends. I really do want and need support without criticism, love without disapproval, kindness without hurt, friendship without reproach. In my escapist worlds – I often find love, caring, kindness, support, friendship. I want more of this in the real world. I know that is the Sisters were real, then often they would provide this to so many needful men.

If even ONE reader does more kindness or gets more kindness because of what I write then that is a success. And it might even mean that I am a bit of a Sister providing assisterance.

-----------------------------
A Tangent on Domestic Abuse

If the work of the Sisters can do anything to reduce the number of unkind men or even give more women the strength not to be victims – then either of those would be a wonderful thing.

There are wildly varying statistics on domestic abuse. For the UK, Womens Aid do summarise one view of the current situation and that their objective is to end violence to women and children in the UK.

The report for 2011/12 does state :- 1.2 million women were abused in the year and 0.8 million men BUT the Police only identify 0.8 million events - [2 million people is a lot more than 0.8 m events!!].

There were some 500,000 sexual assaults of which 5 in 6 were men on women; of which 54,000 serious events were reported to the police and in that year (relating of course to older events) 1,150 men were convicted. [This is an appalling mismatch and also shows the difficulty of he-says-she-says proof.]

One often repeated and MISLEADING statistic is that – “while one in four women experience domestic violence so do one in six men”. These figures refer primarily to single criminal incidents without regard to the Severity of violence; the amount of Repetition or the Complex & Overlapping Pattern of Multiple Abuse. Even more importantly, the statement that some men sometimes suffer abuse also ignores the 5 in 6 proportion for Sexual Assault. In addition, Emotional Abuse is ignored as it is not a crime even though survivors often find it is even more destructive’.

[There is no amended figure for how much more abuse there is to women as there is to men. There is an implicit statement that abuse of any form to anyone by anyone at home or work or play of any age, race, creed or sex is wrong and unacceptable.

It would be more accurate to say that ‘There is an appalling amount of physical and emotional abuse by men to women and children and a significant amount of abuse by women to men’. I have no data about how much abuse and what sort of abuse happens in any other country – let alone in the perhaps differently based Near East, Far East or non-christian areas. There is enough vague information to suggest that many countries are worse and perhaps we are a tiny bit ahead of some in recognising that abuse does occur and that it is wrong. AP]

Some of the comments we found while doing Girl101 got me thinking –
So many unkind words – so little love.

by Alys Prince

---

 
Like many of us doing Girl101, I now spend time on the net noticing stories and comments about the whole transgender arena. And sometimes the fingers get atwitching and I spend much longer than I intend – but that’s what modern electric-boxes do for you. Some of what I find turns out to be horribly oversimplified, some of it turns out to be just horrid and some just simple.

But recently I saw this massively incompetent and therefore truly ugly poster :-
 

Five things you should never say to your trans kid:   Their gender is a sin in your religion. They’re going to therapy to become cisgender. You won’t use their correct name or pronoun. Something they like is for a different gender. They aren’t beautiful.

 

I know grammar and accuracy isn’t important for some people – but sheeesh, this is dreadful in so many different ways.

At the very very least …. God made you – that’s how it is.
The doctors can cure you.
Your name is Jeff so that’s your name. Don’t argue.
That’s not for you – that’s for a boy.
You’re perverted, wrong and revolting – Get out.

I mean what sort of a conversation or diatribe involves the phrase ‘their gender is a sin’. Stupid. At the very least, if you are using ‘you’ as the target then tell them ‘your attempt to change gender is a sin’. But why should one expect a person with stupid thoughts and attitudes to be anything other than stupid. Although bright people can demonstrate stupidity.

It does happen. Watch the otherwise or perhaps elsewhen intelligent Malcolm Muggeridge display all the skills of a nasty-minded non-listener in the debate about ‘Life of Brian’ with John Cleese and Michael Palin when the film first came out. A crisp and clear example of the intolerant putting on blinkers to avoid any pretence of dialogue.

But the meaning of the ‘5 Things never to Say’ is clear and there are enough people who can think that ugly. And speak that ugly. And behave that ugly. And isn’t that a comment on the value and efficiency of Christian teaching.

Instead I began to listen, look for and find lots of other comments that might actually be said out loud.

When I told the others, the whole group of us got together to look at the sorts of things that people apparently say to their children when the kids are old enough and strong enough to say that they’re ‘a bit different’ or ‘too interested in girl’s clothes’ or even worse ‘that they think they’re a girl inside’.

We took some of our comments from what the various ‘different’ folks in our group were able to tell us – when they came out as gay or as non-christian or in some dreadful way as ‘other than their parents’. Wow – some of the comments were awful – frightening – enlightening – just wrong.

After a while, Susan went off to her computer and began a set of huge calligraphy-style posters. Each had about 5 comments on to start with. They were headed Things to Say, Things NOT to Say and General Comments But the number of comments grew so very quickly.

Her first poster was
 

NEVER say :-   The Bible says you’re wrong and will go to hell. You were born a boy and that’s it. We’ll go and see a therapist to fix you. We named you ‘Boy’ and that’s what you are. Why do you have to be so difficult. I understand – it’s just a phase you’re going through.

 
That was the first version.

By the time we had sat down and talked with folks and emailed and stuff – the list was bigger, a lot bigger. And it grows almost every day. But the most common ones are still the ones we hear every day.

NEVER say anything like This:-

• The Bible says you are wrong and what you want to do is wrong
• God hates you and says so in his book of rules.
• We’ll take you to therapy to sort you out.
• The way you were born is the way you will always be.
• Pretending the way you do is pathetic and wrong and evil.
• I don’t understand you and I never will.
• Why do you have to be so difficult.
• It’s all about what YOU want isn’t it – just so selfish.
• Are you trying to tell us that you’re gay.
• You disgust me.
• Why don’t you grow up and stop pretending.
• I’m going to get your hair cut and we’ll throw away all that girly stuff.
• Come and play ball, get all that stuff out of your system.
• The whole idea of a man wearing a dress or even panties revolts me – it’s just wrong.
• Are you sure? Because this decision will affect the rest of your life?
• But what will people think – they’ll blame me.
• It’s all your teacher’s fault [or alternative]
• So you want to be a pretend woman even though you can’t have babies or a period or real breasts.
• You want this for what – so that you can be f***ed by men.
• I understand you because I’m gay / bisexual
• I understand you because I love women’s panties (but do you wear them)
• It’s just a disgusting fetish
• I’ll never understand you.
• It’s just a stage you’re going through.
• This is because you think I favour your sister over you.
• Is this why my clothes are being messed up so often?
• I always suspected something like this.
• (Mum) I’ve always wanted a daughter
• (Mum) Oh goody, let’s go shopping.
• (Mum) Oh, how exciting.
• My friends said there was something weird about you.
• You just need to man-u and get these stupid ideas out of your head.
• Go to your room – I’ll be coming up later to sort you out.
• Well, this simplifies my will – now I only have one child.
• Get out of this house, you vile pervert.
• I never want to see you again or have anything to do with your revolting habits.
• Get out – and don’t come back.
• Slap! Thwack! Smash! Kick! Hurt Get Out.
• I’ll make you cry, you snivelling little sissy – you thing.

We didn’t bother to list the names that we get called - Faggot, Sissy, Crybaby, Pussy, Pervert, Pxxdophile, and all the ugly words which should be forbidden so they shouldn’t be said to anybody. I know the law pretends to say it’s wrong and sometimes people get prosecuted. But isn’t it strange how it’s hardly ever anyone white or powerful or famous who gets hammered.

Susan soon finished her second poster.
 

Nice things to say.   I don’t understand – but you’re my child and I love you. You may feel or be unusual – but you’re not alone. Never forget – there are others who have taken this path before you. WE need to talk about this – openly - and maybe a cup of tea. So – I love you anyway.

 

And there were other good things which people said or should say.

You could or should say This :-

• God made the world complicated but beautiful – just like you.
• I don’t understand – but you’re my child and I love you and I’ll help you.
• What’s the best thing I can do to help right now and for tomorrow.
• I know you feel you don’t have a choice, but let’s look at the options.
• If you didn’t already know – being different is a really difficult place
• It’s not wrong to be different - but it can be harsh.
• You may feel or be unusual – but you’re not alone.
• Never forget, there’s others who have taken this path before you.
• Well, it’s not a disease or a mental disorder – whatever anyone else may say.
• I don’t know much about this issue – what can you tell me?
• You are unique in your life and style – be confident.
• It doesn’t matter to me – I love you.
• It does matter a bit because I don’t understand – but I still love you.
• I think this needs a cup of tea and a chat.

It was horribly much easier to find nasty comments than nice ones. Probably because the nasty ones hurt and the nice ones only heal a bit. Like one of the girls said, ‘It’s hard to feel good when people you have never met say they hate you.’

And Susan’s third poster had just one sentence at first.
 

Being gay is not a choice; Being Trans is not a choice;   but some people do choose Homophobia

 

And after trawling the web for a little while for well-written quotes, our current list includes the following.

And some General Comments :-

• Being gay is not a choice; being trans is not a choice. But some people do choose – they choose homophobia.
• People do not choose Gender Identity, Sexual Orientation, Race, Appearance, Age, Mental illness or Disability. People do choose to be an asshole.
• Until we had a Voice we had no Choice.
• It hurts coming out as transgender – but keeping it secret hurts too.
• Gender does not change personality; gender does not determine who you love.
• When I ask for equality .... I am not asking for special treatment.
• You know you’re doing something important when people you don’t know hate you.
• Being trans can be terrifying – it’s not all hairdos and sleepovers with nice girls.
• Trans is nothing to romanticize or fantasize about – it may be a choice but it’s very hard.
• Homosexuality occurs in many species – Homophobia in only found in humans!
• Never change who you are because ‘they’ disapprove.
• It’s not about changing me – it’s about others understanding who I am.
• And to steal from a truly lovely lady
• Nothing is impossible – the word itself says I’m Possible (Audrey Hepburn)

When we put the posters up, we placed a a packet of stickers nearby with a notice . “Please add a sticker if someone has said this to you.” Nobody was willing to guess which of these will get the most comments.

By the end of the month, we had so many more comments which people had heard or found. And it was hard to decide which were the most significant. Some were uncommon or only heard once but truly vile. Others were so frequent as to (almost) have little effect.

Then Jason found the Transquote files on Tumblr. Some comments were stronger and clearer than others but too many said variations on ‘You hurt me but I’m getting past it’. Well done to anyone who can say that.

And ‘We would have loved you if we knew’ to all those who didn’t make it.

As always, we aim to reduce intolerance by making people THINK. Some people do think but not very well. Some people want to think but their minds are stuck in an ugly groove. Some people can only think what they’ve been told to think. Let’s hope for a better future.

I don’t like people who exaggerate, but if I’ve said it once I’ve said it a million times ‘I hate people who hate people’.

---

** If anyone offers a really suitable quote for any of the three categories above, I may well steal it and add it in – OK. AP

I am sorry if this almost comes out as if it were a blog – it’s actually a section which I cut from another story Girl101 and then extended. AP

I was TRYING (and mostly failed) to show the 'posters' as well-coloured text, red, orange etc, in boxes, ... ooops.

Being a Girl - in his Dreams

Saved to re-read, title and details lost, so then much rewritten

How much did he want the dream to be real ?

---

Jackson heard the door open and turned around in panic too see his mother, Anya, standing in the doorway. Somehow she had come back from shopping, opened the front door and come all the way upstairs without him noticing any of the usual warnings. And, by golly, hadn’t he been so careful on every previous occasion. But this time – she’d come home more quickly than expected and he’d been too busy admiring himself. Ooops was perhaps too mild a word (a family phrase but suitable for even THIS situation).

He was a boy of 13 years but presently not dressed that way. Instead he wore a pale green droop-neck cashmere pullover with an embroidered dark-green leaf design and a just-above-knee cream suede skort. Both were his elder sister’s. And panties. But no bra or tights.

He had started to try on his mother’s clothes just a few months ago. And then begun to do the same with his sisters’. Actually, it was tricky, mother’s clothes fit better but sis’s were more his style.

He could not explain why but he did it with a lot of guilt and shame. Nevertheless, despite the fact that after each dressing session he promised to himself never to do it again, the next time he had the chance he did it again. The indescribable urge was just too overwhelming.

The clothes did not fit his slim body very well. The pullover was sooo nice, soft yet lovely. The very girlish style was pleasing too. The skort was not a good fit. He had to put a belt through the two hanger loops in order to keep it up. However these were amongst his favourite pieces to wear. He liked the look, but most of all he liked the material. So very different from any of his usual clothes.

"My oh my, what do we have here?" His mother asked with a strange look on her face. Jackson wasn’t quite sure what that look meant. Anger – no. Disapproval – unsure. Approval – no.

"It is just a jo ... joke," he stumble-stuttered.

"A joke, what do you mean?"

"I...I was a bit bored and saw the clothes on the chair and... and wondered how they would look and feel."

"And how do they? Obviously you looked, and now you’re feeling. And I’m looking at my son wearing, um, very unusual costume.”

"Well they feel quite ok, but I was just going to put them back …. And now you’re here. And … well, obviously I’d better take all this off." Saying this he lifted the pullover to unbuckle the belt. Being properly dressed, there was a good inch of gap between the pullover and the skort!

"Stop it!" as his mother pulled at the waistband of the skort. "This is nearly two inches too wide." Pulling by the waistband of the skirt she dragged him to the table. She sat and he stood.

Anya was a seamstress and she worked at home, altering clothes for different clothing stores. The room with the large wardrobe they were presently in was her working room. She grabbed a pin-cushion and attached it around her left wrist. Still holding the spare fabric of the waistband at the seam she put a first pin to fix it. A second and a third followed before Jackson began to recover: "What are you doing? Please stop!"

Silently and clearly unimpressed, his mother put the fourth and fifth pin in and was already down at his hip.

"Please, please, Mom, I will never do it again, please just let me take it off!" he was pleading with tears in his eyes.

"Stop whimpering, I'm almost done and then you can take it off," was his mother's answer.

Proficient as she was, this was the case a minute later. She helped him out of the skort carefully. As he took it off and started to remove the pullover, she stopped him again.

"We are not done yet, young lady. Keep the pullover on and put this on while I am altering your skirt." By this she gave him a denim skirt she had pulled out of a lower drawer. "I cannot wear it anymore, it is an old one and much too slim for me. If it fits it's yours!"

"Mom, are you crazy?

"Put the skirt on before we discuss mental health – mine or more specifically yours!" She ordered in a strict voice Jackson knew not to disobey.

While he was putting the skirt on, puzzled by all what happened, his mother was already altering the other skort - she had labelled as ‘your skirt' - with the sewing machine.

When so unexpectedly caught by his mother he had expected that she would scream and order him to take off the clothes right away. He had not expected this reaction. What was she up to? Suddenly, he started to fear that she wanted to dress him like a girl and show him off to his father and his older brother. That would be his death. He was starting to shake and could not manage to close the button of the skirt which in addition was the wrong way around.

"Come here, I'll help you. You will learn to button up this way in no time! Oh, it is a perfect fit. How do you like your first own skirt?"

"Mom, please stop it, I will be nice and never ever do it again!" He was pleading.

"Young lady, this is certainly not the end but the beginning; just enjoy!"

"Mom, please. I'm not a girl!"

"I'm not so sure about that," answered his mother. "You dress up in my clothes for months now and seem to enjoy being a girl! Do you think I have not noticed you dressing in my skirts and things?"

Oh, she did know all the time. Was today some sort of trap?

"Now go and fetch the dark brown boots with the 2 inch heels just around the corner. We have about the same size and they will fit lovely to your brown skirt and pullover. I'm done in a minute and you can try your new clothes on."

"Mom, please, please let's stop this! Please don't make me wear these clothes in front of Dad and Bob; I'm sorry that I dressed up in your clothes."

"You don't have to be sorry and they are now your clothes. Here try your new skirt on, I'm done."

Still puzzled Jackson stepped out of the jeans skirt and into ‚his' altered brown skirt. It was a perfect fit and deep down he loved it. Then his mother ordered him to put on the boots and to model for her. She also took some photos.

"I am not intending to show you dressed like this to your Dad and brother. They would stop all this immediately – and very angrily."

"What then?"

"When I recognized your interest in female clothes I investigated on the internet and also had several long talks with Andrea. You know, my friend from high-school who works now as a psychiatrist. We couldn't work out exactly what would be best for you. Andrea has found others for whom 24/7/365 full immersion therapy, dressing as a girl, being a girl, going to school as a girl works for some. Due to the expense, often she suggests full-time girling just for every evening and weekend. What has been decided is that whenever we two are alone at home, which will be most of the time with Bobby going to college next week and your Dad travelling most of the time, you will dress as Jackie. Am I guessing that’s the name you call your girl-self."

Jackson twitched. His dressing had never got as far as giving him-her a name! It was the feel of the clothes that he enjoyed.

"If you’re going to be any sort of girl any of the time, then you’ll be helping me with the domestic chores. In particular you’ll be my mannequin and fashion model. I am fed up with altering cheap and uninspired clothes, my dream was always to be a fashion designer for young fashion. With this obvious interest in female fashion and my dream we could be a real team."

Jackson was just speechless. Slowly it dawned on him that he would / could / might be spending a lot of time in dresses and skirts.

His mother continued, "I have no intention to reveal our little secret to anybody we know except for Andrea. By the way, we have an appointment with her later. We’ll have to do some shopping first. Here’s a jacket and a bag; let's go."

He was totally surprised and found himself already in the car when he realised that he was already out of the house dressed as a girl. For the first time.

"Smooth your skirt when you sit down and enjoy the ride, Jackie! This is almost like Christmas and Easter for me to have a lovely daughter so suddenly. We can go to town to the salon. Then you’ll be ready to meet my friend Andrea. She knows about boys like you.”

They drove to a larger town quite a bit away. This made Jackson-Jackie considerably more relaxed since he was sure that the chance to meet somebody he knew there was very slim.

They pulled up into a parking lot in front of a large building and went in. For Jackie it was a really scary-exciting experience to leave the car and to feel the breeze under his skirt. Surprisingly, he had not too much problems to walk in the boots since they had a wide heel, but he had to walk differently. All these differences made him very aware that he was outside the house and in girl-costume. Scary. However, nobody came close or paid much attention to a woman and her daughter.

When they entered the elevator they were alone but in the last moment a woman in here early 30s entered also.

"Thank you for holding the lift. You have a lovely daughter and so nicely dressed."

The threesome moved together to the nearby salon. They all sat while tea and coffee arrived. They were told there would be a short wait until their salon-girls were ready. The delay encouraged Anya to expand on her ideas to her new friend.

"Thank you. Yes, Jackie likes the more feminine clothes. She never was a tomboy and always wanted to wear dresses and skirts only."

"How lucky you are. All my friends with daughters complain about them just running around in pants and t-shirts."

"I know how lucky I am and I am enjoying every minute with her. She hopes to become a fashion model in some years time, but I'm not so sure if I want that. It is a tough business and a lot of the models have anorexia. I think I will keep her as my own healthy fashion model in dresses and skirts for the next years. I’m a seamstress planning to design my own fashion line. I think Jackie and my ideas will work well."

Jackie stood there, shocked speechless by what he was hearing.

"I'm actually also in the teen fashion business and we really have to make sure that our models do not fall into this pattern when older. For us it is just a no-go to promote a stupidly-thin picture of young women – even though it’s what too many magazine editors think they should show.”

"That's very brave since the mainstream is flowing in a different direction."

"No, but my team does believe that the ‘silent majority’ is fed up with these starved models and would go for a different type of fashion if they had the opportunity. We need to give them that choice. Make them believe the choice is real, affordable and ready for them.”

After they had all been buffed, polished and shone to a high gleam, by coincidence they all finished at more or less the same time. The lady, Jenka, led them a few shops along. "Here is where I'm working,"

They looked at the sign filling almost the whole wall. ’Young Fashionistas' was framed with the pictures of two teen models in fresh and colourful attire.

"This is my brand," Jenka explained.

"You are the owner?"

"Yes, I just started a few month ago after having been working in the fashion industry for the last ten years and I'm always looking for some new inspiration. If you have a first collection, Anya, please let me know. Or even when you have some pieces ready and concepts or drawings gfor more.”

Jenka turned to Jackie. "Jackie, we will have a fashion show Saturday in a week and I'm still looking for some models for the young teen's fashion. Would you like to give it a try?"

Jackie was taken by surprise since this was the first time he was directly addressed. What were his options for a reaction? His mother had indicated his enthusiasm for fashion and his plan to become a model. He had only one way to react without sounding very odd:

"Oh, oh, Jenka, you took me by surprise. Yes, I would love to – if mum says that’s okay’”

"Ok then. Rehearsal is next Saturday at 2 pm. You just have to wear underwear in light colour like white or light pink for the summer collection. The bra should be strapless for the shoulder-free dresses and tops. You don't have to care for make-up or nail polish that will be done by my staff – that means don’t wear any. By the way, I like your pixie cut. It is almost boyish and will make a point with the very feminine clothes. That's fine with you?"

Anya was beaming with pride hearing about her Jackie’s opportunity. “Sure, Jenka, I'm so happy for this. I’ll drive Jackie here. Can I stay for the rehearsal?"

"Of course, Anya. No problem – and then stay for the show. I can’t ask you to miss Jackie on the catwalk."

After exchanging phone numbers, Jackie and Anya set off with happy smiles on both their faces.

------------------------------
At the appointed time, they arrived at Andrea’s office. The receptionist, a pretty young girl with pale red shoulder-length hair, took their details and waved them to a pretty room with long windows looking over the park. Andrea came in moments later.
"Nice to meet you Jackie. Anya has told me quite a lot about you, well enough details to start with anyway. How do you feel?"

"Great!" And he explained what happened in the last few hours since his mother entered his room. And in the next hour, he began to relax and open up about what had happened in the last few months. And what sort of vague ideas he had for the future.

"Now even with all this background information I cannot directly begin with any actual treatment for you. I have no clue yet as to whether you ‘just like dressing up’; want to be a girl sometimes; want to be a girl deep in your soul or just want to pretend some of the time. Finding out is going to require a fair amount of talk. Mostly by you. And I’ll ask some questions now and again. This is going to take time.”

“I won’t call this therapy or treatment or anything complicated. We’re finding out about YOU and what you want for yourself and how we might help with some of your wishes, intentions and so on. At the age of 13, you’re not very likely to be ready for life-changing suggestions, let alone life-changing actions.”

“If you’ve been thinking about becoming a girl. It may be that you've been webbing, and you’ll have read about the options. At this stage, it may be that 24-7 might be the right option and enough opportunity for you to decide if being a full-time girl is suitable for you. Or not. You need enough time to find and love your inner self. Not what you think other people want for you. Certainly, there’s some way to go before testosterone-blockers to delay puberty. If it does become advisable – bearing in mind the several rules and regulations. Then there is the separate issue of any estrogen-type options to begin developing any female characteristics. At this stage, there will be NO encouragement to tucking, testes-reinsertion, or pseudo-labia. That MAY, and I repeat MAY, come later.”

“But I can dress up?”

“Within your mother’s rules – I see no problem.”

“And I can do the modelling?”

“That has to be outside my remit. I do NOT recommend doing so unless there is 101% certainty that you will not be outed. And I would strongly advise telling any potential employer.”

------------------------
Jackson was still turning around while his mother began speaking. Her first words destroyed the daydream he had been having.

"What the hell are you doing here in my clothes! Dressed up like some silly girl. You’re a boy and that’s that" she shouted and slapped his face hard. Her camera was suddenly in her hand, flash, flash, flashing.

“If I ever catch you like this again then these pictures will be sent to every one of your friends. To school. To your judo club and anyone else I think needs to know about this disgusting behaviour. And if I do find you dressed up I will drag you down the street to the doctor to have something done to you. If I even THINK you’ve been in my drawers or your sisters’ then you’ll be in so much trouble.”

She tore the clothes off the young boy and sent him to bed, sobbing and wailing.

A few moments later, she came into his room and searched every drawer, every cupboard, every possible pace there might be a stolen, hidden stash of pretty, soft, smooth, silky, lovely unboy clothes. Fortunately for Jackson, nothing was found.

-------------------------
Dreams ……… they CAN be a glimpse of a possible future. Or of an IMpossible future.

Best Friends Forever is not just for Girls

Paul gave Bethany a birthday present – just a little gift. Would it have made any difference in the long run. He gave her a little heart which could be divided in two – he thought it represented how the two of them were for each other. Well, yes, but not the way HE thought. Oh dear.

----------------------------

“Oh, that’s so pretty. It’s just like the one from Debbie, my best friend from Bismouth when I was at University. We gave each other a heart because we were Best Friends Forever – y’know it’s more of an American thing – but then she was from America and we both needed a real friend at that time.”

“And, now not so much BFF?” he wondered aloud.

“Well, we speak almost every week and it used to be lots of times every day – and she is a long way away – and I’m here and she’s not – y’know.” Her face suddenly lit up – “If she was my BFF at Bismouth then you can be my BFF here in Harchester.”

“Isn’t a BFF supposed to be another girl?”

“Well, sure, but friends can bend the rules for each other, can’t they?”

“I hope there’s no ‘rules’ for BFFs – knowing you, you’d ask around to see if it was acceptable for a Harchester girl to have a mere male as a BFF.”

“Oooh, you’re not supposed to know the Ladies’ Rules,” Beth smirked.

“What – the ones that begin ‘The Male shall not know any of the Rules – and -2- If any male learns a Rule then the Rule must be altered.”

“Yeah, that’s them – or they are those - or whatever.” She grinned. “Anyway, I need a new BFF and you have been selected for the job. Who else in this appalling place gets asked to help whenever I have a problem. Who is the only person here who is willing and able to tell me when I’ve gone over the top and how, sometimes, to fix it.? Who, around here, is the closest thing to a real live genuine bestie?”

“Let’s just leave it at that. Okay, but ‘bestie’?”

“No, no, no, if we’re Besties, we have to do the pinky-finger promise. Hold up your hand with the little finger out at pointed to me.” She did the same, linked fingers with me and said “I promise that I, Bethany, and my friend Paul, er, are, er, Best Friends Forever.”

“Why did you hesitate in the middle?”

“Well, you’re sort of right in that it isn’t really proper for BFFs to be boy and girl. It can get all icky if things get either too serious or if they go wrong.”

“Icky! Am I going to have to learn all these appalling girly words when I’m being your BFF.”

“Oh, no. I don’t think we need to do that. We’re just BFFs who happen, unusually and strangely, to be boy and girl instead of the right way round.”

“In which part of the planet is a boy-girl combo ‘strange and unusual’?

“In the BFF World, silly. Now, let’s get on, I’ve got lots to talk to you about and for some of it I’m going to need genuine BFF assistance.”

Somehow my birthday gift had had the wrong effect. Instead of moving things to a new and better level as I had intended – it had moved things to a new and very different level where I was the BFF of the girl I wanted to be with and, er, had aimed to do boy-girl things with. I had no intention of being a BFF unless my vulgar mind offered it was going to be ‘Big Fancy F…ing’.

As usual, we went into her room which was frilly and frothy and pink and infested with teddy-bears, ribbons and a whole whirl of girl stuff.

Beth patted the bed beside her and we wriggled up the bed until we were comfy and leaning on the enormous pile of pillows and cushions which Beth had unloaded from every crevice of her Dad’s car. Even the pillows had frills and ribbons and, I noticed, had been freshly spritzed with perfume. I was going to pong when I left!

“Do you have to spray your pillows every week? You know it makes me reek in a very non-macho way. My flatmates were positively vulgar about it.”

“Now, is that any way for my BFF to behave? You SHOULD be commenting on how suitable the perfume is for me or suggesting an alternative. This is a girly room, as you’ve said before, and therefore only girlies should be in it – unless I’m am moving well past Girly into Willing Object of Love (and Lust) – and a WOLL is one category which a BFF can never belong to. So do you agree that you is my BFF – no, I’ll rephrase that – thank you so much for agreeing to be my BFF. We’ll be able to do so much together.”

“Enough for the moment.” And was I a bit fed u that there was now almost no chance that she would be a WOLL with me. So not what I was hoping for. My inner male (Lion because I’m a Leo) growled.

She gave a distinct pout – accompanied by a sneaky little grin. “Aww, alright, precious. Just for now.”

We talked about college, about the others on the course, about the people she liked and disliked, about what she should wear for the Saturday Night Out extravaganza and what she should do with her hair next time. Looking back, these were completely girl topics and we were talking pretty much like BFFs would talk.

When I left that evening, Beth gave me a pinky wave – so assuming this was what BFFs did for each other, I gave one back. Her flatmate Sara noticed and giggled. “Hey, you two, you’ve signed up as BFFs have you. That’s so sweet – even if a little American.”

Back at my flat, the only comment I got was ‘You’ve been round at Bethany’s again, haven’t you – I can smell her perfume from here. What does she do – spray you with the stuff?”

“No – but everything she has is saturated. Even the pillows on the bed and her two favourite teddy-bears.”

“Whoa, man – are you getting into her bedroom now? Getting closer to home-base, then, eh?”

“No, but she can’t discuss everything in front of her flatmates – especially when sometimes it’s them she’s talking about.”

“She talks to you rather than her flatmates about really personal stuff. You need to be careful or you’ll go right past boyfriend or potential boyfriend to friend who is a boy.”

Something in my expression must have made Joe suspect something. “No way, man. She hasn’t given you the ‘you’re so special but not as one of those macho males’ signal? You don’t deserve that. You’re a nice bloke but you’re still aiming to have a girlfriend rather than a friend who is a girl. Dangerous water, flattie. The sharks’ll swoop in and gobble up that tasty little morsel - and I mean Bethany.”

“Duh, you can hardly mean me.”

“Why not, there’s female sharks too. You’re bright, you’re a bit skinny but you clean up well, you dress well or at least you make average-price clothes look more expensive. You’ve even had someone in the street give you a card about being a male model, for god’s sake. As soon as you say you’re available – there’s girls out there for you. What I can’t understand is why you don’t build on these chick-magnet opportunities. Almost every evening, you spend over at Bethany’s flat and, as far as we can tell, all you do is TALK. Yuk.”

“I don’t do too badly with the girls. It’s not just Bethany, you know.”

“Come on, flattie, I share a flat with you. I probably know you better than your mother and father do. I know how often you go out, what you do of an evening, exactly what zoomers you pull during the day, who you talk to, when you talk to them, what you talk to them about and exactly how often you have sex. Which is, in brief, not often.”

As sternly as I could, I said “I am going to bed. Where I shall consider suitably offensive retorts to deliver to you in the morning when you are less drunk.”

“Not really drunk, flattie. Just drunk enough to tell you too much of the truth. Sleep well, oh boy who is a friend to a girl.”

It took some time to get to sleep.

----------------------------

In the morning, we were all setting off for work when I got a phone call from Beth. “Can you pop round, I was talking with Debbie last night and she reminded me of something.”

Fortunately, her flat was only a couple of minutes away and usually there was somewhere to park either at her block or the old lady next door let them use her drive for short stops.

“Come in, Debbie reminded me of one of the BFF things we used to do – and I was wondering,” and she began to go pink, “whether you wanted to join in?”

“I can tell from your expression that this is something a bit over-the-top. How embarrassed am I going to get?”

“Really, not much – and it’s not so much over-the-top as below-the-belt. Debbie reminded me that we did a complete swap and she wore my panties and I wore hers – for the whole term. What do you think?”

“Gurk. Erm, I think that’s a bit much, really.”

“Oh g’wan, g’wan, g’wan. Just try on one pair of my sleek and slithery and soft and pretty panties – you’ve always wanted to get into my panties, haven’t you.”

“Well, yes. But not like this. I’m off, I’ll see you for lunch.”

“Oh, Paul, please. Just try on one pair, for your BFF?” And she almost gave a little sob as her girly emotions came into gear.

I wavered. I hesitated. Ooops – mistake.

“Oh, you will, pretty please, you have to now that you’ve not said no,” she sniggered and grinned with girlish enthusiasm - and her hands had already undone my belt, dropped my trousers and begun to pull at my clean, respectable, boyish Kalvin Klein boxer shorts.

I grabbed her wrist before she could denude me. “That’s my job, please.” And I quickly dropped my kecks and turned away from her.

She handed me a pile of three or four panties “Choose whichever one you want for today.” This was going to be for more than today!!! Oh dear. Not saying no quick enough was turning into a disaster.

I wasn’t sure what emotions were bubbling away as I pulled on the panties. I had chosen some plain white ones with a lime-green lacy trim. All the others were coloured or fancier. No, no, no. They felt …… very different. They clung, they stretched, they held instead of letting things hang free as I was used to.

Beth clapped her hands. “Oh, I’m so happy you’re joining in. It makes such a difference. You’re such a sweety.”

I didn’t want to be a ‘sweety’. I didn’t really want to be Beth’s BFF. What had I agreed to????? My inner Lion growled a bit faintly.

I set off to work and spent the day dealing with minor queries from customers who wanted blue widgets instead of green or had ordered 3.5 inch gloms instead of 35 inch ones or who felt they had been overcharged or missed a discount of some sort. A typical day working in yet another department so that I ‘gained experience’.

By the end of the day I was tired, especially so because the last problem had been a tedious long-term customer who always found something to quibble about – and then took ages to pay. Mr Vardell was not my favourite – although when I dealt with his stock clerk or his accounts team we got on fine.

But I was tired as well because every time I moved in my seat, I could feel the interesting unfamiliarity of those smooth cotton panties inside my trousers. And I couldn’t make my mind up whether this was a good feeling or a wrong feeling. All I knew was that it was very, er, different. And based on what Beth had said, I was going to have to get used to it.

In the morning, I put on the next pair of panties. I left the others tucked under my shirts, but I did put the dirty one in a separate bag in the drawer. I would have to discuss with Beth what I was supposed to do to avoid my flatmates finding my (inconvenient) new secret.

By the weekend, I had made my mind up about some aspects of the BFF relationship that was building up.

“Beth, I’ve got a few things to say. I want to talk about some of this BFF stuff – I’ve got a valid point of view as well and, if this goes on and I think we both want it too – then I have to be half of the partnership. Is that okay?”

“Yes, but I do have to tell you that stuff is so a boy word. You might have to stop using it.”

“Beth …… hold it right there. That’s exactly an example of what I mean. I’m a boy – I’m not a girl. I’m not a pretend girl either. Even less so, am I a replacement for Debbie or instead of Debbie or anything like that. I have to say, I must say or burst, I did have hopes for a relationship with you that would get me to being your boyfriend, even your lover and your love – but I guess that you’ve never seen it that way. And now you’ve labelled me as your BFF, then I’ve got to accept that our relationship is for the long-term and to be there for each other when the loves turn out to be not lovely. I gather that’s one of the key things for a BFF to be.”

“So, if I’m going to be your BFF, then I’ll do the girly stuff (yeah I used the boy word on purpose) when it’s the right thing for you and for me too. Sometimes I’ll be the BBFF or Best Boy Friend Forever and sometimes I’ll try to be the BFFF – Best Femme Friend Forever. It’ll be more difficult doing the second – but I’ll give it a go because that’s how important you are to me. But there’s going to be times when we have to at least hesitate at a boundary or look at the possible side-effects of choosing to do something in a particularly non-usual way. If we are BFFs – then of course there will be times when the BFF rules take precedence – but sometimes you’re going to have to be a girl about some things and at other times I’m going to have to be a boy. I’m sure we can cope but we need to know that some of the lines still exist. But, for now, whatever lies ahead, I’ll try to be a good BFF for you.” I could feel my inner Lion whimpering.

“Oh, Paul, you’re giving me more than I deserve. I did wonder if you had plans for the future but, like you say, I couldn’t see that happening and you are so, so important to me. I want you to be there always – always as my friend and supporter. I’d like it if I could have found a girl for the job – but none of them are as gentle and sweet and kind and real and good-at-the-job as you.

“I do have one idea, when you need me to be the girl-version and we’re in public, then there may be occasions where I’d better not be Paul – can you think of an alternative?”

“It’s not my idea but one from one of my American friends. She was a Beth too, and she and her BFF called each other Beth and Beff. You can be Beff, if you want, when I need you to be.

“Yeah, I can just about cope with that. But not all the time right. Deep down, I’m a boy and now that I’ve lost you as a future partner, I need to be able to look for other girls. I’m never going to stop being your BFF, that I’ll promise – but there will be times that I’ll have to be a boy, well, man, well, y’know.

“Thanks, Beffy. So, tonight, can we have a BFF girls’ night in – in our PJs with cocoa and a slushy film or two.”

“Er, I don’t have any PJs, I tend to sleep nude or in a pair of pants.

“Oh, dear, what a calamity. Then I’ll have to lend you a nightie.”

I nearly snorted my coffee up my nose. “For that, I almost think I get to choose the film – but I probably wouldn’t get one that even begins to approach the right slush-quotient. Alright, you win this time. Tonight it’s Beth and Beff.

Part of me was loving the time I spent with Beth – part of me was hating that the way things were developing seemed to make it less and less likely that we would ever get to what I would call more typical Boy-Girl interaction. Where I would be the Boy and my intention would be to proceed to the preliminary stages of courtship and mating. Alright, I’d spent too much time watching David Attenborough’s programs. Too late now, I think. But, like my BFF had suggested, for tonight at least I would be satisfied being the BFF – even if I had to wear panties too – and now a nightie – what next?

--------------

And now I was finding there was more to come. Partway through the film, Beth started painting her toenails – and she passed me the bottle and said, you can do the other foot.

So there I was, painting her toes, and as soon as I had finished, she smirked, “Beffie …. and now I do your toes.”

And what had I meant exactly when I said ‘… if you need me to be the girl-version’? Worse – what would Beth read into such a phrase with her ever-busy and all-too-excitable brain.

Oh dear. Was that a catastrophe looming on my horizon – or was my inner Leo now a Cat Ass Trophy?

The next day, Bethie took me into town. There were shops she wanted to visit and she insisted that I come with her. I felt she was overwhelming me with feminine insights.

She …. I don’t know how she did it …. She took me into a lingerie shop and made me buy undies for myself. Not only that, she insisted that I try on bras.

I felt ghastly, sick, shaking with embarrassment.

Then it got worse, the assistant leant towards me and murmured, “Your girl wants her pretty boy to try on a bra. You’re going to do it you know. And you’ll just love the way it holds you and snugs you and caresses you. Just wait.” And she giggled as she shimmied away, her hips twitching with a delightful feminine sway. My eyes were glued to her gluteus. Sorry, bad pun. Naaa, I’m not sorry really.

And so it came to pass. The girls surrounded me with silks and satins. My slender frame was carefully (and excitingly) clad in shimmering, slidy, smooth, sexy underwear. Panties, bra (and yes it did somehow feel wonderful and right), stockings and suspender-belt. Lovely. Yet, somehow wrong … and even more strangely, nice.

I got through that day – even though I finished up wearing all my new undies with a short-sleeved knee-length russet jersey dress on top and a lovely satin-lined jacket. It was far far far beyond what I had ever worn before but Bethie swore that it would work, the assistant swore it would work – and it felt glorious.

Over the next few days, Bethie showed me so much more of what I could enjoy as her Best Friend. She was rich, which helped. She was generous, which was better. And she knew a lot of really unusual and interesting people.

On one occasion, we learnt about SisterDy. Apparently they used to call themselves the SisterDom until too many said that the ‘dom’ label gave the wrong image.

We met Mrs Sterling, who fitted me with the most excellent breast-forms. They were experimental, she said, but with sensors that somehow connected with the skin beneath – and wow the feeling when Bethie kissed my nipples. OOOOoooooooorgh, I’d do almost anything for that to happen more often. It was very …. I couldn’t think of a word better than ecstatic, fantastic, beyond pleasure.

But it was the day-to-day stuff that I was enjoying most. Wearing smooth, sleek, soft instead of rough, harsh, scratchy. I came to adore the new sensations that Bethie gave me every day.

After a month or more of this, I was not much of Paul any longer. But I liked the new version.

I was getting used to sleeping in sheer silk nighties, sometimes with panties, sometimes not. I was getting very used to sleeping with Bethie – and sometimes we slept and sometimes we didn’t.

I was promised implant breasts if I wanted rather than the state-of-the-art Skinfeel ones that I was now used to. I hadn’t made my mind up about that or them.

We were spending a lot of time at the SisterDy club. I had met so many girls and almost as many gurls – the Godfellow team (Sandy, Fiona, Rachel and Alexandra), Jezebelle and Anne, Annette and Angela ….. lots more. And they were so nice.

The real change was that I was, to my amazement, a very different character when I was being girly. I was more confident, more determined. I made friends more easily. I began to look for a job where I could be this new person. My job was boring and it had done nothing to prevent me becoming boring.

Bethie was keen to help. For once, she didn’t push or make me do anything. She just pointed out opportunities and offered to give some assistance. I know she meant money – but I did want to make it work by myself.

And we were doing so much together – and neither of us was dominant. Sometimes Bethie was in charge, and sometimes I was. We shopped together, tried on clothes together, flirted with men together – although we never took it any further as we were more than enough for each other.

She took me to her parents – and made it very clear that I was her lover, that I was her man and it was just a minor issue that I dressed almost exactly like her.

I took her to my mother. Dad had died some time before. Mum was shocked at the change she saw. Her boy was now presenting as a woman. She eventually understood that I was still male. That Bethie was my partner. That Bethie and I were Best Friends Forever. That it was, as Bethie said, just one of those things that I dressed as a woman.

Even though it had been a fake at the beginning – there was no doubt that Bethie and me were truly best friends, Best Friends Forever.

Mother, sister and Aunty convert Andrew into a simpering schoolgirl. They denied him 'everything essential to being a boy'.

I could add this into the SisterDom stories but it would need a rewrite or a large extra chunk. Maybe. Alys P

Mother called to Andrew as he opened the door to his bedroom upon returning home from school, “Andrew, I would like to speak to you". He entered her room and was surprised to see his Aunt Alice sitting on the edge of his mother's bed. He had not seen his Aunt Alice for over five years.

Mother, his older sister Deborah, and he had visited Aunty when he was eight years old. Andrew has never liked her and he knew she did not like Andrew as she had made it quite clear she did not like boys. She had a beautiful two-story home located on a large estate.

His sister Deborah had spent every summer since their initial visit, at Aunty’s. Andrew had been just that once.

Aunt Alice was a woman of 40, a bit overweight, tall, and very attractive. She had never been married and had at one time been the executive of a fashion advertising firm and had been very successful, this had followed a career of modeling. She had always bestowed many gifts upon Deborah, and Deborah would tease Andrew at times, saying, "If you were a girl you could go to Aunty’s for the summer and you would get lots of presents." When Deborah would leave for Aunty’s there were times when Andrew would feel jealous, but he knew that if he had gone with her, Aunty would have made him miserable with constant corrections.

Deborah was two years older than Andrew--tall, attractive, and possessed a very pretty figure. At 15, she was in her third year in high school. She was always on the honor roll in school, although she worked after school at a women's clothes store as a salesgirl and also modeled, Mother was very proud of her. Aunty had been instrumental in Deborah obtaining her job as Aunty was one of the owners of the women's apparel store.

Andrew was just 13 and quite the opposite of his sister. They were physically similar, as he was tall and quite slender for a boy, but the similarity ended there. Andrew's record in school had always been wanting for improvement. He did not like to study and was constantly getting into trouble with his teachers for teasing the girls and just plain unruly behavior. This pattern of behavior was also evident at home.

Andrew's father had passed away when he was four years old and Mother had raised Deborah and Andrew from that day to the present. Mother was in her late 30s and similar to Aunty in looks and physical make-up.

Andrew had a good idea why mother had called him to her room, as he had been severely reprimanded by both the principal of the school and his teacher. They had made it quite clear that since there were only six weeks to the end of the school year he would not be expelled but Mother would be called and told of his disrespectful attitude and continued bad behavior.

Mother confirmed his suspicions. As she scolded him, she was interrupted by Aunty. Aunt Alice said, "What are we going to do with you? You apparently have no respect for women nor do you have any respect for yourself.

"Your mother and I have discussed several avenues of punishment and have arrived at one that we feel will teach you respect for women, teach you discipline and crush your boyish arrogance," she said. "Tomorrow is Friday and we are going to keep you home from school. When you awaken in the morning you will begin your punishment period. It will last through Saturday, Sunday, and thru to Monday morning. I will also warn you that should you not cooperate during this period and should your mother receive any more reports of disagreeable activities from school, this punishment will be repeated each weekend and if necessary you will be invited to spend the summer at my estate with your sister.
"Your punishment will deny to you everything essential to being a boy," she concluded.

As Andrew left the room and went to his own, Aunt Alice's words were repeating in his mind. "Your punishment will deny to you everything essential to being a boy."

Once Andrew had left, Mother turned to Aunt Alice. "You're certain the program your friend Wanda has given us will work?"

"Absolutely," Aunty replied. "It's well tested by the staff at Blossom Manor - and the pupils." she smirked. "They send it out as part of their student recruitment system. While the same kind of hypnotic suggestion could be used to simply control the boy, they've found more lasting success in a series of subtle shifts in his personality, all tied to the clothing he wears and the way he looks. Believe me, after just one night with these special tapes and one day in the right girl’s clothes, Andrew will be experiencing strange new feelings...and enjoying them."

Mother called Andrew again and again he entered her room. Aunty directed him to strip down to his underwear. Being afraid of her, Andrew did as he was told.

Mother and Aunty both began taking measurements. When they were through, they told Andrew to dress. As he left the room, Mother said that she and Aunty were going shopping and would be home later. When they returned later, they had Deborah with them, as they had picked her up from work.

Deborah said, "We really have a surprise for you, but you have to wait till tomorrow morning."

As he climbed into bed the things Aunty and Deborah said really bothered Andrew. 'Oh, well, I can handle anything, I'm a big boy,' is what he thought.

Before Mother tucked Andrew into bed he was handed his two pills. Told they were vitamins, he took them. In reality, the pills were a mild sedative with hypnotic properties, guaranteed to put him to sleep quickly and in the proper frame of mind for tonight's "instructions".

Mother dropped a CD into his stereo. "What's that?" Andrew asked.

"I can tell you're all upset about not knowing what's going to happen tomorrow...and you'll never get to sleep, you're so wound up," she answered. "This is special 'new age' music like we have at the salon. It helps to soothe your mind and help you sleep."

Mother pressed the play button and soft, quiet, strings and chimes floated from the speakers. She stepped out of the room. Within a few minutes, Andrew felt himself drifting off to sleep, but despite the sensation that something more than just music was coming from the tape he could not really hear anything else. Part of the success of the technique was that the need to hear the murmurs hidden on the tape actually made the listener concentrate harder on the message.

The subliminal sleep suggestions gradually switched over to more hypnotic suggestions and then came to dominate the sound--and Andrew's subconscious mind took in every word.

“You are changing. You are beginning to realize how very unattractive it is to be dirty, to smell of sweat. You love to shower every morning. You love to use soft, perfumed soap. You love to wash your hair. You want your hair to be long, to be beautiful. ……

You long to be praised instead of criticised. You see how much your mother and your aunt love Deborah.

You are jealous of Deborah. You wonder why she is so much more popular. Why other people like her. You want to have gifts and presents like she does ……..

You need to realize that she has lovely soft skin, that the dust of eyeshadow makes her eyes even lovelier. You are jealous and you want to be more like her. You are eager to try lipstick. You want to be taught how to have gorgeous eyes. ………………….

You want to learn about soft, swishy, sensuous materials. You love to touch the satin and silk that your sister wears. You love the sound of the taffeta ……

The CD went on for hours – looping, repetitively on and on and on – filling Andrew’s brain with new ideas about the delights of being less masculine, the compensating pleasures of being effeminate.

"When you see your nails painted red, you will feel a stirring in your cock," the tape told him. "You will not recognize what is making you excited, but you will want more of it. Wearing high heels, especially sexy sandals, will have a similar effect. You will also enjoy the sight of your wrists with feminine bracelets on them...and you will think of the bracelets not only as adornments but as slave ornaments, enslaving you to a feminine future.

"You will think of these experiences as 'strange and unusual new feelings but you won’t think they are wrong – they’re just unusual,' and they will be stronger every time you see yourself in these feminine things. These feelings will excite you, entice you, make you realize the joy of being soft, gentle, girly, effeminate. You are so sorry that you are unkind to Deborah, and you know that you are unkind because you want to wear lovely slinky dresses like she does, you love the smell of her perfume. You want long hair fluffing around your ears and shoulders, brushing your skin like delicate feathers. You want to be like your sister – soft, feminine and pretty."

The CD repeated eight or nine times through the night and then shifted back to the "new age" music to let Andrew drift into a normal sleep until morning.

Andrew was awakened by his Aunt's voice, saying, "Wake up young lady, your bubble bath awaits you."

He sat up with a start and stared at the three figures standing around his bed--Aunty, Mother, and Deborah were all smiling down at him.

Had he heard Aunt Alice right; had she said, "Wake up young lady"?

Deborah answered his question, as she said, "Get up, Andrea, you're so lucky--you're going to get to wear my sandals, dresses, wigs, and everything necessary to transform you into a girl for the next three days. As you were told ‘we are going to deny you everything essential to being a boy. So, since you have to wear clothes when we go out later, you won’t be able to wear boy’s clothes. You tell me what the alternative is, hey.”

Andrew moved quickly from the bed and toward his pants and shirt hanging on the chair. They were gone. Clad only in his pyjamas, he attempted to run towards the hall door. He felt Aunty's hand grip around his wrist. He tried to break free, but immediately Mother grasped his other arm. The three of them moved Andrew into the bathroom and to the waiting bubble bath.

Andrew's pyjamas were removed. He stood before the three emasculators. Aunty motioned for him to step into the hot bubbly bath water. It was also heavily perfumed. Deborah giggled as she handed him a razor and said, "Get busy, Andrea!

He was horrified.

Aunty said, "Yes, Andrea, you are to shave your legs, even though they’re only covered with fuzz. We want you to enjoy the thrill of silky smooth legs. Now start shaving, young lady, before I invite you to stay with me for the summer."

With that threat, Andrew lathered his legs and began shaving, after Aunty had shown him how. Soon both of his legs were satin smooth. It was a strange feeling – but somehow his brain said ‘not strange, just unusual, you might even like it’ . After he had scrubbed all over, Aunty washed and rinsed his hair.
Mother stood with a towel as Andrew emerged from the bath tub. He was thoroughly dried off. Next he was told to put out his wrists as Deborah sprayed a sweet smelling perfume on them, then behind his knees and ears, and on his neck.

He was covered with bath powder by Mother. Aunty reappeared from Deborah's bedroom carrying some feminine items of apparel.

Mother took one and motioned Andrew to step into the openings. She said it was a padded girdle and would give him the feminine lines he lacked. As it was tugged into place, his penis and testicles were pressed up into his body by Aunty. Once the girdle was on, all traces of Andrew's boyishness were erased.

By now Andrew was red with embarrassment and he again tried to beg Aunty not to continue to make him into a girl. He told her he would mind out and wouldn't get into trouble in school again. “And as if we would, you’re not being made into a girl. You’re just being shown what MIGHT happen if you keep on being such a complete twonk of a boy. Behave better and you’ll get no trouble from us.”

Aunty smiled and said, "The damage had been done." It wasn’t a kind smile.

They were soon standing in Deborah's bedroom. Aunty told Andrew to sit down on the bed. Deborah approached carrying a bottle of nail polish. As she knelt down at his feet she giggled, "I can hardly wait to tell my girlfriends that I got to enamel my pretty girlish brother’s toenails and fingernails."

Aunty corrected Deborah. "She is not your girlish brother—for the next few days she is your younger sister, Andrea. And don’t be so ugly as to gloat or tell tales. You can get your own version of this punishment too, little girl.”

The polish was bright red and as she painted Andrew's toenails, he knew he could not escape this horrible punishment. While Deborah painted his toenails, Mother manicured Andrew's fingernails. He had not trimmed them for awhile and they were quite long. She filed them into slender claws.

Aunty then shocked Andrew as she told him to lay back on the bed, while she plucked his eyebrows. As she plucked them, tears came to his eyes.

After a little over an hour, Andrew was told to sit up. He looked down at his feet and hands and felt crushed. His nails glistened with femininity. Andrew couldn't help staring at the shiny red shapes on the ends of his fingers and toes. The sight both troubled and excited him--it seemed that he should hate seeing his nails so scarlet and feminine, but instead he felt an odd sense of completion, as though this was what he needed to make himself "real."

The polish was now dry and Andrew was handed a pair of nylons. Mother said that they were sandal-foot, and would allow his enameled toenails to be completely exposed. As Andrew slid the nylons up his legs an unfamiliar, but exciting, feeling came over him. The last garter was attached, and he was handed a shoe box. Aunty indicated that she had selected them especially for Andrew, for she knew how much he would enjoy wearing them.

Opening the box, Andrew cried out, "High-heeled girl's shoes!"

Deborah teasingly said, "High-heeled barefoot platform sandals, silly!" Knowing the additional punishment for disobeying, Andrew meekly removed these red patent-leather barefoot emasculators from the white tissue that had hidden them.

His foot slid down the smooth patent leather into the waiting straps. Andrew pulled the straps through the buckles, Aunty directing him to strap them as tightly as possible. Both sandals were presently strapped tightly to his feet. When he stood up, Andrew almost fell on his face--the 3-inch heels thrust him up higher than he had ever been.

When he regained his balance, Andrew again felt an involuntary wave of pleasure as he felt the change in posture the skyscraper heels forced upon him. He looked down at his legs, smoothly bound by the nylon stockings, and further down to his feet, with the red nails matching the red patent leather of his sandals, both shining and reflecting the light of his room. He felt his cock twitch--and a further sense of having another piece of himself completed. The CD was working its electronic magic.

Mother handed Andrew another box. This was a very small one. When he opened it, his eyes fastened on a very feminine bracelet wristwatch in gold. Mother removed it from the box and before Andrew could say anything she had clasped the band of gold about his wrist. With his enamelled nails and his slender wrist femininely enslaved with a girl's bracelet wristwatch, Aunty led Andrew to the wall mirror. As he walked to the mirror, Andrew felt the light metallic touch of the bracelet watch on his wrist--and suddenly realized that obeying his mother and aunt seemed right and proper, making him, again, more complete than ever before.

"Look at yourself, my pretty niece." Even without long hair, make-up, breasts, and a dress, Andrew already looked very much like a young slightly frightened girl.

Mother smiled and said, "My dear Andrea, with long beautiful legs like those, you should wear nylons and skyscraper-heeled strap sandals all the time."

He was hypnotized by the reflection in the mirror (and by the secret instructions he'd received through the long hours of the night). The look of his legs in the spindly sandals, with his toenails flashing red, made his cock grow even larger. Deborah broke the spell by saying, "Come now, Andrea, we have lots more surprises for my pretty sister. You've done very well." And, as it was planned, the praise reinforced Andrew's confusion and desire to please.

Andrew was numb with shock as they led him over to the bed. Aunty told him to lay down on his back. He did as he was told and Deborah said, "The most exciting surprise of all is coming".

Aunty had left the room, but quickly returned carrying a package. “Remember that all girls have breasts," she explained. “Now, you will too – because special boys are allowed to have breasts as well. It’s part of making them get in touch with and then releasing their feminine side.”

Aunty bent over Andrew and with a swab applied a sticky substance to his chest area. Next, to Andrew's horror, she produced a perfectly-shaped set of latex rubber sissy breasts. They were just the size a girl Andrew's age would possess. Mother said, "Now you have small pink-nippled breasts – just like any girl your age."

The soft masses were pressed onto his chest, Aunty smoothing the feathered edges. They were small, but definitely gave Andrew's body a feminine shape. A powder make-up was applied, erasing all lines. They blended smoothly into his chest.

Andrew stood up and as he did, his new-girl sissy breasts jiggled. Mother said, "Now, Andrea, you will need this," as she handed Andrew a teen form bra. Being very slender, he did not need a corset, but Aunty stated that, in the near future, he would be trained to wear a wasp-waist corset at all times, to ensure that he developed and maintained a tiny waist.

Next Andrew slid a nylon tricot petticoat on. It really tickled as he slid it into place. Three crinolines followed.

Deborah came forth with a gingham full-skirted party dress with puff sleeves. They slid it over Andrew's head and arms and soon he was enveloped in satin. Mother buttoned it up the back.

As he sat down at the dressing table, it was apparent that everything masculine was to be removed. Andrew's lips were painted with a deep red shade of sweet lipstick. Then the attention was turned to his eyes. His eyebrows had been plucked into very thin feminine lines and were penciled to bring them out. False eyelashes were applied, liner, light shadow, and mascara. His nose was powdered as the finishing touch.

Deborah brought forth a shoulder-length pageboy blond wig. His hair, being quite long for a boy, was curled with hair pins to keep it up. The wig was adjusted to fit and was placed on Andrew's head. Before he stood up, Mother clasped a charm bracelet on his other wrist and draped a locket about his neck.

"Come, Andrea, let us look again at the beautiful girl that you have become," Mother said.

Again Andrew stood in front of the mirror. The image that appeared opposite him was a complete girl. His toenails glistened, as did his sandals. Even walking in the skyscrapers was actually easy.
In this short time the three women had succeeded in instilling in him new strange feelings. He no longer felt that the clothes, the sandals, the bracelets, the painted nails were "wrong"; rather, he was excited by them sexually, and wanted to wear them constantly. Of course, he couldn't admit that to his mother and aunt--at least not yet.

"Well," Aunty said, "I believe Andrea actually enjoys her new role in life. Don't you, Andrea?" Andrew couldn't admit these new strange feelings that had come over him, and he immediately denied any such feelings. "I don't want to be a girl and after Monday I won't wear any dresses!"

Aunty laughed, saying, "I know better. All boys that spend three days completely transformed into girls develop strange new feelings."

"Well," Andrew said, "I won't, you can't make me."

Aunty again laughed, "I am not making you have strange feelings. The taste of lipstick, the feel of the stockings on your shaved legs and the barefoot sandals, the swish of the petticoats and your skirt and, of course, the knowledge that you have pretty pink-nippled sissy breasts cupped by your teen-form bra are bringing about these changes in you .” And she knew that she was lying – because the CD was doing so much of the work in the quiet hours of darkness.

“Come... let us go downstairs and we can help you develop feminine graces, and remember, you must act, talk, and think like a girl until Monday morning. Oh, and tomorrow all four of us are going to the beauty salon. You will have your blond wig removed and undergo a permanent wave. Also your ears will be pierced. Then we are going shopping. I know you will want some new dresses, panties, bras, and, of course, lots of nude strappy play sandals."

Andrew spent the remainder of the day swishing about. He didn’t want to – but he did as he was told. He didn’t want to enjoy any single moment – but his brain had been mesmerized by the CD. He was made to model, turning this way and that. He found that the sandals, even with the skyscraper heels, were very cool and comfortable because of their nudeness. Eventually, he sat down on the couch so that Aunty could administer an additional coat of nail polish to his fingernails.

He tucked his legs up on the couch so that his sandaled feet were exposed. Strangely, this sight excited him: the red patent-leather straps criss-crossing about his feet, the buckles winking at him, and his toenails in matching red twinkling. The image, and the soft caress of his aunt's hands on his fingers, as well as the quiet cadence of her voice, all reinforced the secret training from the hypnotic CD.

Aunty Alice enameled each nail very carefully, and talked as she did. "Do you know, Andrea, you should have been born a girl. You are truly beautiful, and really, I am so glad we decided that transforming you into a girl would be your punishment. In just this first day that you have entered into the world of girls, I noticed a distinct and pleasing change coming over you. You seem more subdued, actually nicer. With this success in crushing your masculine arrogance and replacing it with a kinder feminine personality, I am going to suggest that your Mother continue to dress you as a girl every weekend and that you come to spend the summer with me."

"Oh, no! Please don't tell Mother that," Andrew said. "I'll mind, but not that, don't make me live as a girl!"

That evening the three feminizers helped in preparing Andrew for bed. All the clothes were removed. He was made to don a pair of nylon satin panties in bright red and an open-nippled night bra, a babydoll top, and capri bottoms, both in bright red satin. He was handed another pair of sandals. These were black patent-leather T-strap barefoot platform sandals.

His makeup was removed and Aunty applied a new coat of creamy red lipstick.

Now he was to sleep in the extra twin bed in Deborah's room. Again, before Mother tucked Andrew into bed he was handed his two pills. He swallowed them easily – and he would never realize how they would accumulate to destroy his masculinity.

Deborah's bed sheets were satin and the beds were four-poster French Provincial fairy princess beds. He was made to sleep with his T-strap sandals on. Aunty said that was to make him feel thoroughly emasculated.

Andrew slid down into the sheets--the feeling was wonderful. He did not try to remove his bracelet wristwatch or charm bracelet. Was Aunty making him want to be a girl?.

Deborah soon came to bed and after she teased him a little, Andrew fell asleep in perfumed bliss. Once again, the new age music played in the room, and then shifted over to the soft, soothing, entrancing voice: "Remember all the feelings you experienced today, remember how they made you excited. Now think about how your breasts looked, small and rounded and pink-nippled. Those are not just rubber glued to your chest; they are *your* breasts: When they are touched, especially when the nipples are played with, you will feel a stirring in your cock, a stirring as strong as that you feel when you play with your cock itself."

"Tomorrow, you will go to a beauty parlor for the first time," the feminizing voice continued. "The looks and smells of the beauty parlor will fascinate you and excite you, just as the look and feel of your breasts, your sandals, nails, and bracelets do. The feel of having your hair colored, cut, permed and combed will entrance you: You will want it done at least once a week."

“Dream on about how much you have enjoyed today. You loved seeing yourself in the mirror. You loved the feelings as your fingers and toes were transformed by the polish. You loved the feeling as those slinky sheer stockings were rolled up your legs. You enjoyed the smooooth feeling as you sat down and your satin panties stroked your bottom. The taste of lipstick was so lovely and, best of all, you enjoyed being treated as a girl and realizing that, as a girl, you got compliments that you never deserved as a boy.”

With that the voice faded back into the music.

When Andrew awoke in the morning, the first thing he saw were his enameled nails and the bracelets on his wrists. He reached down and touched his sandaled feet, then his hand moved to the little mounds on his chest, and he wondered what it would be like to have full breasts like Deborah's.

Strangely, as he touched the nipples of his false breasts and tweaked them with his red-painted nails, he ceased to think of the little mounds as plastic – they were his own breasts, soft and lovely-to-fondle. The sensation stirred his cock and he realized that he needed desperately to come. Andrew was alone in the bedroom. His sister was already up and had evidently gone downstairs. As he lay in bed different thoughts went through his mind. The feeling of being a girl was really exciting. His hands moved to his panties and Andrew lapsed into a world of effeminate ecstasy.

His sister had waited outside, listening hard. As Andrew spurted hot sperm into his panties, she came back in to the room. She knew her cue. “Oh, Andrea, you naughty girl. You shouldn’t play with your titties like that – and you really shouldn’t do squirties in your pretty panties.

Andrea writhed in agony as her sister tormented her – but the reaction was exactly what the CD had been written to teach the gurl.

The early morning message was so delightfully complex –

It was lovely to squirt while fondling her nipples – and it was oh so wrong to squirt without permission – and it was oh so wonderful to squirt into the sleek, shiny panties – and it was oh so revolting to make them sticky with man-juice and bad …. and good …. and bad ……. and bad and good ……… and the ecstasy of that squirt of semen into his own girly panties.

Exactly as the system forecast, Andrea’s mind was being washed of old, male attitudes into the soft world of the gurl.

-----------------------------------------

The experience at the beauty salon was thrilling but embarrassing. Everyone was told that Andrew was a girlish-boy who really loved wearing dresses and sandals. Wanda, the hair stylist, removed his wig and began her feminizing activities.

She began by shampooing his hair, gently massaging his scalp as she did so. Andrew felt himself slowly getting relaxed and even a little sleepy as the hairstylist worked on his head. She spoke quietly to him, in an almost whispered drone: "You love this, Andrea. You love having your hair done, seeing the amazing differences a hairstyle can make in your appearance. Soon you'll want it done as often as possible, at least once a week. I'm going to change your haircolor, too," she said. "What color would you like it to be? Black?" No reaction. "Blonde?" Again, no reaction. "Red?" Andrew squirmed in his chair and Wanda noticed a stirring at his crotch. "Red it will be, then, Andrea. You'll be a beautiful redhead, I know...especially after our Charlotte finishes with your makeup. You just love makeup, too, don't you, Andrea?"

Andrew, mildly entranced by Wanda's words and actions, could only smile dreamily. Wanda proceeded to apply the dye to his hair, then to cut and perm it. While the perm set, a tall, well-built young woman with waist-length chestnut hair came to Andrew's chair. "I'm Charlotte, Wanda's daughter," she introduced herself. "I'll be doing your makeover." She set to work with her paints and brushes and pencils, refusing to let the transformed boy see himself until the entire process was complete.

In a short time, Andrew found himself sitting under a dryer, as more soothing "new age" music filled his ears. Behind the soft tones, a voice spoke to him, "When you see yourself next, you will fall in love with the girl you have become. Your cock will become harder than you can ever remember it being. Your nipples will be hard, erect, and tingly. When you hear your name, 'Andrea,' you will come."

Wanda soon removed the dryer and walked Andrew back to the styling chair, carefully keeping him from seeing his reflection in the mirror. She began to brush out his hair.

As she did this she complimented him. "You should have been born a girl. It's good that your mother and aunt are correcting the mistake. I had a son with a similar problem, but I sent him to Blossom Manor, a private school for girls. They make exceptions at times and boys are permitted to attend. My son attended Blossom Manor for four years, and has undergone a complete transformation. Whenever boys attend Blossom Manor, Miss Blossom specializes in transforming them into girls."

With that, she quickly whipped the styling chair around so that Andrew faced the mirror. He gasped. In the mirror was an absolute angel, with softly waved coppery hair falling to just below her ears. Her bright blue eyes were framed with long, dark lashes and soft shades of blue and purple on the lids. Her cheeks were highlighted with what seemed a natural blush, her lips a soft coral red, waiting to be kissed. It was him--it was Andrea! "There she is," Wanda announced. "There's Andrea!"

His nipples ached with their excitement, his cock swelled in its girdled and pantied confines and, not caring who knew or saw, Andrea came! The CD and the additional instruction from Wanda made his stupid male genitals do exactly what was required.

Wanda turned to his aunt and mother and smiled secretively.

As they drove home, Aunty brought up the subject of Andrew attending a private school.

She explained that, a few years back, she had recommended to Wanda that she send her boy Charles to Blossom Manor. "Charles was always in trouble and lacked respect for his mother and just about everything," she said. "The boys at Blossom Manor are, of course, required to wear the same uniforms as the girls. The boys are forced to live as girls for the four years they attend. During those years, all masculinity is removed. Through the use of female hormones, being constantly dressed as a girl, treated as a girl, and receiving a girlish education, the girlish-boys return emasculated. Some undergo a complete sex change, others are slaves to femininity. After four years in the dominant hands of Miss Charteris, Charles returned home a girl--Charlotte Elaine--yes, the same Charlotte who did your makeup, Andrea. Her measurements are 38C-24-35."

Mother broke in. "Do you think Miss Charteris would accept Andrea as a student?"

Hearing all this, even though the thrill of wearing girl’s clothes had enveloped his mind, Andrew still did not care for the idea of living as a girl. "I will not go to any private school, especially a private girl’s school!"

A cruel look came over Aunty's face, as she said, "So you won't wear girl's clothes, huh, and you won't attend a girls school." She turned to Mother and continued, "I believe Andrea needs to be continually reminded that she is being punished by being denied everything boyish – for the moment she is a girl and should be behaving as a girl. Since that outburst rather proves how she is failing at her task, I suggest that Andrea be dressed in girl's clothes every weekend and when summer comes that she come to my estate. She and Deborah will have lots of fun. I can erase this male rebellion and arrogance for good and when the fall semester begins at Blossom Manor, both Deborah and Andrea can attend.

“I am sure by now Andrea is changing her mind about doing anything as rash as disobedience. I think that our pretty Andrea will tell us she really wants to wear dresses and barefoot sandals all the time, don't you my pretty transvestite?"

Andrew begged his mother not to do what Aunty had said.

Mother said that she was thrilled with the idea, and Deborah chimed in with approval. "Isn't it exciting, Andrea, when summer comes you will be able to wear feminine clothes all the time!"

There was nothing more Andrew could say, they just ignored his protests.

Once home they all ate dinner. Andrew was again dressed in ultra-feminine night clothes, but these were hot pink nylon satin with a pair of hot pink patent-leather ankle strap sandals. Mother tucked him into bed. Again he took the pills and again a tape was played as he fell asleep.

The hypnotic voice began by reinforcing the lessons of the past two nights and days and then spoke of tomorrow's events. "When your ears are pierced and the tiny gold balls are attached to your ears, they will serve as the final marks of your new self. When you see yourself so adorned, you will cease to struggle against your change into a beautiful girl. Indeed, you will now revel in each successive change, you will even get an erotic thrill when teased about your sissified state. You will strive to be more girlish than the most feminine of natural girls."

The next morning Andrew was dressed in a shirtwaist-dress and high-heeled sling sandals. Aunty proceeded to pierce his earlobes. He fought with all three of them over this, but it was no use--they were too strong. But once he felt the needle prick his earlobes, and once he saw the shiny gold balls that filled those holes, all resistance fled from Andrew's mind. He was now willing to be as girlish as they wanted him to be...and maybe more girlish than they could possibly imagine!

When Aunty was through she said, "Now, with your plucked eyebrows, pierced ear lobes, and such pretty long fingernails, everyone will know you are a pretty fem!"

Three days. Andrea had a fading memory that she had been told that it would only take three days of being continuously dressed and treated as a girl for her pathetic ambition to remain as the man in an otherwise female household had evaporated.

Finally school was out and Andrea and Deborah left for Aunty's. There was little trace of boy-ness in the sleek, well-dressed girl stood beside her taller sister as they climbed into the shiny car. Both of them were pretty, if not actually beautiful. They wore similar but not identical clothes. The tall girl wore pale blue while the younger wore a simple dress in pale yellow. Both wore stockings. If you knew them well enough you might discover the quality of their underwear – smooth, sensual satin panties; crisp petticoats, accurately fitted brassieres, slidy lipstick, pretty makeup, newly pierced ears, waxed eyebrows, tinkling bracelets, - the works. And indeed, the works were working.
(You know what they were wearing because it was exactly the right stuff for that moment and that situation. And it was ALL in accordance with the CD that had been supplied.)

As Deborah and Andrea walked through Aunty's front door, SHe knew SHe had left hers masculine life behind. SHe knew hers world was now made up of wigs, sandals, dresses, and perfume. It was strange... part of herm now wanted to attend Blossom Manor.

Yes, Aunty Alice and those abominably clever CDs had changed Andrew into a gurl.

How on earth was I supposed to deal with the question – “Can I come and stay with you for a month and learn how to dress like a girl” - This was my grandson Frank asking me.

With a little effort, this story could quite easily fit into the 'SisterDom' series. As currently written, it is a separate story.

------------------------

Boy? Girl? My great Granddaughter.

“Can I come and stay with you for a month and learn how to dress like a girl?"

Brain failure - how was I supposed to answer a question like that. What made the question difficult for me was that it was my fifteen year old grandson, Frank, asking me this and I couldn’t say ‘Well you’ll have to talk with your parents” – because they were standing next to him. I could hardly say ‘no’ either because I had always spoken reasonably kindly about ‘people who were different’ and how I always tried to deal strongly with intolerance and similar unkindnesses which some people hurled at those who did not fit their ‘accepted range’ for age, sex, gender, colour, money, fat, ugly, and all the other things which made people into real things.

Clearly he had spoken with his parents already and they had put together this idea that he should stay with me and learn how to improve his skills. It was after all rather obvious when looking at how he currently presented that he was short of a number of skills and techniques for looking like a girl. And they expected him to learn to do better while staying with me in a small country town - at Chichester on the South Coast. Cooo.

While Frank, apparently now calling him-herself Frances, went upstairs to do homework, the three adults talked. Clearly decisions had been made that Frances would spend 3 or 4 weeks with me learning to present as well as she could as a girl so that any risk at home could be kept to a reasonable minimum. Learning in a ‘safer’ place – such as with me – had been calculated as a worthwhile compromise.

I talked with my daughter Sara about how best to go about it. I said that Frances obviously needed help with her hair, her figure, her general shape, her style and probably most of all her confidence to stand up and be a real person.

I learnt that Frances had quite obviously been taking considerable interest in her underwear and that Sara had found a small stash behind the panels of the fitted cupboard in his room; a dress, two skirts, some pants, two necklaces, and so on. She had talked with Frank and found that he was surprisingly knowledgeable on the subject even if he had neither practice nor skills.

She and I looked through her woman’s magazines. We discussed hair-styles and possible options with Frances’ no more than neck-length hair. We talked about body-shape and how to ensure Frances had at least a mid-size bust, about clothes, makeup and more girly stuff than I had ever dealt with in my life.

Then she said, “Thanks for agreeing, Dad. I think this will be the best opportunity for Frances and I know you’ll look after her. I’m so grateful. I was so shocked, almost shattered when she told us what this was all about. But she says she’s not gay – well that she’s aware of – she feels rather neutral – but with a preference for girls. The real certainty is that she likes dressing as a girl and wearing the pretty colours and wider range of fabrics that make a girl feel special. I can sort of understand that because I would just hate, hate, hate to be restricted to the dull drabness that the average male must put up with. But for our son to dress as a girl – well I want him to be confident and safe when he or she does it. Yes. Let's treat this as an experiment, or a project perhaps. And I am also saying to you what I have said to Frances - no, repeat, no decision has been made yet as to what happens after we have done the Chichester phase of the project."

“Ummmph’, was my well-thought reply.

----------------------------

I spent quite some time on the web in the next few days. I also emailed Frances with some simple questions. And I went into a lot of shops asking more questions I had never expected to ask of people I had never expected to talk to.

I began by wondering what were the characteristics which most obviously made a girl look like a girl – in particular at the age of about 15. I spent my first evening back home sitting in a coffee bar watching people – well, watching young girls and young women mostly. It wasn’t a task I had ever consciously done – and I found it delightful. It was like watching butterflies – bright, multi-coloured, glossy and shiny.

I learnt about cross-dressers and transvestites and drag-queens and sissies and what proportion were gay (apparently no different from the ‘normal’ population’!). I quickly picked up the comments about Scots who wore skirts aka kilts; about women who could wear almost anything masculine or mannish with most people not making any fuss about their costume at all. I had my own views about how customs and therefore costume could alter from country to country and decade to decade. In part, this was how Sara knew I would help with Frances' project.

Articles from various sources talked about whether cross-dressing was a fetish, a precursor for masturbation, a minimised form of transsexualism and too many people said it was wrong because of a whole verse in the bible. The major view was that cross-dressing was very different from transsexualism; that for some it was a fetish and related to sexual thrills; for some it was a real need to look female; for others it was a lesser but still significant need to ‘dress pretty’.

Some sites made startling comments which seemed to have little evidence to back them up …. ‘Many cross dressers are trans-gender, born of one gender but wishing to be identified with the other. These cross dressers might even be in the process of, or desiring to have, sexual reassignment surgery. For these people, their identity is what makes them cross dress, while for others it is a fetish. Still, for others, it is simply the desire to shake up social norms and for shock value.’ This seemed completely at variance with what Frances was saying and what other sites suggested.

Too many sites concentrated on what seemed to me to be minor issues such as ‘always wear the highest heels that you can manage’ – how silly. It was quite apparent from watching for an hour or so at the coffee bar – the key was to be comfortable and confident. How would high heels make that happen if you were frightened of falling or worried about showing that these were a new and unusual mode of transport. Daft.

One site stated ‘The most common and popular times for someone to cross dress would be for a party, parade or stage performance. For trans-gender persons, or those seeking or undergoing reassignment surgery, they might be cross dressing full time as part of their new identity. Straight people and entertainers often cross dress for laughs.’ Another said ‘Men who attend these events may wish to dress like a girl or woman to capture the attention of party-goers.’. Again, this seemed to be wildly at variance with Frances’ stated intent to dress as a normal girl and do normal girl things.

From the coffee bar, I went into three or four of the local hair salons. I’d never been in one before but I thought ‘let’s be upfront and then I won’t be (too) embarrassed and I’ll have real information to give to Frances at the weekend.

After a few trials, I found that my basic spiel was like this ….. “This sounds a bit unusual – but, erm, my grandson is coming to stay with me for a few weeks and he has told us he is a cross-dresser – but not very good at it. He’s about 15 and obviously needs help with his hairstyle and so on. Is this something you can help with?|”

To my surprise, almost everyone I spoke to was quite willing to help. Nobody curled their lip or scowled at the idea. Most of them seemed to be pleased to ask to help.

I then tried much the same thing at the make-up counter and in two of the clothes shops.

It became quite obvious to me that the more confident I was about what I was asking for, the easier it was. It was therefore even more obvious that the more confident Frances was in asking for help then the more help she would get and the more successful would be her transformation.

I went into Marks and Spencers to ask for help with fitting a bra for Frances – and yet again, by being straightforward in my request I got a simple response. “We’ve got several fitting rooms and provided it’s a fairly quiet time, I can’t see any problem at all. We do occasionally serve boys and men with bras so it’s not completely unusual and it’s certainly not inconvenient or in any way improper. Our job in this department is to fit underwear to those who ask for help.”

So – by now, I had some confidence that we could fit Frances with hair, shoes, bras and possibly makeup. The major difficulty would be the whole wardrobe and the choice of style. I decided that we would spend our first day mostly looking and taking notes about what Frances found attractive and pleasing to look at on girls of her own age.

I continued looking on the internet. I began by thinking about what makes a girl different from a boy – and the most obvious thing was breasts. So - that’s where I began. I started with my old faithful Amazon site and (God knows what this would do to my list of favourites) typed in Breasts in the Health/Personal Care section. I got 3,610 results which came down to ‘only’ 271 when I amended it to ‘Breast Forms’. I could get Frances some real fake (wot) breasts for only thirty quid. I would check with Sara but I guessed that an A would be about right or B at maximum.

Sara and Frances had supplied me with measurements so I could get a few things ready beforehand. They seemed to be oblivious to the fact that some of this might be very embarrassing to ME. Perhaps old people don’t get embarrassed any more – huh.

Back to the web – I found some actually helpful suggestions from 2008 by a Vanessa Law “There are seven aspects to looking great and passing as a genetic woman every time:
1. Wearing clothes that make you look good
2. Making sure your curves are in the right places
3. Feminine body movement
4. Hairstyle that feminizes your face
5. Natural makeup
6. A feminine voice
7. Loving who you are as a woman

I thought about these for a while and put them in a different order for Frances.
1 be happy and comfortable as a girl looking like other girls
2 a body shape that looks reasonably girly (breast forms already ordered)
3 hairstyle that feminizes the face
4 wearing clothes that are age-suitable and peer-conforming
5 accessories, earrings and so on
6 makeup as minimal as possible but age-suitable
7 voice, walk, posture, movement, gesture, language – learn by watching
8 Smile more
9 Love the new you – because you’re special and lovely.

I didn’t think the often repeated advice about shaving, waxing and so on was actually relevant yet for Frances. Except as an adjunct of makeup where perhaps her eyebrows might be reshaped and her hairline trimmed at the sideburns.

Vanessa’s second article was about the mistakes that too many cross-dressers make regarding posture and presentation. I had already seen myself the obvious mistakes that stood out from the photographs on the sites I had made myself look at. Skirts too short or too frilly or too girly or too young, cleavage too obvious, hair unsuitable, too much makeup, trying too hard, and so on. So her advice was a useful confirmation that our target of being ‘nice’ was pretty sensible.

I kept looking – one site was insipid enough that its list of ideas was ‘Shave Visible Hair; Buy a Wig; Wear Makeup; Wear Women’s Clothing. I mean – how feeble and how unhelpful. Did these advisors not make any effort to look at real girls/women and then to look at typical cross-dressers and use both their brain cells to make some intelligent comparisons and to learn some lessons to share. Pathetic.

One more comment underlined the naivete of some advisors – “Typically, a man dressing as a woman for Halloween would want to appear as obvious as possible, so more garish make-up would be appropriate.” To me it felt obvious that the commentator was writing so that ‘his’ views were described as ‘everyone’s views’ or the weasel-word ‘typically’. Manipulative and wrong.

It was actually really interesting putting together a package for my dear Frances. Once I had the determination to set aside the noticeable percentage of drivel, there was a lot of useful guidance. But still I felt that getting help from a selection of real people was going to be so much quicker, better and actually easier than reading a few paragraphs or watching a few videos.

I gradually collected a portfolio of notes for the Frances Project. The headings included Planning; Objective; Style; Shape; Hair; Shoes; Underwear; Outerwear; Presentation; Voice; Makeup; Accessories;

There were some comments that did seem to be useful – and I would run them past Sara in the near future.

--------------------------
NOTES FOR FRANCES * DRAFT * to be updated

PLANNING Purchase everything for your cross-dressing adventure especially if it is a one-off event. Try on all the clothing to ensure an adequate fit. Give yourself extra time to get ready if you have never cross-dressed before. If you are doing it for longer than a one-off event then aim for conventional, average and sensible.

Rule 1 – keep your look quite simple and ordinary UNLESS you want to look obvious. If you want to be obvious then the likelihood of being ‘outed’ or ‘failing to pass’ is much higher. Most people wish to avoid being obvious if there is any potential for embarrassment or difficulty. Aim for 'typical' and 'average' and 'everyday' in order to fit in with you chosen peer group.

Look at the internet and see how masculine some women do look and how a gesture or smile can alter their appearance. Amelie Mauresmo, the tennis player, looks stern and tough on court but when she smiles she is so much more feminine. Therefore, smiling is good. As well as displaying confidence, it does actually help you to be happy.

Don’t be scared – there are enough cross-dressers in the country that many shops and many shop-workers have experienced them. The key to their approach is ‘Can I make a sale’ not ‘yuk, this person is strange’. Be open and reasonable and expect to be treated well.

HAIR This needs to be is feminine in style. Even short hair with a flip to it is more feminine than short, flat hair. Use mousse to give volume and shape to your hair, whatever the length, and that will increase your womanly appearance. Bangs can be another addition to long or short hair to add femininity. Long hair is the easiest to style in a more feminine way, but it's not always necessary or even feasible to have long hair when dressing like a woman. A wig can be a sensible option. The most comfortable solution is your own hair done in a style that can be easily converted from masculine to feminine.

If there is time – grow your hair so that a pixie-cut or re-styling can be performed for the event. Look at the internet to see that short styles can be very feminine and your aim should be to look ordinary and reasonable and not to stand out in any way.

If you are using a wig, arrange your hair as close to your head as possible, using bobby pins and styling gel. Then, don your wig by gently pulling the front and back edges of it to widen the opening and slip the wig over your head. Tuck any stray hairs underneath the wig, and pin the wig to your head with additional bobby pins.

SHAPE Decide what you are going to do about your shape – the most obvious question is about your bust-line, breasts, boobs and cleavage. The sensible decision and one which will help you make up your mind about how far you want to go is –buying a bra!. Be up-front and borrow one from a female loved one who will then know your intention and either will offer to help [or will not !! so BE PREPARED], or go to the store and buy a brand new brassiere. The choice of ‘filler’ is up to you – but water-filled balloons, rice-filled balloons, cheap and expensive fake-boobs are all available.

As well as a padded bra, select clothing that creates or emphasizes or implies a female shape. For example, wear a dress with a wide skirt. If you have a slim figure, wear a dark colored T-shirt and wide pants or a wide skirt. This creates the appearance of female hips. There are only a few basic shapes – find which one is most suitable for you to adopt.

Buy your own underwear; panties and bra. The second issue apart from your lack of upper bulge or bustline is the existence of the lower bulge. According to stories and Youtube, a tight slightly small bikini-type panty or a ‘shaping’-panty will help keep things out of the way. In addition pantyhose can cover up any leg hair stubble or for extra help maintaining a smooth-ish crotch area.

The third issue, apart from the upper non-bulge and the lower bulge, is the lack of waist and hips. The average male lacks curve.

STYLE Are you going to dress Elegant, Slutty, Homemaker, very-casual Bohemian, Drag, Preppy, Business, Party-Glam or just-nice. As mentioned, look at the photographs of transvestites and observe the ones you think look okay and why the others are in some way off-key. If your intention is to ‘dress nice’ then there are obvious mistakes to avoid.

OUTFIT A man dressing as a woman might be most comfortable in either a skirt or a dress. He should choose a skirt with an elastic waist band so it forgives any excess belly fat. In pants, he should look for something with an elastic waist band, such as sweat pants or workout gear. Most men need a larger size to comfortably fit into women's pants, particularly jeans.

Observe outfits on mannequins or advertisements to confirm that you will be dressing appropriately. This will help provide some context for what to wear in what situations. An easy rule of thumb for first time cross-dressers is to wear something tight on top (to show off your bustline) and loose on the bottom (to hide your bulge).

A Dress is probably the best way to get the "woman" look across. However, for everyday wear a dress is not always appropriate. Men tend to be more straight all the way down, and women are not. With pants, the womanly curves you desire can be achieved through clothes with a cinch and a flare. Flared jeans with a top that has a belt or tie just below the breasts will help create those curves. Any colors will do, but make sure to match as best you can.

Find a dress and shoes that fit. Keep in mind that women have curvy shapes, and most men do not, so finding an aptly-fitted dress might take some time. Try to go for flowing styles that do not fit too tightly.

SHOES Watching a man wobble around in high heels may be funny, but it's probably not a practical idea if he plans to walk around for an extended period of time. He should try a pair of women's flats, or go for heels no higher than 2 inches. For extra foot support, he can purchase sole support that can be slipped into a shoe at a drug store.

Depending on your height, high heels may or may not be an option. If you're short, opt for heels when they'll work with your outfit. When they won't, or if you're tall, opt for flats. Any feminine sandals will work for dressing like a woman. If you choose open-toed shoes, get a pedicure.
Freshly painted toenails will make your feet and overall look more feminine. Practice walking in heels until you have it down, because you never know when an event will come up and the majority of girls will be wearing heels. Women often buy a wide variety of shoes (and accessories) so that they can match to their outfits.

Walk normally with sure, confident strides. Clumping around in women’s heels is a certain way to develop bunions and sore knees. On the other hand, tip-toeing around in high heels will get you nowhere fast. Modify your steps enough to accommodate your added height and a shifted center of balance, but don't overdo it.

Maintain good posture. Standing erect straightens the spine and takes the weight off of pressure points. This is like walking with a stack of books on your head. Practice makes perfect , but it's worth it. Slumping in women's heels hurts your back and kills the knees.

Pay extra for good heels. It will make all the difference. Cheap women's heels provide almost zero support to arches and no cushion for the impact of walking. Spending extra money will ensure more comfort, and it will make your shoes last longer.

Choose a wedge-shaped heel instead of stiletto. Wedge shaped heels give more overall support space and a better sense of balance. They distribute weight more evenly and distribute the impact of your steps over your entire body instead of just your feet.

Wear the highest heels in which you can comfortably walk and stand for a good while – NOT the highest available. Women's heels can be a challenge for men to wear because they require balance and sometimes come in only small sizes. For men with larger feet, try costume shops or just wear sandals and glue sequins on them.

ACCESSORIES A purse is a definite need because, as a woman, you'll need to carry around personal items like makeup along with standard items like a wallet and cell phone. A purse can be any color, but at first stick with brown, white, or black and switch depending on your outfit. If you're wearing a brown shirt and brown shoes, a brown purse should be what you choose. Belts, scarves and so on need to be considered and included in any look that you are putting together.

Other accessories, like jewelry, should be sparse and dainty. A two-inch-thick chain and a watch with a three-inch-diameter face will not work. Try a thin silver chain necklace with a small pendant, small diamond studded earrings, and a ring or two. A Pair of Earrings are always only worn by women.

Add jewelry that accentuates the dress. For a bold look, add costume jewelry that is chunky and colorful. Clip-on earrings can be found at many vintage and thrift stores, so do not fret if your ears are not pierced.

Find a purse that matches your outfit. When all else fails, try to match your shoes to your bag.

(Shaving) Facial hair is rather a giveaway that you ‘suffer’ from testosterone. Hair in other places is not helpful when emulating a woman either for an event or more often. Hair on fingers, wrists, eyebrows and other ‘obvious’ areas must be removed. Body hair is a sign of masculinity and the choice to shave particular areas can depend on the visibility of any growth. While actual women possess a full range of body types, from hairless to hairy, modern societal expectations of smooth skin make it easier to be perceived as a woman if you have no body hair.

If your body hair is particularly thick, use an electric trimmer before doing a smooth shave, or spring for a waxing session.

If dressing for an event, shave closely as shortly before the event as feasible. Shave legs, arms, armpits (with new razor) or choose clothing that will definitely cover those areas. Dark-coloured tights or stockings are a useful substitute and sometimes it is possible to wear two pairs, one atop the other.

Clean your fingernails. Grimy fingernails don't tend to go well with pretty dresses. Make sure they are clean, or better yet -- paint them with nail polish. Because men do not wear nail polish, coloured fingers are a major hint that the wearer is feminine.

MAKEUP
There are quantities of short and useful videos on Youtube on how to do makeup. In addition, you can get a beauty specialist to visit at home and give one-to-one guidance.

Examples of specific advice include : Brush concealer on under the inner corner of your eyes and gently downward across the rest of your face.

Apply lipstick, starting at the center of the lips and moving outward. Lightly rub your lips together to distribute the lipstick, and pat against a napkin or tissue to ensure you don't end up with too much.

To complete the outfit, a man might want to put on some jewelry and carry a purse. A scarf or hat might also work, as well as make-up, including fake eyelashes and extra long nails.
Wear feminine colors, such as pink or purple, for a more believable impersonation.

VOICE Speak with a higher voice by speaking from the throat. Practice speaking from your throat by singing songs one or two octaves higher than your usual singing voice.

Practise using feminine words, practice walking, sitting, moving around and doing tasks. Make a real effort to watch and learn from real people. As just one example, the average male describes using about a dozen colours – a well-trained girl can use up to a hundred quite easily. The male ‘Blue, Dark, Light or Medium’ becomes periwinkle, sky-blue, royal-blue, topaz, sapphire, and many more.

PRESENTATION Act like a girl when communicating in person or digitally. Listen closely when people talk to you, especially if they reveal their problems. Try to respond with care and compassion and avoid confrontation or challenging people.

PERFUME - your choice of perfume will reveal some of your inner girlishness.

REACTIONS Eventually you will meet people who will have a bad reaction to what you are doing. If they are family or close friends or colleagues then this may become very uncomfortable. A key to dealing with them is YOUR confidence. A key message to get through to your opponents is that this is a pastime that you enjoy. You are finding that it gives you a huge insight into how girls and boys interact and you already know that this will be helpful later on. Make it very clear (provided it is true) that you are not homosexual, not a pervert and that you have no intention to be a bad influence or a bad example to anyone. If it is true then make it very clear you get no sexual thrill from dressing up – it is just rather nice to get away from the drab and dull. Re-emphasise that your hobby is relatively light-hearted, enjoyable and that a goodly number of relatives and friends support you.

-------------------------------

I was quite pleased with what I had put together. What it needed now was pictures and examples to make it specific to Frances rather than to any generic cross-dresser. After all – Frances barely had any need to shave so that wasn’t a significant page to include.

The next day or so as I snipped comments and pictures from all over the web reminded me of the advice from interior designers to create a ‘Mood Page’ when planning a makeover for a room. What was going to happen to Frances was quite a bit more significant than merely changing the wallpaper and curtains in one room. But on the other hand – Frank to Frances was a genuine makeover.

Time would tell. I had done the best I could.

Saturday came and Frank arrived by train from London.

-------------------------

What or who was I expecting to arrive? I wasn’t sure actually.

I was very pleased to see that it was Frances stepping out of the carriage. Not a full-fledged Frances but certainly one with more confidence and, indeed, presence than a week before.

She was wearing a t-shirt and a pretty jacket which concealed whether she was wearing a bra of any sort. She had a knee-length skirt and shoes with a small heel on them. No makeup apart from a touch of lipstick, almost clear nail polish I was pleased to see. Hair-wise, her parting had been adapted into a sort of tousled arrangement that was definitely not boyish.

Overall, it was clear that some effort had been made in getting ready for her visit. She had a small suitcase – although I was confident that in a few weeks time she would be leaving with much more.

“Hello, Granddad,” she called and gave me a quick hug. Different from the week before when it had been wave of the hand and ‘hi’.

“Congratulations, I can tell you’ve been thinking about this trip and working hard to get ready.”

“Yes, Mummy(!) and I had a lovely time. We took your advice and spent quite some time sitting in coffeebars and watching. I took lots f notes and photographs too – then we went home and discussed what we had seen and what to do about it. As you can see, we did buy a few things once we decided that I would be travelling here as Frances. We decided that once we knew that I would be taking a train at a quiet time of day. Mummy took me to the station so I didn’t need to go on a bus or tube by myself – as we felt that might have been a bit risky. Now, I’m here and we can take the next steps. Isn’t that right, G’dad.” G’dad was what I was usually called by the kids.

“We’ll go to yet another coffee bar, sit for a while while you tell me what you’ve decided, what you’ve half-decided and what you want to do first. Then I’ll tell you what the options are that I’ve arranged – and we can begin to move on. And you can tell me what you’ve brought with you. And remember, you have to dazzle me with feminine and girly adjectives too."

“Well, I’ve got the prettiest summer dress for going to the park, and two lovely skirts – one quite short in a sort of pale yellow with a green trim, the other in a pale blue. I’ve got a super-soft sweater in a nearly matching yellow – and Mummy did buy me my new undies. As well as some ordinary panties, she bought me a set from M&S in pale cream with a flower pattern – and my first bra. She rather insisted that she should do this – it was half-frightening and half-exciting and mostly, in the end, wonderful. It felt so so so real when I put it on. ………… Is that the sort of thing you wanted to hear G’dad? Oh, – and these shoes too.”

“That was great. You’ve already started on this journey – and your talk sounds like a girl. I had my eyes closed for some of that so that I could get a feel for you just by the voice. I'm glad your Mum has been helping. Last week, I wasn't quite sure whether you were being sent here because Sara was not quite able and willing to be involved. I wasn’t sure how she was taking this experiment. But clearly, she’s more willing than she appeared last week.”

By this time, we had reached the coffee bar I had selected. On one of the main cross-roads in town, with a bank opposite and a major walkway through to the Market Square. A busy site with a quantity of people to watch passing every minute.

“Well, darling girl, tell me more. Point out some of the girls you with a style you like or even dislike. Then when you’ve caught your breath, we’ll spend the morning shopping.”

[If anyone is wondering why it should be Granddad telling this story and helping his grandson become more of a grand-daughter – well that’s just the way this story goes. My daughter knows that I love the ladies and their clothes, that I have given her good advice in the past and that on one or two occasions I have (carefully) lamented the modern social pattern that has men wearing drab and dull while the women have the luxury and pleasure of pattern, fabric, colour, style and all the gorgeousness that a mere 200 years ago was the prerogative of the male.]

Frances sat beside me and we looked at the passing parade.

“I like that one” she said. The girl had a thin white layered skirt, each of the four layers being trimmed with ribbon, with a bold turquoise sweater worn across her shoulders over a white t-shirt. And she took a quick note with a diagram too. I was amazed at how quickly her sketch absorbed the key details. I thought ‘there’s an unexpected and significant talent we didn’t know about.”

After pointing out of few more examples of what she did not like – which sadly were too often slightly overweight girls squeezing into fat-bulgy jeans or with tummies and armpits bulging out of tight t-shirts. There were others who had dreadful colour matches and the inevitable Goth. Frances made it clear that she disliked the big tattoos – but she did think the little girly motifs were kinda-neat.

A little later, Frances pointed out a group of girls that she liked the look of. And, I thought I knew one of them as a neighbor a few doors down the street. They wore jeans, skirts, and my neighbor was the only one in a dress – mostly white with a curl of big flowers down one side from the shoulder to the hem.

Not long after, we set off to our first destination, a salon I had noted as coming across as particularly helpful. There were only 3 girls working there but I liked how Jennifer had talked about being helpful. Since Frances had already got a useable style – I decided we would mostly go there for a chat.

When I went in, very conveniently, Jennifer was at the desk finishing with another client. She recognized me and gave a little wave to acknowledge us – we guessed that the three fingers she held up were a guess as to how long she would be. Not even that long in fact, and she turned to us and said, “Well, it’s nice to welcome a potential new client. Like your Granddad said, your hair is too short to do much with – but you knew that already. Someone has done a bit of work for you, what, yesterday, so let’s just sit and have a chat and look at a few of the very short hair options for the near future.”

Jennifer spent nearly 20 minutes with us before one of the others asked for some help. Frances gave her the ‘three-finger signal’ and Jennifer giggled. “I always use that and it’s neat to see that you’ve picked it up already.”

Frances said, “Thanks so much for spending time with us. I’ll be back in a fortnight as you suggested so that we can see what we can do next. And I’ll go and see that girl Serena about makeup and getting my eyebrows neatened up. Until next time”, and she gave Jennifer a brief hug with the mwaa-mwaa makeup-avoidance dance that was the common hello-goodbye for the girls we had been watching.

“That went well,” I said as we left.

“Yes. Jennifer seemed to be well aware of how to set up a to-and-fro boyish-girlish hairstyle. I reckon she knows a few more people like me.”

“What, pretty young girls, eh?”

“Thanks G’dad – but no. I mean boys who like dressing as girls – not ‘real’ girls I mean.”

“Now, we’ll have less of that. The key to this project is you being confident about who you are and displaying ‘I am a girl’ to anyone you meet. I do not want any comparison of you against ‘real’ girls and definitely no more comments about you being a boy ‘dressing up’ as a girl. For the next few weeks, you are a girl – even if admittedly short of skill and experience.”

“Oh G;dad, you’re such a support, so encouraging. I do love you.” And she held my arm a little tighter and somehow snuggled closer.

---------------------

I suppose I ought to mention that I’ve read a lot of stories too. I found the sites with not much effort either, after learning to avoid the porn and near-porn. I liked the general friendly sort of story that you get on BigCloset. The control / domination / sissy type of story that is too frequent on Fictionmania doesn’t really catch my interest. I read a lot, perhaps I spent too much time on the BC site but I read fast and I enjoyed a lot of what was there. It was a shame that Crystal’s Storysite had faded out but the BC and FM sites had a lot of stories, far more than some of the lesser sites.

Of course, I’ve looked at other sites sometimes too – after all we all know how far and how deep one can get with just a few button-clicks. I’ve read about adult babies, about bimbo-ization, about dressing young children which seemed just wrong; and a whole lot of stuff that I really didn’t like. But I did read the stories and sometimes I read some more ‘just to prove to myself that they were ugly’. Dim. You can go far too far with only a few clicks. Perhaps that's how some people drift to real ugly perversity.

In fact I could see how some people went down the track and into areas that were just wrong. I had spent time in areas well beyond the minor ‘perversion’ of dressing-up. And some of those were wrong and ugly and definitely treated their victim / targets in a demeaning and vile and improper way. And a few clicks from there and I would have read about or looked at p-dophilia and even uglier stuff – as if toilet games and machines and torture weren’t equally vile.

I had lots of useful notes from the stories I had read and enjoyed in the week since I learnt about Frances. I had re-read some favourite authors – Bailey Summers, Paula Dillon, Susan Brown amongst others who I had a pretty god idea often gave good advice within the frame of the story.

As one example, I noted : “Look at who is talking or who you’re talking to, not like your staring or gawking at them, but like what they are saying to you and what you say to them, really matters to you. Don’t feign attention either, girls pick up on things like that and will check you in a heartbeat. If you learn one thing about girls today, brother, if you learn to communicate to girls as a girl does you will be way ahead of other guys. Girls love to talk and be talked to as equals.” PD – The Slap.

-----------------------------

At the next salon, I had arranged for the girl there, Fleur, to talk about skincare and nail-care. Frances was excited when I said Fleur will probably do some work on your eyebrows, she’ll pierce your ears so you can wear the earrings we’ll buy later and it may be here that we get your nails done. These are all quite big signals that you are a girl, a normal girl and that you’re here to stay for some while – yes.”

“If necessary, you and Fleur can go next door to Accessorize and you have a budget of £30, strictly £30. If you see anything more than that, then we’ll think about it afterwards when I can be there too.

“Oh G’dad – thanks so much. I did want them done before we left but Mummy was quite firm that it wasn’s suitable until I was here in quiet ol’ Chichester.”

I sat and enjoyed the free coffee which the salon offered me. They did say that ‘Sitting Dad’s were often sent to the winebar opposite but perhaps not today’.

Fleur and Frances spent a lot of time whispering and giggling. I read my newspaper and tried to do the General Knowledge crossword. Just as I was gettting slower with the difficult questions, the two girls finished up and Frances pranced towards me. She bounced with excitement – like a little puppy or kitten. I was delighted that she was enjoying herself so much. Fleur had added a sparkly barrette to Frances’ hair as well as a number of bangles, and accessories.

Fleur escorted Frances to a nail station where she got acrylic gel nails added to her fingers. They gave her three quarters of an inch long French nails, with oval tips. The nails glistened and reflected the lights of the salon. Frances was dazzled, if not mesmerized, as she held up her fingers and looked at her nails.

Next she moved on to the makeup station, a lady named Brenda, who worked on Frances and taught her as she toiled with brush and wand. She plucked Frances’ eyebrows; not insanely thin, but she did shape them nicely and gave them a feminine arch. She continued with Frances’ lessons on doing her own makeup.

Finally she used a piercing needle to pierce and insert a pair of glinty zircon earrings in her ear lobes. The hair style that had been chosen, with most of her hair tousled into a more feminine style allowed the earrings to be shown off nicely.

Frances was squeaking she was so happy. “I know my ears hurt but I feel so pretty. I love what Fleur and everyone has done for me.”

The extra work had given Frances considerable extra confidence that she was in girl-mode and could be confident that no boyishness was showing through.

“You look wonderful, dear. So confident, so excited. Let’s go and get you set up with some more, er, shapely items.”

“Ooh, G’dad – d’you mean my own boobs, ooh please yes.”

“Perhaps just a little quieter and less obvious, dear. But yes. We’ve got an appointment.”

“Oh, G’dad – you are wonderful. You must have been doing a lot of organising and planning.”

“You could say that. I do know now that I know a lot more about some subjects than I ever ever expected. I know how to go into a shop and ask to buy a bra, how to ask for advice on fitting a bra properly – not quite the normal life of your old G’dad, y’know.”

“I’m so very glad that you’ve put so much effort in. I’m proud of my G’dad – learning new tricks when he should be lying down in front of the fire.” she giggled. And it was a giggle not a boyish chuckle. This was another confirmation to me that this was a girl.

“Don’t label me as just an old dog – I’ve still got some surprises for you – and even for me as this goes on.” Wow – I was pleased I managed to squeeze in that ‘as’ instead of the ‘if’ I had been meaning to say.

“Lead on, G’dad – let’s go boob-hunting – it’s like haggis hunting but you do it in the town instead of on the hills.”

The shop I was aiming for was just a few yards off the main street. Secluded and discreet – as one would expect. The door was labelled ‘BAC’ in large letters and ‘Breast Advice Consultants’ in smaller letters.

Once we were inside, we were surrounded by pink and frills. There were two mannequins – I smirked to myself that they were definitely girlequins. One was labelled ‘Before’ and the other was labelled ‘After’. And I could see no difference between them.

A few moments later, a young woman came towards us. “I’m sorry I wasn’t in the shop as you arrived. I was just putting away some items from the last client. How can I help you today. I’m Briony. It is Mr Pelly is it – and this is our actual client. And I can see you’ve brought Frances with you.” And she smiled at the still excited girl beside me.

I answered as I was not sure what Frances would say. “We spoke during the week. As you correctly state, Frances has come with me today and we want to fit her with age-appropriate extras so that she can look externally like the girl she feels she is.”

“Sounds good to me. Now, darling. Tell me what it’s like to wear a bra for the first time. I can tell you’re wearing one but we need to make sure it’s the right one for you.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful. It makes me feel secure and so much more like a woman rather than a boy dressing up in panties or even skirt and blouse. The bra makes me feel so much more real.”

“Well, real is what we are aiming at. When you leave in a little while, I want you to be able to believe with your heart and soul and brain that you are a woman, well young girl, with the shape and feel of a young girl. Your own breasts – hey – does that sound good’”

“Ohh, you’d never believe it.”

“Now you’re being silly – I know what it’s like – or at least I’ve seen the look of wonder and delight on the faces of quite a number of new-girls in the past few years. When I came to work here I didn’t know that there were people who wanted this experience – but there’s quite a number who use our services. You’d be surprised, I certainly was.”

Halfway down on the right was a sloping shelf with a display of pink lumps and I realized that this was my first sight of fake boobs – and what a lot of sizes and even different shapes there were. I was startled. I was no longer a young man and I had fondled a fair variety of genuine breasts in my life so I knew about small, pert, standard handful, large, sagging; I had sampled small nipples, huge nipples, protruding nipples and the occasional haired nipple- but never to my knowledge had I encountered an escaped silicon boob.

And, like I say, there were small, medium and large; there were push-ups, round blobs, triangular and elongated too. I was quite surprised but then I reconsidered. Under what circumstances would an average bloke have encountered a quantity of fake boobs (other than with a wife or friend after cancer surgery).

I turned to Briony and raised an eyebrow. She smirked as she knew exactly what I was thinking. “You can see why we insist on a personal fitting to make sure we get the right answer for each of our clients."

It took some time but Briony eventually had Frances aglow and abreast with a pair of size B forms in a 32 inch bra – with little yellow flowers edging the lacy cups. Frances had four other bras so that she could report back on what was the most comfortable. Briony repeated several times that she didn’t like her clients to say after only a few seconds whether a particular style was good or excellent. “I mean, we all can tell after about 2 or 5 or 30 seconds whether a chosen bra is appalling, terrible or not good enough. But the choice between great and wonderful needs more effort. This is true of bras even though the shape in and around can vary with the day of the month or with gaining or losing a few pounds. Listen and learn, Grasshopper."

“I wouldn’t have thought you knew that program from the dark ages of the 1960s” I murmured.

“Dad was always quoting it. You can’t help pick up the occasional bad habit from a parent.”

We went home after ‘just one more shop’ where I bought Frances a layered dress very like the one she had noticed in the morning. This one was a little heavier in pale blue with dark blue sating edging. Frances held my hand and swung my arm as we walked back to the car with our bags. I could tell that she was happy, very happy.

“Thanks G’Dad. You’re put a lot of effort into today. I’m so grateful.”

I smiled back – then stopped on the pavement and pulled her into a hug. “I’m not sure I understand all that’s going on. I’ve been reading a lot, and listening a lot too and watching a lot. And to me it is quite clear – you were never much of a boy boy even though you tried quite hard. I can see now that you were pretending a lot of the time. I can re-interpret some of the signs and signals that I didn’t understand back then. To me, it’s pretty obvious – you were never a boy. What you were was a girl pretending, no, not pretending because that’s sort of conscious, you were a girl who had been told by everybody a lot of times that you were a boy and that this was how you should behave as a typical boy. And you did your best."

“I know now from what you say that it was puberty that started you realizing that things were a bit skew. I mean, all those other boys getting bigger, hairier, musclier if that’s a word, more boy all over in their brains and hearts and groins too – and you didn’t fit in. You didn’t understand. In fact, how could you really have a clue except by trying to twist what you had been told so that it fitted what you were told about yourself."

“But now we know – you’re a girl. So be a girl. Throw off that horrid camouflage and be the best girl you can be. You have a fine shape for a teenage girl – a bit skinny maybe but not fat or muscly or, worse, skeletal. From your comments about people, I can say with certainty that you talk and think like a girl and not like a boy. I can also say that the person with me on this pavement in this little country town was a girl, a genuine girl with a feminine brain, feminine personality and a feminine heart. And just in case you weren't sure, I love Frances."

---------------

During the week, we went into the town centre for more coffee bar watching, and I was persuaded to let Frances buy one or two items on almost every trip. She got to know several of the shops and several of the assistants very well. Some were almost her age even though most shops won’t take 15 year olds – but this was the country and rules are more, er, rural and relaxed.

We went back next weekend to Jennifer’s salon. It was Frances’ first proper visit and her hair was so short, they went for a shampoo first as Frank had never had his hair washed professionally, then a minimal trim without bothering with a perm, then color and style. We could see the next door clients having their hair up on rods and the pong of the permanent solution being added. It smelt worse than the dumpsters behind the pub.

During her a few moments under the dryer, a couple of nail techs came over and began working on her hands. They escorted her back to the chair where Fleur began to color the hair. Her hair was colored and a few blond highlights were added. Fleur then turned to being a stylist and brought Frances’ hair into its final shape. Frances loved what she saw.

At the end of this session, Frances looked even more non-boyish than before. In fact, I couldn’t detect anything boyish about her. This was my special granddaughter. She glowed.

After yet another session in the shops, where I let Frances spend the amount her mother was sending each week for new clothes. It had been agreed that Frances would learn more by buying a few items regularly rather than a whole wardrobe in a few days with a quantity of things which might then never be worn. Frances had agreed a rule that each item bought had to be worn within the next 3 days. It did mean that some days were a flurry of costume changing. The record, I think, had been seven changes in a single day. It didn’t count to just run downstairs, display and then run upstairs again. Each item had to be tried for walking, sitting, bending and so on for at least an hour.

Frances agreed, after a few days, that this was much the best way to decide what felt comfortable and what felt wrong. By the third week, much fewer things were being taken back to the shops for exchanging.

I was sad when the time came for Frances to leave. But it was time. Her mum had come down from London for one afternoon and evening and had been joyous at her daughter’s confidence and style. What she had seen was a young girl of good judgment and social presence. And she had driven down this morning so that I could take the ladies into town, show my daughter some of the shops and even meet a few of Frances’ favourite assistants.

It had been a lovely lunch. I had watched as both of them chose a disgustingly girly salad and how they had, in unknowing synchronization, used the same gestures to wipe their lips with a napkin. That had made me smile. And going round the shops for Frances to say goodbye had been very nice too. Every shop had said that it had been a pleasure and to ‘come back soon’. And I thought that they had meant it rather than the average ‘have a nice day’ type of response.

But it was now time to go. Frances’ mum had come in the estate car because there was a lot more luggage than when Frankces had arrived. I was right with that!

Frances turned to me and hugged me, I noticed her back leg flip up at the ankle in that so-girly pose. “G’dad, you’ve been so wonderful. I couldn’t have done this so well without your support and the girls in town that you found for me.” She sniffled a bit. “I’m so happy that I can feel like the real me instead of hiding. I’m so glad that I can confess that Frank was a mask, a camouflage that I was hiding behind. I like Frank, well, I liked Frank, he was kind of useful, but I love being Frances.”

“Oh, honeychile, you just gotta give yosel’ a pat on the back – it’s all yew, yew did the hard work. If yo got a pretty picture hidden under durt, a bit o cleanin and a noo frame – it’s gonna be gorjus’”

“G’dad, I don’t know what accent that was – but it was awful.” And she giggled again.

“Time to go. You will always be welcome here so that I can spoil you a little bit more. The other granddaughters are so much younger that I feel they are more like prototypes than real people yet. But you are definitely my best and favourite teenage granddaughter.”

“Duh, that’s because I’m your ONLY teenage granddaughter.”

“Duh, so – whatever’”

“By G’dad. I’ll be in touch lots.”

“Give us a hug and a kiss and get in that car – and don’t smear me with lipstick.”

“As if I would after all those lessons – unless I wanted to brand you, eh”

The car drove away – and I felt a little bit alone.

-----------------

A few weeks passed, and Frances kept in touch. She had moved schools in order to do her A-levels so there were lots of new boys and new girls to get lost in and fortunately very few had transferred from her old school. This was mostly because Frances was both a bit brighter than most of them and she wanted to do courses that weren’t available at that school or locally. My bright lass was doing Sociology, Psychology and Russian in particular as well as . In addition, Frances’ new college could also give a taster into Theatre, Drama, Photography and others with evening sessions and the like.

She rang one evening to tell me how wonderful it all was. Like any other girl, she told me tales about what Alice and Beth and Charlotte and Denise and Edina and Frances and Georgeanne had been doing (I couldn’t keep up with the names so guessed at the whole alphabet!).

She giggled furiously when she told me that she had bullied Louise into going to get properly fitted for a bra and that Louise had even tried on a corset while they were there. She told me to go and tell the story to Briony.

On Frances’ last visit to Briony, Briony had insisted that one day soon I should wear a properly fitted bra ‘just so you can understand from a man’s point of view’. She smirked when she saw me come in by myself a few days later.

I was about give a summary of how Frances was getting on back home and the funny story about Louise and the Corset, when Briony said – ‘”I have a cancelled appointment so why don’t we give you your trial run’, yet again that almost resistible smirk and giggle.

I don’t know even yet why I let her persuade me – but in just a few minutes, we were in the back of the shop in one of the large cubicles with the three-sided mirrors and Briony was pulling the straps of my own ‘first bra’ over my shoulders. A few moments later, she was fitting medium-sized silicon boobs into the cups and giving a push here and a squeeze there. I smiled when I noticed that the box had been on the shelf above the radiator so that they were faintly not-cool when they were put in. I had noted once or twice when Frances had squeaked as she put in her breast-forms and they had been cold. That was only on the first day or so before Briony had agreed to glue them in place.

I was amazed, there were so many new sensations – the tightness across the back; the pull of the straps over the shoulders, the slight stretch under the arms where the unaccustomed wire squeezed just a little – and most surprising the new and very different curve of my chest at the bottom of my eyesight. Every time I looked in any direction, especially down, all I was conscious of was this fascinating double curve. I was amazed, enthralled and I said so. “The bra feels, lets say, very different but the amazing thing is how the curve of my chest is not what I have had for the last fifty years – there’s a curve there, I can see every moment that my breasts are bulging out and ….. I’m not sure what else to say.”

“Do you like the new sensation, the new feeling?”

“Like I say, it’s very, er, very different. I’m not sure it’s right for me. Like you say, it does give me a chance to learn a little of what Frances has been doing – but I have not inner-girl hidden away inside me. I’ve never thought for a moment, either while Frances was here or at any other time in my life, I am actually a girl not a boy. I’ve never thought ‘what would it be like to be a woman. About all I have ever wondered, especially when I have a nice pair of breasts in my hands, is what would it be like to have these things suspended on my chest?’. I know women never have the equivalent ‘what must it be like to have a stiffy in the morning’ or the ‘it would be easier to be able to pee outdoors’ but that’s just some of the difference between a man and a woman. And not many women and even fewer men are going to get the difference in just of few minutes of ‘wow – I now have a bustline which has two curves instead of one.”

Briony smiled “you’re right there. Not many women and not many men. Perhaps more than you would have guessed before Fran came into your life – but not many. Now, you’ve described the change of view – what about the feel of them.”

I put my hands to my breasts and hefted them a little. The feel of ‘my’ breasts in my hands was actually less of a surprise – although I did rather enjoy the feel of the breast through the satin vest atop ‘my’ bra. It was still the change in the visible outline that was still fascinating me.

“The difference is kind of different. Usually, a breast in the hand is warm and inviting. These are, sort of, attached to me and when I move them then my body moves. Unusual. I’ll have to think about this until I can get this off.”

“And you’re keeping them on for a while. I want you to go home and do things at home so you can feel your bra and your breasts making you act differently as well as feel different. Now, let’s see how easily you can get the bra off by yourself when I’m not there to help you.”

It took a bit of effort and some stretching both of me and the bra to learn how to get it off – but I had to learn as Briony insisted that I wear it home and keep it on for at least an hour. “Five or ten minutes won’t give you anything like the right feel – I do know what I’m doing here. You need to understand what Frances’ is going through so that you can give her the best help you can. I nearly said be as supportive as you can – but that’s the job of the bra itself,” giggle.

I tried to look offended but failed – and smiled back. So, a few minutes later, I walked out of Briony’s shop to my car – all of a hundred yards away fortunately. I set off certain that at every step – someone would scream and point at me ‘Look at that man – he’s got breasts’.

By the time I got to the car I was no longer panicking about ‘being noticed as a Man Wearing a Bra’ in fact I was (almost) getting relaxed about it. I remembered talking to Frances ‘It’s all about confidence – if you look as if it’s completely right and reasonable to be dressed as you are then the reaction of other people is their problem – and generally they won’t even notice.’

I drove through the town, getting caught up in traffic and sitting stationary a few times – and each time I wondered if anyone would notice – and scream – or shout or make a fuss. And each time the moment passed and I realized that there wasn’t that much to worry about. After all, with the whole obesity epidemic, there were more than a few men with moobs – and some of them actually ought to get a bra. I was wearing a bra without having actual moobs – and instead I had almost volunteered for actual boobs. I smiled.

When I got home, my smile hiccupped and vanished. My neighbor, Joan, was outside on our joint drive. I parked and set off to the house. Appallingly and unfortunately, she called me over asking if I could help her lift a couple of large flower tubs.

“I’ll be out in a few minutes, Joan. Just got to do a couple of things.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Martin. It’s looking like rain any moment and this will take all of 30 seconds. Hip hop, let’s get it done. I just need you to get each one onto the trolley and off at the other side.”

I groaned to myself. And bent to lift the first one. I heard an intake of breath and hoped this meant nothing. We walked over to the far side of her garden and I bent to waddle the pot off the trolley. By the time we had done all five pots, I was actually puffing a bit and the drizzle had begun to come down.

Joan smiled at me and said ,”Now, you can come in for a coffee and a biscuit and tell me what’s been happening. I’ve seen that pretty young thing staying with you for the last couple of weeks. Has she gone for long? Will she be back soon?”

By the time my brain and body had caught up with each other, she had bustled me into her kitchen and we were sitting waiting for the kettle to boil for the cafetiere. Joan preferred her semi-posh coffee to my instant.

As she brought the cafetiere over, she stumbled and put her hand on my shoulder to steady herself. I was definitely not mistaken this time when I heard a small gasp. ‘Oh deary deary me – we have a problem Houston’ was what I thought. Then I thought ‘Exactly what sort of problem do we have – display confidence here.”

I smiled at Joan. “Thanks for the coffee. I do prefer a better coffee but it seems such a bother when it’s only me. It’s almost as bad a cooking for one – too much of the time, you think, why bother. The rest of the time, you cook three or four portions and hope they’ll keep in the fridge or freezer for long enough. It does translate into being a bit lazy, I suppose. But we’ve played this particular record more than a few times.”

“Yes, we have. And you’re avoiding my questions too. I’m not as dim as some, and I know that you’ve only got one grandchild in the teenage bracket – so why was your grandson looking so very cute and pretty as a girl rather than his official self.”

“Simple answer – the official outside does not match with the unofficial and personal and individual inside. That child is not a boy – not as regards heart or soul – and not much as regards body. I had Frances to stay with me for four weeks while she learnt how to dress as a girl and present as a girl. She wants to be a girl at home as well – and we all decided that a little time of practice in a quiet corner where she knew nobody would be rather sensible. So Frank came here to learn to look like a Frances rather than just being a Frances locked or at least camouflaged by being a Frank every day of his-her life.”

“Interesting. And I have to say, there was almost nothing – apart from my knowledge about you grandson being a male – that made me think anything other than ‘what a nice-looking girl’. I won’t overgloss things and suggest that she was more pretty than the average girl or even as pretty as an average girl – I’ll just say she looked nice, smart, confident and definitely pleased at being a girl. Can’t get much more girly than that, can you?”

I smiled back at my nosy neighbor. “Well, that was kind of you to say so. And kind of you not to make a fuss about Frances. She was trying her best and I think she did a pretty good job. She arrived here a bit lost or at least wandering – and the person who left yesterday – to me – she looked like any of the other girls we had watched in town. Like you say, confident, typical and a girl.”

“Well, in that case, I think you’ve done a good job and in fact a good deed. It would have been silly for Frances to dress up for the first time in an area where her friends and schoolmates and so on could or would be likely to spot her and make life difficult. She can go back and be a girl instead of a pretend-girl or even worse a boy easily detectable as a ‘boy in a dress’.

“But, today, I have to say I’m a little puzzled. Is this dressing thing infectious [I squirmed as my almost worst fears came alight] or what. I didn’t try to notice that you were wearing a bra – but the shape of your chest is somehow different and when you bent over I could see what looked very like the lines of a bra across your back – and I do agree I put my hand on your sholder on purpose – I now know that you are wearing a bra – and shapers. I’m puzzled and mildly interested in what’s happening here."

I took a deep breath. “It’s the fault of that Briony. The girl who fitted Frances with her breasts.” What was I letting out these secrets so easily for! “She bullied me into trying these out so that I could ‘get a better view of what Frances had to do’. But I can’t feel she’s right."

“What d’you mean?”

“Well, Frances needed breasts – she was a fifteen year old girl, fifteen year old girls have breasts therefore Frances needed breasts. Therefore she needed a bra and, in her case, she needed fifteen years of sudden advice and guidance so as to stop being a pretend-boy."

“And”

“You’re very good at this – are you a professional listener.”

“I’ve done my share – and simple encouragements get more of the story out quicker than interrupting with bigger questions. Stop interrupting yourself and keep talking."

“Like I say, Frances needed breasts because she is a girl. I am not a girl or a woman or, as far as I have ever thought, feminine in any way. I do not NEED breasts. I am a male without moobs. I have a grandson who is now a great granddaughter. But Briony insisted and I need to keep her on the team for Frances’ sake – so now, here I am, temporarily wearing a bra ‘to see what it feels like!’"

“And.”

“It’s not dreadful. I can understand, or I think I can begin to understand why some women feel it’s more of a cage than a support. I can’t guess what it must be like to have big breasts pulling down at the front like a gravity-magnet. Oooomph, horrid, I would guess. But that’s for only some of half the population to worry about. Trying this on has been very, er, interesting but I don’t think I’ll need to try it again."

“Interesting, you say.”

“Stop that, clever clogs.”

“You say you 'don’t think you’ll try it again. Is there some possibility then?”

“Don’t twist things, you naughty neighbor.”

“Can’t fish without a hook. Are you a fish and could you be hooked.”

“No and no.”

“Ummmm.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m the one supposed to be asking the questions. Just wondering how far ‘interesting’ might take you.”

“As far as I’m concerned, today and no further, yes”

“Oh dear. And there was I thinking we could stir up this neighhourhood a bit”

“Joan, what do you mean.”

[Author decision time – do I write the story where Joan gets excited about Martin becoming a crossdresser and encourages him to come out and be a minor outrage
OR as my original thought, more quietly, Joan confesses to knowing nothing about the TV/CD scene and wondering if it will give her widowed life a bit of spice. ]

“Look, Martin, this is small town Chichester. Don’t you think the locals deserve of a bit of a wakeup. What would be the effect if ……………..

“No, just stop right there. I’ve helped Frank learn about Frances. I’ve helped Frances meet up with and get help from several local shops …… and, somehow, today I’ve been pushed into a bra and persuaded to drive home with a pair of lumps on my chest. Enough. I’m off home to get dressed in something I’ve chosen. I’m going to get this thing off me and I have no intention of doing anything like this again. Thanks for the coffee.”

And even though it was now raining quite hard, I pushed out of the kitchen, across the driveway and into my own, quiet, uncomplicated, masculine house. Of course, I wasn’t upset by what Briony had persuaded me to do, nor was I upset by Joan displaying slight interest. I would let things move on – and I would wrap up the bra and breastforms and squeeze them through Briony’s letterbox in the next day or so.

Of course I would.

But the Priest wears a Dress!

Is this fair - when they (mostly) spout bible verses at us who WANT to wear a dress.

This is an Alys-500 for anyone to amend, borrow, extend

Why?
Why do ‘They’ cherry-pick just some Biblical laws to obey or ignore.
Why do ‘They’ mistreat and abuse those who choose some different Biblical laws?
How can it be that there’s a choice in which laws to obey?

But ‘they’ do make choices. They SAY they obey the 10 commandments – seen any images recently; told any lies; ‘borrowed’ anything from work; worked on a Sunday. And what about .., Eaten a forbidden prawn? Forgotten the tassels on your clothes? Been to church even though you wear glasses or have had a vasectomy? Ladies, do you wear trousers? It’s too easy to be caught out.

Here’s the Ten – trimmed a little

1 You shall have no other gods before Me….
2 You shall make no image, or any likeness of anything on earth, in sky or water; …..
you shall not bow down to them nor serve them;
3 You shall not take the name of God in vain ie don’t swear or blaspheme;
4 Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath in it you shall do no work:
5 Honor your father and your mother,
6 You shall not murder; 7 … commit adultery; 8 … steal; 9 … bear false witness [lie]; 10 … covet … anything that is your neighbor's.”

Time after time, society sets up rules which contradict some of these god-given laws. So, who is in the right?

Let’s look at one law which concerns transgressors(pun) and readers here :.

Bible-law #410 - a man shall not wear women’s clothing
Man-Law #3786.I-a-ii All priests in the Christian church shall wear a floor-length embroidered costume and definitely not call it any girly-word like dress, robe, gown or frock. And their colours shall be green, purple, yellow, white, red not the black, brown, grey, drab demanded of normal men.

Looking up in a few Catholic, Orthodox and CoE sites … to quote ‘the vestments are a uniform of sacred authority meant to obliterate the priest’s personality. The vestments should be regal in dignity, simplicity and style to dignify the office of the priest. The priest should dress like a king’.

For me, this does not actually resolve the issue. Should a question be ‘why is it regal to wear what appears to be a dress? Why do bishops and some priests wear clothing, material and embroidery more befitting a Queen?’

Very confusing. The Bible is explicit about ‘men shall not dress as women’ – and yet priests do so deliberately with approval. No godly realization that clothing varies from place to place, class to class or period to period.

I’m no priest. I don’t pretend to have a direct line to god who explains everything; no deep knowledge of selecting and interpreting lines in the bible to deliver the message I ‘know’ is right.

For us, it would be wonderful to be in public in a dress – and get that acceptance. Be a symbol of authority! Wow.

Synopsis

"I bought all my clothes by catalogue and I believed I could dress well that way. Angela was keen to teach me more."

Note

The SisterDom is a group of wonderful women who know that it is important to help their men to access and release their inner girlhood. These women are willing to train and transition their new-girls using a variety of simple techniques, sometimes with a touch of ‘domination’ and strong encouragement. Characters do overlap from story to story.

===========================================

It's hard to believe but I used to buy everything from those wonderful catalogues. You name it - I could find it. I started like everyone does with a few careful experiments, but in the end, every speck of clothing arrived by mail. It was the same with household gadgets and even a good percentage of the food and drink. You'd have been amazed.

Like I say, I started with a few experiments. I bought a packet of panties and a few simple undies. Nothing as important as a bra. After all, at the big shops it's so much easier to send things back if they don't fit. All the magazines say that it's really important to have a well-fitting bra.

I then moved on to skirts and the occasional dress. One of my favourites was a dishy black jersey number. It came halfway down my calves. I loved the way the material clung to my body. Jersey is great for that, it's one of the few materials where you sometimes want to show a pantie-line.

Later, I bought some shoes and soon after I was buying almost every speck of my wardrobe this way. Sometimes, I could find a shirt or sweater which was totally unisex. This meant I could wear whatever it was anytime of the day. After all, I couldn't go out in a skirt and frilly blouse, could I. All the neighbours would have gone berserk seeing the renowned local rugby team's scrum-half in silks and stockings. I'd spend ages going through the catalogue looking for suitable stuff. There was so much that I wanted - but on closer inspection there was so often some giveaway detail. The worst offenders were the lovely soft sweaters which almost always had some frilly stitching or suchlike and then there were all those pretty shirts and blouses with the dashed buttons on the wrong side. Sometimes I got so irritated.

Why couldn't I wear whatever I wanted. What were these unstated rules which denied men the right to frills and lace and colour and prettiness. It was okay in almost every other century and in almost every other country. What was it that forced the average western european male to be drab and dowdy. I looked it up in the thesaurus one day - all those words that were so accurate - colourless, boring, monotonous, lacklustre, bland, dreary, uninteresting. I felt even worse after doing that, so I cheered myself up by buying some extra frilly knickers.

Sometimes I felt so cross that I had to put on a full set of undies and go outdoors, even go into town and do the shopping. I loved the slick feeling of wearing nylons under my trousers. Sometimes I wore a bra, empty of course, but I liked the feel of simultaneous constraint and support that came with it. I avoided wearing thin shirts with such an outfit - there was no point in being totally obvious.

This went on for several years. I was confident that nobody knew of my little hobby. I took precautions. For instance, whenever I had a girlfriend, I tended to encourage meeting at her place rather than mine. With the laundry, I would only hang my ordinary clothes outdoors. My pretties stayed safely indoors.

I was a casual dresser for a long time. I don't know what started me at the age of about 12 or why I enjoyed it so much. I never gave it much thought. All I knew was that I did enjoy it and it was part of my life. Finally, when I was 20 I was forced, of course I was forced, to dress up for a party. This meant that I had to go out and buy an official bra, panties, suspenders, stockings, makeup, blouse(s), skirt(s), shoes and so on. I didn't feel I knew any girls well enough to ask for their help - except at the last minute with the makeup. My current and unknowing girlfriend was away until the day before the party so I planned to do the shopping myself. Actually, since it was a sort of club event, three of us did the deed together. Jake and Nigel made up the team.

It was really wonderful going into all the girly stores for a reason. It was so nice to have to examine and properly check each item rather than the usual, oh so accidental, stroking and caressing of the exotic frillies the lucky sex get to wear every day. I actually found that now I was buying for real instead of 'browsing' I didn't get the exotic, I spent my money on much more ordinary stuff. The other two had as much fun as I did, I think. Certainly we spent a long time shopping and trying on things. The assistants were all remarkably helpful about it.

Getting madeup for the party was fun too. Jake had his girlfriend Alice to help him, while Nigel's sister sorted him out. My girlfriend Carol wasn't keen but joined in enough. The makeup was heavy on purpose. I really wanted to look feminine rather than tarty - but of course the event dictated the drag-style. I kept my mouth shut except to echo the complaints of the other two lads. In the end, the do turned out alright even though we all had a fair amount of hassle from the rest of the club. Carol didn't enjoy the evening and I think this was a factor in her drifting away in the next few months.

Once she left, I wore my pretty clothes much more often when I was alone in the house. Eventually, I was wearing girls' clothes almost every evening and every weekend. I did this less in winter, of course, when I had to go down to the club for training and games. Any evidence of overt ‘girliness' would have led to severe problems.

Another thing I did was to casually, oh how casually, mention to several people, mostly girls, how much luckier girls are with colours, textures and variety compared to boring bloke's gear. I got one or two puzzled glances but no one said anything.

I found that I was bursting to tell the world. When the phone rang, I wanted to say, "Sorry, can't talk just now, my nail polish is drying', or 'doesn't lipstick taste strange', or 'my stockings feel sexy', or even 'my bra-straps are too tight'. It was getting more and more uncomfortable.

I met Angela at a friend's 21st birthday party. She was one of the girls I talked to about her good fortune in dressing colourfully. We got on pretty well but by the end of the party we'd both moved on to talk to others. Then we met a few months later when her friends and mine met up at the same pub, one chilly early spring evening. The groups eventually merged and I found myself near Angie. We got talking and discovered a number of shared interests. She enjoyed sports, photography and good food. Even better, she liked doing day trips to France just like I did. When she said that a special point of such trips was to buy decent Loire wines, I was amazed. We both said what a shame it was that we hadn't talked more at the previous party. It was quite obvious that we were getting on well.

"That's great. I feel exactly the same about most French wines. But Sancerre and Vouvray - I can't buy enough of it. It's so much more drinkable than the rest."

We had both made plans for such a trip in the next month so we decided to join forces. We were getting on really well. I was looking forward to the next few weeks, if not the next few months.

It was late when we got ready to leave the pub. There was a thin slick of ice on the ground so I walked her to her car carefully. It was as I turned away to my own car that I slipped. My ankle went over and I yelped with pain and annoyance. "Hell, dammit. Bloody ankle, I hope it's not bust - I need both feet in good working order for the weekend."

Angela was by my side almost instantly. "Come on, lean on me. Let's see what you've done. Let's get that shoe off."

I wriggled to try to stop her. I really did not want her to examine my ankle any closer. Erghh, too late.

"Keep still, I've got to get your socks off ...... oh, now what do we have here. These look pretty. In fact, they're just like mine. Oh well, they're not in the way. Actually, they let me feel the bones more easily." Her fingers rubbed and gentled my ankle - through sheer nylon stockings.

"I didn't now you liked wearing tights. Or are they?" With this, her hand slid up to my hips where they found the tell-tale suspender-clips. "Oooh, that's more like fun. They're stockings, aren't they. Oh, you darling boy. I'd never have guessed. And you'd never have guessed - but I love boys who wear pretty undies. We've got even more in common than before. I want to come home with you and see what you've got."

"I wasn't going to be that bold so fast, Angie. But I don't think I can drive so there's not much alternative. Just go back in and warn Geoff that I've hurt my ankle on the ice but I should be okay by Saturday. No, on second thoughts just tell them I've drunk too much and you won't let me drive. Geoff would insist on getting his sister to check me over - and she's not going to find me wearing stockings. She's such a gossip. It'd be all over town by breakfast."

Angela went off on her errand while I clambered into her car. When she came back she said it was all under control. "And my reputation as an Angela of Mercy is confirmed too. So I don't want to be shown up as a loose woman by staying the night even though we both want it. That makes me sound like a trollop, but I think we can see a long-term future ahead of us. We like all the same things, after all."

I grinned at her, "Of course I wasn't wanting you to stay all night so soon. I'm not that bold. But the idea of you coming back to my place and helping me out is just yummy."

Angie gripped my arm. "I know, I can see the glint in your eye and the bulge in your trousers. I'd love to come back to your place. I want to see everything you have in your alternative wardrobe. I'm sure we can have a lot of fun. Hey, what if we go to France with you in a pretty dress. Fun, yeah?"

"Mmmmm. I can't believe this. We've only spent two evenings together and we're making such exciting plans. Yes, please, Angela. I'd love to come to France with you in a dress. Sorry, that sounds wrong. I'd love to come to France with you in a dress and me in a dress too."

"Don't be so pushy. I haven't decided whether to wear a dress yet."

I didn't answer. The idea of going to France for the whole day in a dress was dazzling my slightly drunken brain.

It only took a few minutes to get back to my flat. It wasn't much more than a bedsitter really - Bedroom, Bathroom, Kitchen and SittingRoom. I had managed to divide the bedroom pretty much in half. One side, visible with the door open was obviously masculine, the other allowed my feminine side to show a little.

As I said, I tried not to be obvious and it was always possible that a teammate might come back after a night on the town. The macho side had a poster of Dutch Beers while the other had a few small photographs of girls. At first glance these were typical cheesecake shots, actually they were carefully chosen.

Angela realized at once that I really used them as examples to copy makeup styles. She noticed the locked drawers in the desk. "Store special things in there do we?"

She waited while I found the key. "Thank you, Patrick, I'll see exactly what you've hidden away from casual visitors."

First drawer. "Yup, okay, makeup and so on - not much variety"

Second drawer. "Why on earth are all these pretty undies all rumpled and crumpled. Haven't you learnt how to use an iron?"

Third drawer. "And all these things are squeezed in. You really don't look after your things very well. What else do you have?"

"There's a few things at the back of the cupboard."

"At least these dresses and skirts aren't crushed to death. I'm not impressed by what I'm finding. It's almost disgusting the way you are treating your sister's clothes. I think it's neater if we refer to your two personalities that way. It's easier to maintain a proper separation between the two that way. So, as I was saying - this collection and the way you store it is not satisfactory. You need to be shown how to look after your sister decently. Are you interested?"

"Urrgghhhh."

"Speak up. Don't sit there gurgling."

"I'll do almost anything you ask. If you can show me how to be a man and a woman at the same time, I'll be so much happier."

She hesitated for a moment. Had I said something wrong? She didn't say anything significant while she checked my ankle again. We decided that it would probably be alright in a day or two, and she helped me attach another packet of frozen peas. Every sportsman has a spare pack of frozen peas for just that reason.

She helped me hobble to the bed, then she picked up her coat and got ready to go. "You can look after that ankle yourself. But on the more interesting project, I expect you to spend the morning cleaning and tidying everything. I expect your panties and all to be clean and nicely ironed too. You will ring me when you are done."

There was no time to answer, even if I had been able to think of a witty retort.
-------------------------------------------------------

The next day, I rang Angela.

"Hello, Angie. I've spent ages tidying up. I've washed and ironed all my undies. My skirts and dresses have been hung in the wardrobe as you told me. It's great. I'm sitting here putting on my lipstick. I feel wonderful. My ankle is fine now so I want to come straight over and have a makeup lesson."

"I don't know what you expected me to say when a person who is clearly male rings me up and starts talking about their female attire," said a voice. "Unfortunately, you are being unbelievably dim. Why on earth didn't you check to see who was answering the phone. This is not Angie."

My heart plummeted past my boots. After so many careful years, how could I have been so stupid? One evening with a wonderful girl who accepted and enjoyed my lifestyle - and years of caution had been obliterated. The phone was silent for many seconds. I couldn't think of anything to say and I was too stunned to put down the phone.

"Now, you silly girl. That will teach you to be more careful. This is Angie and you've just learnt an important lesson."

I sat there motionless and drained. The surge of emotions had driven every thought from my skull.

"Are you still there, Patricia darling. I couldn't believe it when you started shouting down the phone about your undies and everything. You didn't even wait to see if it was me. It might have been my sister Annette. It could have been almost anyone."

"Oh, don't be such a brute, Angie. I'm just so excited about all this. I wanted to ask if we could go shopping soon. I saw some darling high-heeled shoes yesterday that are just right for my best dress. And I need some new lipstick and you'll have to help me choose the right colour. And I want advice on what to do with my hair too."

"Shut up. Stop being so obvious. Now, slow down. First of all, I expect you here at my flat at three o'clock this afternoon prompt. Bring the rest of your wardrobe with you. You will be dressed ready to be taken out shopping or you will be in severe trouble. Do you understand exactly what I am saying."

I know when I must do as I am told. I was there on the doorstep at three. I felt a little uncomfortable standing there in the open in daylight with a small suitcase beside me. My excursions were usually in the dark or at least in the twilight. This was already different. The door opened and Angie beckoned me in. To my surprise there were two other girls there. One was a little shorter than Angie but with the same features, her hair was a long glossy blonde tied into a lovely plaited arrangement. The other was actually taller than me, about 5' 10" in her heels. She had short, dark, wonderfully curly hair and her perfume was intoxicating. She was deliciously pretty. I felt a tightness in my panties as I caught her eye.

"Annette, April - this is Patricia. She needs all the help we can give her. She's only just realized how much fun a pretty girl can have in this town. We can all give her some tips and tricks. April, you've brought some essentials with you. Take Patricia and ensure that she is properly dressed for the afternoon's activities."

The tall girl took my arm and led me upstairs. Annette came with us and began to check through my sparse wardrobe. Angie had obviously told her what a limited selection I had. Clearly I was in the hands of a woman who was in complete control and expected things to be done her way. Somehow this didn't worry me.

"Strip, I need to check you."

I didn't dare argue. The girl watched with no visible emotion as I stripped to my bra and panties. She examined the bra to see if there was any padding and then she ordered me to remove my panties. I hesitated. "Do you want me to call Angela?"

Down came the panties. She handed me a tiny rubber strap. "Put this on. It's a gaff. You'll need it while we go round the shops." When I looked helplessly at her, she shrugged and with a quick flick tied the tiny thing around my waist and below. With one more stretch, she pulled it into place and my whole body jerked with the sudden pain. "Aaargh, ow."

"Shut up. Angela said to put it on, so put it on and be silent. The pain should wear off after a few moments." As she talked that first extreme pain wore down and I began to recover. "Get dressed and come downstairs," the pretty siren ordered. I was in no position to argue with the beautiful April.

What man wouldn't agree when three gorgeous girls were prepared to join in his fantasy. Maybe my fantasy was a little less common than for a 'normal' bloke but I hadn't ever had any complaints and Angela clearly knew what she was doing. I was no longer in command. Somehow it felt natural to do what this lovely woman demanded.

Angela makes me think about my statement about being a man and a woman at the same time - and how disgusting that is. Wouldn't it be more comfortable to be a woman all the time.

Later that evening, alone with April and Annette, they ply me with drink and then insist on kissing and cuddling me. I love it, especially when they stroke my nylon-clad legs with their own. Angela came home while we were all cosied up on the sofa. My skirt had been pulled up to my hips and their eager little hands were stroking my thighs. She was furious with the three of us.

That night Angie began to tell me the story of the transformation of both her ex-brother Annette as a teenager and her friend, April, some time later. I realize that I had been fondled by two other boys and I had not only enjoyed every moment of it but I had not detected the faintest bit of boy-ness about my two delicious molesters.

I cry when she says that I'm going to look just as pretty as them. Angela laughs as she admires my newly-learnt skill in not spoiling my mascara as I dab my eyes.

-------------------------------------------------------

Next month we did go on holiday together. It was a wonderful time as we stay in a small hotel in Amboise in the middle of the Loire wine-growing area. We spent some of our days sight-seeing ( and flirting just a little with the boys who want to know these two English girls a little better). We spent other days relaxing in the sunshine and a few days visiting the vineyards and cellars. I really enjoyed the whole holiday in a new way because I was allowed, or rather instructed, to wear my new dresses every day. There wasn't a single moment after I set off that I wore a Patrick-outfit. I was Patricia for fifteen lovely, swishy, girly days. I did insist on spending some time in the French lingerie shops so that I could begin an International collection of frilly, lacy underwear.

My French was much better than Angela's. But I did make an elementary mistake and, of course, I got my genders wrong at a crucial moment. The girl giggled and said in broken English, 'My boyfriend likes to wear my panties too.'

This led us into a wonderful situation where we spent much of the afternoon with Francoise and agreed to meet later that evening for a drink. I realized afterwards that I did not know whether we will meet with Francoise and her boy-friend or her boy-girl-friend. Angela suggested that we just relaxed and waited to see what happened. Despite being a little concerned about the risk of being caught out and exposed as dirty foreign perverts, eventually, we both agreed that the risk was not too much and the opportunity much too interesting.

I took my time about getting dressed. I couldn't decide what to wear. In the end, Angela made the decision for me and told me to wear my old (thrice-worn) yellow jersey dress with the green piping.

It was a really nice evening. We met with Francoise and Annette (the 'boy' friend) at a little bar by the river. I was really pleased when I realized that I was prettier than he was. He wore a very nice puffed-sleeve blouse with a sweet little embroidered motif down the sleeves and collar. I was amazed when Francoise told us that Annette had done this herself. With this, she wore a simple skirt and belt. Her bra could clearly be seen under her blouse but she had no padding to enhance the effect. Her makeup was quite sloppy and the overall combination was much less feminine than I would have wanted. But she had learnt to use a very feminine voice and this made me very jealous. Francoise said that she had found a voice coach who worked for the local theatre. Apparently she was Dutch not French and she worked all over Europe.

The next morning, Francoise rang to say that Mrs. Vandermeer was willing to have a quick session with me. I thanked her very much and immediately began to rush around worrying again about what to wear. Yet again, Angela came to my rescue.

"You're being daft. You need to relax so that you can get the most out of this offer. If you're all tensed up and stressed, you'll learn nothing. Just put on a simple blouse and skirt, I'll do you hair and makeup and we'll set off for this voice-session."

We arrived at the far end of town with only minutes to spare. Her studio was only a few yards from the tiny practise theatre but we hadn't been able to find it at all. She welcomed us both and asked Angie to sit at the far side of the room so that she wouldn't be tempted to interrupt.

I introduced myself as Patrice, a careful variation on Patrique. I saw her smile as I began to speak and then make a quick pencilled note. I knew that I hadn't expected to get through the whole session without her making some comment about me being a boy-in-a-dress - but she saw through me with my very first sentence. She than asked me to make a few simple ooh, oh, oy, aaah, ah, ay noises.

As I finished, she smiled once more and asked the crucial question. "Now, my dear, are you planning to go out as a girl permanently or just for fun now and again. The skills you will need to pass as a girl all day and every day will be very different from those you will need when you are out with friends."

"To be truthful, I haven't decided yet. I love wearing dresses and so on - but the degree of permanence is uncertain." I was stunned at how little her detection of my masquerade had upset me. I think what made it easy was that I was discussing my future with a professional.

"It does make a difference, dear. Now, for a start - if you're only doing this on an occasional basis, then using girl-type words and phrases with a quieter voice should cover all your needs. It's only if you're going to be passing as a girl in public on your own with no support from your friends that it becomes much more important to develop a more feminine way of speaking. You've only spoken a few words so far but I can clearly hear how you have already learnt the first simple rules. You do speak more quietly and you do already use girly words - your tutor must be very pleased with you." Here she paused and asked Angie if she was my tutor. Once again I realized that this must be a special word connected with the new life I had begun.

Angie replied that she was my tutor although in England it was more usual to refer to a 'big-sister'. Mrs Vandermeer nodded as if she already knew this.

"Yes, my dear, I know about 'big-sisters' and 'new-girls'. The people I know use this special word 'tutor' to denote those girls who have graduated more than one girl. It is clear that Patricia cannot be your first trainee."

"Well, yes, if that's the meaning of the word, then, yes, I am Patricia's tutor. When we get back to England, I'll have to tell the others about this extra meaning of the word."

"Please do, we need to keep the project spreading. The people I have worked with in Holland, France and Germany call themselves Second-Formers. It began as a code because our founder started work at school. She told her classmates that they might have been formed first by God in the form of men, but she would give them their second form as that of beautiful girls. There is a company in England called Transformation but that is something different. They have seen a gap in the market and are looking to make money as well as to help men look like women. They don't do anything to actually encourage boys to take those first steps. Our group is willing to help boys learn about their feminine side."

We spent more than an hour with Margritta. By the end of it, she had agreed to visit us and talk to the SisterDom about the special needs of trainees as regards both their voice and the other important habits of speech. We told her that when we got back to England we would make the arrangements. It was exciting to realise that we were now dealing with an international team of advisers skilled in transforming men.

-------------------------------------------------------

Back home in England, within a few days, Angie and I were an item and so were Angie and Patricia when they went out to the new clubs. This became easier over the summer and rugby was no longer such an important factor. I dropped hints that the ankle had not mended properly and that I was worried about the coming season. I even said that I was seeing a doctor about the problem - which was true. Not completely true, the doctor I was seeing was a consultant on gender issues. Both Angie and Patricia were interested in exactly how far I could go as a new-girl.

By the end of the first eighteen months with Angela, I had made the transformation from the rugby-playing Patrick to the softer and much prettier Patricia. I kept playing rugby until the end of the season but another injury to the ankle made it impossible to keep going. As a special joke, Angie bought me a bikini with a silver lining - in my rugby days, I would have called it a jockstrap !

I took the big step of changing my job so that I could work from home more. This was quite a risk but it gave me the opportunity to spend the whole day wearing pretty frocks and slick nylons. Soon I was spending my time on the road and with clients in a dress. I told everybody to call me Pat rather than Patrick or Patricia. It made it more vague and therefore less of a surprise when the local expert on drainage turned out to be a woman.

Angie made me realise one day that I was no longer a young lad playing at dressing up as a girl - I was a grown man so, by necessity, I was taking the role of a woman. My teenage years were past whether I was showing masculine or feminine attributes. It may only have been a couple of years since I was a closeted femme but now this was real-life. This age-change made quite a few differences to how I behaved and how I interacted with other people.

I also moved house twice. The first time was so that I was nearer Angie. It was also helpful in separating me from the Rugby Club. It hadn't been easy giving up and the lads were used to dropping in and having a pint or two. Moving made it easier to break some of these habits.

From some points of view it was unfortunate that, this time I had a landlady who lived next door rather than an impersonal occasional monthly visit to collect the rent. Mrs Aldiss was very nice but insisted on being helpful. She 'dropped in' to vacuum, to do the ironing and so on - and my previous flat had allowed me to develop my own way of living. It was quite apparent that she was having to tidy up as well as wash and iron an unmasculine amount of feminine undies. After a few months had passed, I realised that she was hinting quite broadly that she knew that I was dressing up as a girl, that she didn't mind and even was interested in helping me.

Angie and I talked about this and decided that we would try her out. By this Angie meant that she would deliberately unmask me as a fake so that Mrs Aldiss would have to be aware of it. Mrs Aldiss could either take the opportunity to help me or she would join in the unmasking or she would ignore it. Neither of us could guess what she was most likely to do. I must confess that I was pretty nervous as D-day came closer. Angie saw this and decided to get the job done.

So I was absolutely appalled the next evening when Angie suddenly burst out with her unmasking two days before I was expecting it. Mrs Aldiss was in her own rooms downstairs so could hear every word as Angie stormed through the front door.

"I want a word with you. Some of my panties are missing and I've suddenly realised that the only person who could have taken them is you. What have you done with them. And what's more, now I've realised that, I think you're the person who has been in my room trying on my clothes and makeup. What are you some sort of nancy-boy, eh. Get upstairs so that I can check through your wardrobe."

As we went upstairs, Mrs Aldiss called out, "Hello, Angie, would you like a cup of tea later."

Angie and I both realised that our plans were looking good so far. And so it turned out. Mrs Aldiss came upstairs about ten minutes later. She winked at Angie and said, "I waited for you but as the tea was ready I brought it up with me." She turned to me, " Here's that ironing I was doing for you, dear." I could hardly control myself. On the top of the pile were several pairs of frilly panties. They were actually mine not Angie's but the opportunity was too good to miss for my excited women.

Events moved on really fast after this. Mrs Aldiss became a willing accomplice in making sure that I was properly behaved when I was properly dressed. She checked that I was looking after all my pretties in an acceptable manner. Angie gave her all the necessary instructions on what to look out for. It was fun for all of us although I think I had the hardest job. And that wasn't the only thing that was hard.

As I said, the second move was triggered by my landlady but the real impetus came when she said that she was going to have to move herself and that I would have to look for somewhere new. I wasn't happy about this and nor was Angie. We talked and it soon became clear that Mrs Aldiss and the few remaining houseowners were being pressured to leave in order to make way for development of the whole street.

This was something up with which we would not put (to adapt Churchill). We investigated and, soon, negotiated. Mrs Aldiss got a much better offer for her set of four houses and became, for all day-to-day purposes, quite rich. She wanted us to share some of the largesse.

"Angie, you and Patricia have been quite wonderful to me. Here I was sitting on what has proved to be a goldmine and they, 'they', were going to take it away from me. I want to do something with this. Have you any ideas."

"Well, I do have one, but, er, you might think it silly. You've joined in with helping Patricia in her new journey, and, er, I was thinking a while ago, er, why isn't there somewhere that people like Patricia can go for training. Where people like me can meet other people like me as well as people like Patricia. It's really difficult helping a new-girl learn the ropes. Anyone who has done it before is going to be able to help those doing it for the first time. And I know, I just know, that there are plenty of eager boys and young men who want to investigate their girliness. All it needs is the right location and someone willing to oversee the enterprise."

"Wow. That is a wizzer of a suggestion. It would be brill. All the people in the SisterDom would be able to meet safely and ...... er, so on", I shrank slightly as Angie raised an eyebrow.

"Mrs Aldiss may not be aware that we already have a group of tutors and trainees."

"Well, I wasn't sure, dear, but I do know now and I think the idea is really interesting. I do like having people to look after, I do like being in charge and I have all this money that really should be put back into property. Perhaps, it is fate. My life was just drifting along towards a bus-pass when Patrick started renting next door."

===============================

A few more months and Angie had proposed to Patricia and they got married by a sufficiently knowledgeable priest. That is to say, they both wore the prettiest dresses and so did most of the congregation. A few days later, we had a second marriage, well really a blessing, with Patrick in his old clothes for those friends who we felt wouldn't cope with the sudden blossoming of their old mate.

By the end of the year, at Christmas, not even two years from my slip on the ice, we had moved into our new dwelling. A rambling series of rooms loosely connected into what was alleged to be a Victorian mansion. It had been part-converted before the money ran out. It was ideal for what we wanted. Large rooms for parties, meetings and so on and two lovely penthouse flats for Angie and Patricia at the east end and Mrs Aldiss,or Penny as we now called her, at the west end.

The house was renamed Sisters' House and became the local centre for the SisterDom in Yorktown.

Main Characters

Patrick/Patricia aged 20
Angela Winter aged c20 older sister of
*Annette Winter aged 18
*April
Margritta Vandermeer speech specialist
Mrs Penny Aldiss landlady, manager of Sisters' House

"This is my story of how I was first caught - and then what happened when I was taken out. I suppose you could call it my personal 'Change-of-Life' from Geoff to Jezebelle".

-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Intro - The SisterDom is a group of wonderful women who know that it is important to help their men to access and release their inner girlhood. These women are willing to train and transition their new-girls using a variety of simple techniques, sometimes with a touch of ‘domination’ and strong encouragement. Characters do overlap from story to story.

===================================

CAUGHT and OUT

It's the first time that I've been in this sort of a fix, you know,..... but nothing normally goes wrong when my wife goes out for the whole day. She is not the sort of woman I find it easy to argue with. If she says 'frog', well then I hop!!! On this occasion, she simply said 'enjoy yourself'. I expect she thought that I would slob around watching the box, eating, drinking too much and all that sort of stuff.

Recently, I think she has been getting to notice a few things, so perhaps her comment today had a bit more of an edge than usual. So, it is quite possible that I am about to be discovered doing what any normal man would judge to be ‘a bit out of order’, maybe even ‘perverted’, or ‘disgusting’ or even ‘wrong’. But that’s a problem that I had planned to deal with in the future. Not today. But NOW, right this moment, I am in a spectacular and painful and oh-my-god-what-do-I-do-now situation.

Anyway, I guess you want to know what has been happening and what sort of a fix I am in? Don't you? And – am I in a fix – Yes. My situation at this exact second, minute and moment is not too comfortable. I am about to be discovered in what can only be described to an outsider as ‘in a compromising position’.

-------------------------------------------------------

Flashback a few minutes

It's mid-morning, I am sitting halfway up the stairs, barely able to move, frightened to make a sound and terrified that our next door neighbour heard the noise when I fell downstairs and screamed with pain. She might even have brought the spare key.

Beginning to guess are you? Want a few more details?

I am wearing a pair of Anne's knickers (pale peach with lace trim), an old suspender belt that is far toooo tight, some lovely patterned stockings that I dared to buy for myself and an awfully uncomfortable bra padded with her panties; I've got my own shirt on top and a scratchy old skirt that is the only one that fits me.... oh yes, and I am wearing her old heels. More details – I’ve just fallen off those teetering heels and tumbled down the stairs, catching my ankle as I did so and it HURTS.

I can't begin to guess which one of these actually set the whole thing adrift.

I was at the top of the stairs looking at myself in the tall mirror. I was trying frantically to make that horribly tight suspender dig in a bit less while at the same time wriggling just as hard to loosen the bra straps so that I could stand up a bit straighter ... next thing I am wobbling all over the place, falling down the top half of the stairs, screaming like nobody's business and twisting every bone in my body.

Oh God, she is there, she is coming in....

"Hello Geoff, do you need a hand."

I cower a bit deeper into my dark corner of the stairs, but I think I may be a bit too late. I take a deep breath... ooh that hurts.

"Well, say something, do you need a hand. You can't sit there forever especially after making a screech like that. What have you done to yourself? Can you stand up? Is there anything I can do to help? Have you got any idea how silly you look?"

All these questions come out in a continuous rush. I don't have a chance to answer. It was only when Angela asks the last question that she pauses for breath. To my horror, all I do is burst into a pathetic string of meaningless drivel.

"I was only messing about. No I'm fine. Please don't tell anybody. Get out, get out, get out.... no please .... I can't stand up... oh... oh.... Angie...."

Next thing I know, she is half carrying me upstairs and my senses are overpowered by her scent, her heartbeat and the touch of her breasts against my cheek. I am still mumbling stupidly. We stagger past that damn mirror into the bedroom. She eases me gently down onto the duvet and she smirks down at me.

"You are a one. I really don't know what I ought to do with you. Shall I tell Anne? Shall I keep your secret all to myself? Shall I forget all this ever happened? I do think perhaps I ought to tell Anne."

As I grimace at the thought she once again turns into a helping angel. "Oh, I forgot, you must have hurt yourself. Take those things off so I can check you over... at least all those evening classes aren't going to be wasted."

With much heaving, wriggling and whimpering, I manage to get everything important off. Angela doesn't say much for a moment. Suddenly that lovely smile of hers breaks out and she giggles, "I really mustn't tease you, if you need help now, you are going to need much more soon. I mean, if you want to make yourself pretty enough so that Anne won't be ashamed of you, we've got to do something."

I gasp. ( what would you do? )

I gape. ( don't tell me you wouldn't )

"Come on, I think you are OK. No permanent damage anyway... just some colourful bruises that I reckon won't show through dark stockings. Now tell me, are you really into dressing up or are you just playing. I can't help with either unless you tell me the truth."

Tell her the truth? I hadn't even told myself the truth !

"Well, I dunno, I suppose I'm just muckin' about, y'know."

"Tell us another one. You mean to say these tatty old things haven't been rescued from the trash-can over the last few years. You can't mean that."

"No, I don't. I mean they have, but not intentionally, not like you think. I mean I found them and kept them in case they were ever going to be needed again... She's so wasteful. When I came across them last month under the stairs I thought why should they be tossed away, perhaps I can find a use for them. So I did. I can't afford new clothes for myself on my salary. If I can make use of all the pretty things she flings out, well, why not !!"

Angie laughed out loud. "Oh Geoff, you don't need to ramble on like that. If you get some pleasure out of a harmless little game like this, who am I to make a fuss. The only thing I need to do is patch you up physically and do a little listening to a friend who obviously has some problems. I'm not so puritan as you might think. I don't think you're queer, not after that last party with Brenda from down the road. And I don't think dressing up is anything more than a jolly bit of fun. As long as you don't, so to speak, dress up your explanations to Anne too much I won't reveal what a randy little Jezebel you really are. Hey, that's good, your new name... Geoff the Jezebel. I'll call you Jez from now on. It sounds almost the same... gives us a little secret."

Angie tells me that by this time my eyes were out on stalks and I was alternate blotches of ash-white and flaming scarlet. She also says that her next words made me even worse.

"Look, you just wait here, and I'll go and get you some of my own old things, they'll fit you much better and I can help with your makeup too."

Do you know the feeling that shook my whole body? If so, you're lucky. If not, I hope that if God hears you that She'll answer soon.

I lay there in a hazy cloud. Was any of this real? The dull pain in my ankle was real enough. The red marks from the bra straps were real enough. The only thing that seemed too good to be true was everything else. Moments later, Angie hurtled back carrying a large pink carrier.

"These are some things I was going to chuck out soon, it's going to be so much more fun to see you wearing them instead. I think there's almost everything here. Hobble over and take your pick. If there's anything extra we'll just have to work something out."

There were bras, panties, knickers, suspenders, camiknickers, skirts, blouses, bikinis, g-strings even, nighties, negligees, slips, an old corselette, a frou-frou petticoat and all sorts of lovely things with lace, spangles and sequins. There was a small plastic bag full of nail varnish and lipstick and things too. I don't know what made me say it, "The only thing I can't see is stockings. I can't see any stockings."

Angie smiled as before," Well, that's no problem, we can go shopping for those later."

In no time at all, Angie had made me have a hot scented bath, had made me shave really carefully and even forced me to shave under my arms.

Not a moment too soon, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching eagerly as Angie ironed a satiny beige blouse. For me.

Angie turned and snapped," Don't lounge around. Pick out the rest of your outfit. Try them all on, got to find out what's worth keeping for Jez."

No need for another invitation. I scurried over to the carrier. In no time at all I had tried on more feminine fripperies than I had ever worn in all my years. I was on my way to Seventh Heaven or Cloud Nine, whichever came first. I had laid them out on the bed as I picked them out. Waiting for me were pastel panties, lace lingerie, naughty negligees, tempting teddies and all the rest.

As I looked down at these, I looked down at something else. Peeping past the edge of my (very small) paunch was my trouser snake. Angie turned to me, "Can't keep an old friend down, eh. Might have to do something about that later. In the meantime, start getting to grips with that suspender-belt and all those other goodies I saw you stroking."

-------------------------------------------------------

It's a wonderful feeling, the first time you get dressed with the help of a real woman. I think it's better than the first time you get dressed from top to toe all on your own. All I know is that the next hour passed like lightning. I was all too soon as dressed up as I had ever been.

The stockings I was wearing when I fell were clipped to Angie's own suspender belt. I also had on short heel sandals from the bottom of the bag. I wore freshly ironed satin rose panties and two creamy petticoats under a calf-length skirt. I wore an almost unused bra but it didn't feel right, and of course I wore the satin beige blouse.

By now I was sitting in front of Anne's dressing table with the boudoir mirrors covered over and my new best friend working away with all the tools of her feminine trade on my horribly male face.

It was getting towards lunchtime when she finished and let me look at Jez in the mirror. Wow. Again the feeling is unbelievable and indescribable. If it's happened to you, savour every moment, otherwise share my pleasure.

My hair that day needed cutting, but Angie the Angel had fluffed it about so that it looked lovely. She had done wonderful things to my complexion and as for my eyes they were so beautiful I nearly cried, until she shrieked, "Don't you dare smudge your eyes or I'll make you really sorry." She had clipped pretty jingly earrings on and they hardly hurt at all after a bit. I could taste the lipstick too. As I put my hands up to my face, my nails gleamed red.

Jez looked grrrrreat. I smiled up into Angie's laughing eyes and we fell into an endless kiss. Well, at least a minute. Eventually we broke apart and said simultaneously, "I love the taste of lipstick."

This made us both peel with laughter. Gradually as Angie caressed me, I relaxed slightly. I slowly stood up as Angie lifted me from the stool. At last, there I was folded in her arms with my chin on her shoulder. Again I smelt her perfume until I suddenly realised it was mine instead. The mingled scent was so much more enticing than the aftershave I had been limited to before. I found myself rubbing myself against her to make my petticoats rustle and slide over my stockings in a way I had never been able to notice before.

Suddenly the tension that had been building up crackled in the air. Angie dragged me over to the bed and put her hands up my skirt. "I've never felt like having an affair with you or with another woman, but the combination of you in a dress is more than I can stand. You make a remarkably sexy little doll with those begging soft brown eyes." She stroked my thighs through the petticoat and I nearly came as she did so.

She stopped for a moment," It really has got you going hasn't it. I'd better be a bit more careful. I don't want to do anything silly but I sure do want to make you know how good a time you can have as a girl round here." She giggled then continued," I am not going to let a good girl screw around on her first date, I think you will have to be satisfied with a level 3." I didn't want to interrupt and ask what a level 3 might be .... I had a suspicion that I would find out soon enough.

Angie slid my skirts above my waist. "Level 0, kiss. Level 1, back seat of the cinema with people watching. Level 2, arts, crafts and handiwork. Level 3, my famous imitation of a turkey going gobble, gobble." As she said the words, she dived into action. Her mouth wrapped around me like a suction pump. Her tongue tickled the tip and her hands worked themselves like a pair of ferrets. I couldn't hold back for more than a few seconds before I came like I had never done before.

Angie gulped and spluttered for a moment then surfaced with that saucy grin still shining out, "That was really something, I've never had one like that from anyone except Patrick, (her husband). What do we do next? Oh yeah, I know, lets go and get you some new stockings unless you've thought of something else that's missing."

I wasn't used to Angie's sudden changes of subject and there was no way that I had recovered from the agony and the ecstasy of the last few seconds, all I could do was lie there and listen.

It would have been better, I think, if I had done more than listen. Perhaps I should have reacted faster. Perhaps I should have resisted when she made me stand up and put on scarf and coat. I certainly should have made more of a fuss when she opened the front door and pushed me out. And I should definitely not have smiled back at her and said," Why not, let's go and buy Jez some new stockings." But that was what happened. Jez was going out into her new world.

I didn't believe my luck.

A few hours after making a complete screaming somersault down the stairs I was a new woman with a new name and a second-hand wardrobe. I was walking down the pavement with a smile of complete abandonment and pleasure with a woman who, until a few hours before, I had treated as 'the woman next door who looks after our cat when we're away'. Now she was Jez's first friend.

What happened in the next few hours is the next instalment. What happened when Anne found out might take a book.

-------------------------------------------------------
Part the Second

First time out

Last time I told you how I 'met' Jez for the first time. This time I am going to tell you how Jez went out for her first walk. It might seem funny to you; but learning how to walk is not funny when you have to do it in public. It was the first of many times that day when Jez dived in the deep end. I had never been out like this before; not even to any of the lunatic parties when Anne and I were first going out. I won't admit to being worried about what might happen then but I had never gone overboard at the Tarts and Vicars parties nor at the Naughty Nightwear parties. I had always gone as a Vicar or wearing boxer shorts.

I had never in my wildest dreams believed that I would walk out of my own front door in broad daylight dressed as an attractive girl.

That is what was happening. I was in the great outdoors feeling great. I turned to my next door neighbour who had been so gloriously helpful at the 'birth', looked up at her and said, "If everything is as good as this, Jez might stay around for quite a long time."

Angie's smiling answer was "if you think all that work is going to be wasted on just today you've got another think coming. Speaking of which, I think a few more times like this morning and you will never be able to have a blow-job unless you're dressed for action and you ain't gonna preten' dat you was not enjoyin' dat is ya?. You sure you don't want to turn round and have another workout. Or do we get on with buying you some new clothes?"

I could not argue with her logic. I had enjoyed every second so far. I loved the feel of the wind blowing up my skirt. I loved the sticky feel as my lips clung to each other. I gazed passionately into my lover's eyes and whispered," All I want is for this to go on forever".

We must have looked a right pair. We were hardly fifty yards from my front door acting like a couple of lovestruck lesbians. Angie took control again. "Let's stop wasting time. We've got to get to the shops. There's all sorts of things you need to do this right. I've got a little list of what Jez needs to buy and I've worked out a way to prevent Anne going mad. All I need to do is tell her about Jez and say that Geoff and me are not having an affair but Jez and me are having a wonderful time. When she sees what an attractive husband she has then she can join in too. I know Anne well enough to say that she only worries when she is kept in the dark."

Everything she said was perfectly judged. She was right again and it seemed she did know Anne better than I would have thought. Geoff and Angie were not going to have an affair. Geoff was in love with Anne. Angie was in love with Patrick. Jez and Angie were going to have a great time. And provided everybody was relatively truthful no-one would get hurt.

While we were talking I had unconsciously mastered the heels on my sandals and we had almost reached the shops. We were almost there when I had a complete attack of panic. "Oh No. I can't walk down here. It would be so embarrassing... what if someone recognised me...... what if they called the police.... let me go.... let me go."

Angie shook me into silence. "If you keep yourself under control then no one will notice. If you rush around then you will call attention to yourself which is exactly what you must avoid. Anyway, you've walked all this way and there hasn't been a peep out of anybody. I bet by the time I've finished with you your own mother wouldn't recognise you."

"Come on, we're here already" and so saying, we went into the local shoe shop.

To put things in perspective, Anne had been living here for nearly eighteen months while I finished an overseas contract in Canada. The job had finished a month before and I had been in the area as a genuine inhabitant for barely ten days in the last year. Anne had done most of the travelling. So, it wasn't that likely that I would be recognized in the local area and I had never been into more than a couple of the shops.

I was very grateful to sit down in the shop. I got a bit concerned when the young man saw how hairy my legs were but that is not that unusual even these days. He didn't seem to make anything of it. He seemed more puzzled by the fact that Angie did all the talking. I murmured a few words now and again to improve the act but I don't think it mattered at all. He was simply a salesman doing his job on the pair of legs sitting in front of him. Angie said later that he was known to be as queer as a nine bob note and never looked at the girls. I must say this gave us a private joke as if he had only known what he was missing.

We soon moved on with a new pair of much more comfortable sandals and a cheap pair of much higher heeled glossy black court shoes in the same old pink carrier.

Next stop was the chemists. Angie again did all the talking and we soon left with my own stock of lipstick, eye-shadow, creams, nail varnish and so on. Their selection of stockings had also been severely reduced. I kept on asking Angie to let me pay but she would have none of it.

We went into that mecca for 'girls' – M & S - I bet they don't realize how much they sell to specialists. The quality is so good, the staff never make you feel silly or embarrassed and even better they even take returns with hardly any questions. I didn't know all this till much later - but Angie made me choose several pairs of panties and we must have spent half an hour of intense pleasure in the lingering department.

We even went into the hair salon. Angie seemed to know everybody there and we went through into a back room. For the first time ever I tried on wigs. I wore peek-a-boo pageboy styles. I wore long tresses that tickled halfway down my back. I wore afro-style bubbles and I tried an adorable blonde half-curl style just like Angie herself had. Eventually Angie asked if we could take two with us on approval and the manageress apparently said we could if we left a deposit.

The last stop was down a sidestreet. Angie knocked on a plain door several times before they let her in. We were both ushered through a hallway into a lovely feminine room all covered in frills and flounces. The walls were pale lavender and there was gentle music in the background.

A stern looking woman was seated at a desk. "Hello, Angela, this is the young person you rang me about this afternoon."

I gaped at Angie, who smiled serenely back.

"Be silent, young man."

Oh no, she knew. This was worse. I did not dare utter a sound. It was worse than when I had been waiting on the stair in case Angie came in.

She stood up. "My name is Miss Sterling. You will speak only when spoken to. I understand that you have recently, so to speak, embarked on a new lifestyle. It has been my pleasure to assist several of my acquaintances in similar circumstances. Is that what you want?"

I looked over at Angie. She was still smiling and she winked at me. I took heart at this and said, "It's all so sudden... I don't know really."

This response found little favour. The Sterling person, well, dragon nearly, began a series of questions that made me feel worse and worse.

"Why have you been stealing your wife's clothes?"

"Why have you been buying expensive shoes today?"

"Do you mean to tell me you have been wasting Angela's money?"

"What about these expensive wigs that you have got here?"

I was almost in tears by this time. Angie did not seem to be protecting me at all. When Miss Sterling turned to Angie and said," Do you think it's right for him to waste all this money? How should he be punished?" I could only wait in dread.

Angie hesitated for a moment. "I think we should give Jez a moment to recover. I am sure she wants to stay around. She's had too many excitements in a rush. Let me alone with her for a while and then you'll get your answer."

I was so bewildered. Angie led me to one side of the room and helped me put my lipstick on again. She then held her arms wide for me to fall into. "Don't worry, my sweet Jez. Just relax and let us take all the decisions."

I nodded quietly. I was safe again.

We turned to face Miss Sterling.

She said imperiously," Well?"

I gulped and mumbled, "I'll do whatever you think best."

Miss Sterling almost smiled. Angie gripped my arm tightly.

I was completely taken aback by what happened next. Miss Sterling went into a side room and came back with a small package. Angie said thank you and almost at once we were ushered out into the bright afternoon sunshine.

"Don't look so surprised, Jez. You must have guessed that I knew more than most people about blokes who wear panties. You can't mean to say you're still suffering from the delusion that the whole day has been a first for me too. Miss Sterling has been the finishing touch to my education about transvestites, because that is what you are now, my sweet."

It was the first time I had ever heard that word. But not the last. Angie was going to have to a great deal more talking. I was desperate to learn more about every facet of this fascinating neighbour. I had never heard of any word for wearing women's clothing. Let alone that there might be several people out there in the real world who might be interested in being helpful to girls like me. 'Several' - oh so little did I know.

Would there be ways to meet other girls - would I really be good enough to be attractive both to other girls or, more dangerously, would men get too interested. As long as I never had to do a level 3 on one - ho ho.

From just this one afternoon, I knew that my hours of 'playing around' would never be the same again. I would never be willing to return to the furtive wearing of panties under my suit. I would never be happy with hiding my tights under a bushel if I really was going to be able to go out in daylight with confidence that I wouldn't be detected. If I could get Angie to teach me the things she so obviously knew - oh yes, yes, yes.

"Let's take advantage of the new drinking laws. I need a little drink. How about you?" Without giving me time to answer she had bustled me into the little wine bar beside the bank. My gulp of horror was covered by the surge of excitement that she thought I would be able to get away with being out in a public place, open to scrutiny from men interested in women - and I knew I wasn't a woman..

-------------------------------------------------------

Part the Third

Drinks with the boys

Going into that bar turned out to be one of the best things I've ever done. At first I was in a terrible fluster, expecting every moment to be recognised and torn apart as a raving poof. Well, perhaps I exaggerate, but anyway who cares about a little artistic detail. Angie bought the drinks as I had only a few pence in my little red purse. We sat at the bar on the high bar stools. I didn't like it teetering on my heels while I wriggled onto the shiny leather but I managed. Angie grinned as I might have expected.

"I do love the way you wriggle that bum of yours" she whispered, "lets see if we can attract a bit more attention to those legs." As she said this she dropped her matches. There was a bit of a race to see who got there first. I nearly joined in but decided that being a gentleman in skirts was not the easiest thing to do.

She said later that if I had climbed off the stool I would have exhibited quite enough leg to fetch a few wolves but that sitting there blushing as they looked up my skirt was even more effective. I don't like to boast but we were surrounded by really dishy men. There were two of us and four of them; Blazerman; Suede-Jacket; Stripe-Shirt and Red-Tie. Things soon got complicated with Angie trying simultaneously to show me how exciting it was being a girl and next moment protecting me from making a fool of myself.

Time just flew, we had shared rather too many bottles before we could get away and I had been foolish enough to give Angie's address to the persistent Suede-Jacket Andrew.

In fact we had drunk so much that I just had to make a dash for the toilets. Fortunately Angie had her eyes open for I naturally followed the boys as they went off. She grabbed me just a few inches from the door. We both dissolved into a fit of giggles as we dived into our own sanctuary. Luckily, there was no-one else in there as she panted out how lucky we had been. Even more fortunately the boys hadn't noticed anything, although perhaps they would just have treated it as a joke.

Having got past that hurdle, Angie helped me tidy my dress, touched up my makeup once more and we set off home.

I was so much more relaxed than I had been when we set out a few hours before. I felt good. I loved the swish of my frills against my stockinged legs. I loved the swirl of the cool air around my thighs. I loved the feel of the bra constricting my chest. It was all so great.

I hardly noticed the old biddies watching through their curtains as we sauntered across the park. I was rejoicing in being the new me. I did get worried the nearer to home we got. As I said before, it wasn't very likely that we would meet anyone but you never know. In fact we only met one neighbour on the way and old Mrs Jones was no problem. She wasn't one of the 'old nosies' you find all about.

Angie took a quick look around when we got to the front door so that we could dive into her flat if some-one was too interested. No problem. We scurried into our flat and dived into each others arms.

"That was really fun" we both said together. "What next" said I.

"That's obvious, now we've got to get you ready to meet your friend Geoff's wife Anne. She has never met Jez, has she. So, we need to make a few decisions. As you suggested before we went out, if Anne is told the truth then she'll be perfectly happy, and I agree I know her that well. Let's get you tidied up and get all the details right." With this she rummaged into the bags we had heaped in the corner and pulled out the little package from Miss Sterling.

"This'll help you." 'This' was what appeared to be a small lump of pink rubbery stuff. Yes. Top quality fake boob. As soon as Angie had helped me get dressed with my new bra and these wonderful fillers I could only agree. They did help. I no longer had a chest with a bra, I had breasts as good as any I had ever seen bouncing down the street.

Angie looked at the clock, "Right, there's about an hour to go before Anne is expected home - we must be really quick. You - go and wash all this afternoon's makeup off. I can set you up with a proper evening tart look that you will just drool over some other time, but first I want to present Anne with a sweet clean wholesome target so that she can see how much fun Jez can be."

I hurtled into the bathroom, tip, tap, tip, tap on the wooden floor. I took off the wig and scrubbed my face until I looked horrid. Angie giggled as I went back in and muttered something like "can't have this on a regular basis, you look terrible like that. Sit down, brush your wig, and do not speak until I say you are ready."

We went through the whole makeup routine again - but much more quickly. Angie smiling and saying, "It is so different doing someone else's face. I can't wait to get back into practice. I've forgotten how much fun it is putting all that training to good use."

"It makes such a difference having the right colours and the proper blusher and everything. You just won't recognise yourself when I've finished. That casual look this afternoon just wasn't right".

I began to say "I thought I looked lovely" - but she glared at me as if to say "don't you dare smudge my work before it's ready". I stopped. I just adored the feeling of letting someone else take control.

All too soon, she was done, I had on my new blue panties with the lacy white trim, my new stockings clipped to my matching suspenders, my 38 B bra was snuggled tight and over it all I had what Angie said was a size 16 Princess-style cotton dress. My new face peeped out from behind a darling fringe. I didn't recognise my expected male features under the gloss of ruby lipstick, nor did I see my ordinary eyes under their new camouflage. I looked more like a 19 year-old than 29. I felt wonderful. I felt myself too until Angie saw me and slapped my hand away - "There's enough time for that later".

We went downstairs because Anne would be arriving within the next five or ten minutes. Angie made me sit in the "visitor's chair" rather than in my own customary spot. She tried to make me curl my legs under like a real girl but it was much too uncomfortable at first, so I just sat carefully with my legs together so that non-one could see up my dress - Jez had to be a good girl the first time she met Anne.

Angie sat there glowing with glee, but only the twinkle in her eye gave her away. She made a cup of tea for herself, but would only give me a glass of 'slimming' mineral water with a slice of lemon. I began to realize that this was not just an afternoon's entertainment for her.

As the door opened, I began to shake and tremble until the Angie-glare stopped me in mid-quiver. Anne swept in as usual, without barely a glance at me until she had dropped her briefcase and poured herself the usual Tonic and Gin. Yes, I know it should be Gin & tonic - but not the way Anne pours the first one every evening.

Almost at once she turned to Angie and said, "What on earth are you doing here, where is Geoff and who is that little girl in the corner. What is happening here and do you know when Geoff will be back." Like Angie, Anne believes never asking one question if you can get three or four out in the same breath. It must be something they teach in girls' schools.

Angie hesitated for a moment, "I think I know where Geoff is, and I am sure that he will be back as soon as you want him to be - that's two of your answers. As for what is happening here - I came over to see Geoff as I heard that he was having some sort of a problem. Anyway, I sorted that out and then took this new friend of mine out shopping. I think Jez looks very nice, don't you." And as you can tell - she hadn't told a single lie. She might have been a little 'miss'leading though.

Anne, in her turn, looked puzzled, "What do you mean, back as soon as I want him to be. Are you trying to be deliberately tiresome. Aren't you going to at least tell me what this Jez is doing here."

"Come on, Anne, Jez is my friend, although I do think that you want to come over and have a closer look. You have actually met her before - quite recently."

As she said this, Angie pulled me to my feet, swept me forward so that I was standing just in front of her - and then she goosed me. I leapt forward shouting "Don't do that" and I can't say that I managed the polite teenage manner suitable to my attire. Angie grinned with delight as Anne's eyebrows rose towards the ceiling.

"What - you don't mean .......... What, that's my Geoff...., What have you been doing together.... You must have taken ages ...... where did you get all that stuff, it's not mine and it certainly doesn't look like yours." Even in such extreme stress, I was frantically glad that she didn't accuse me or Angie of anything too bad.

I grinned - eventually - and for the first time spoke my magic name - "Hello, Anne, my name is Jezebelle, I am so glad to meet you, I think I know your husband Geoff. He had to go out, but Angie has been ever so helpful. I just don't know how I would have found the time to meet you without her. Would you like to help me get ready to go out again?"

By now, there were three blonde-haired grins stretching from ear to 'ere. Yes, more bad grammar but it's such fun to write.

"I'm not sure that I want to know what's been happening here, but if you don't tell me every little bit about this little glamourpuss I am going to give her absolute hell. What do you mean, again."

Angie smiled more gently now, and we all sat down. I was careful to be properly neat and I saw Angie glance at me and wink. "Right, Jez, I was right wasn't I." I nodded assent, feeling my borrowed plumage swing and fluff against my cheek as I did so. "Right, Anne, let's tell you everything." And in her one words, which sounded very different from mine, Angie began to tell the story you've just heard.

-------------------------------------------------------

Part the Fourth

Angie's version.

"I was just getting ready to go out - you know I have so little to do work-wise at the moment - so I was going out for a gossip and a coffee with Brenda - our local gossip-queen - when I heard a bump and a crash through the wall. I knew that you had gone out and that Geoff was on his own - but I did think that he had gone out too. Anyway, I grabbed the keys, and rushed in to see a poor huddled mass halfway up the stairs. I couldn't help myself, I just had to interfere. I made him tell me that it was only a game, but I wanted to make him realize what a super opportunity he had to have fun. I made him have a shower while I rushed back here and grabbed all the things that I wanted to have an excuse to clear out - I know that sounds horrid - but this would give me a wonderful excuse to go out and buy myself some new gear. I zoomed back, and did his makeup while he wriggled around in his borrowed undies. I think he was starting to see how much effort we have to put in to keep MEN happy and interested."

"Anyway, as soon as I had Jez, I couldn't call him Geoff once he had that coral red lipstick on, as soon as I had Jez dressed up I just couldn't wait to take her out into the sunshine. I was panting inside with the plans I had for us all to have some fun - I just couldn't sit inside until you came home or I would have kissed all her makeup off. I suppose that's a bit obvious, but she did look so lovely and, with that built-in advantage that men have, I was juicing up as quickly as Brenda does. I had a real problem keeping my hands off." She glanced over at me and I smiled. Then she continued, "Mind you, while I kept my hands off, I'd better admit that he does have a lipstick ring of confidence unless it's washed off already. I just couldn't resist - sorry, Anne."

I gulped and leant over towards Anne. She glared at me and said, " I'll make you sorry for that when I've heard the whole gory story."

Anne interrupted, "I suppose this is when you went out for the first time, huh."

Angie nodded, "Yep, we went to the shoe shop and got some lovely 3" heels for her, and we have two wigs on approval as well as lots of frillies. All that's left is some proper nightwear and some more slinky stuff for the clubs. I mean. I can't do it all myself, I had to leave some of the fun to you. Jez is just so sweet in the shops. She stands there blushing like a rose, trying to hide in the corner at the same time as she wants to run from counter to counter running her hands through the satins and silks. She doesn't seem to go for the cheap stuff, so you had better be warned.

Anne glared at me again, "So I was right when I accused you of being in my undies drawer, I couldn't work out what exactly was happening but am I right in thinking this has been going on for months already?"

"Oh no, I've never been out or anything, and I certainly had no idea that Angie was even the faintest bit interested."

"What do you mean interested, she's been after you ever since you go here, didn't you know? Anyway, it looks like she's at least as interested in Jez as she is in Geoff. I am glad that she has made you buy your own undies, I really hate the idea of you messing about with mine, they don't fit you at all and they are far too delicate for casual mauling."

It was my turn to get irritated, "If you had realized that I was going through your undies, you must have realized that if anything I put them back more neatly and I certainly would never maul your things - they're just too lovely, I so love them when you wear them and when you let me undress you, I just had to try them for myself and see if the feeling was anything like as good - and it wasn't. At least, not until today, when I realized that a bit more effort and a bit more care made all the difference. I feel as if, Oh, I don't know, I feel that if someone up there felt like it, they could flick their fingers and I could - woops - gone too far now - just go on like this whenever I wanted and it would be wonderful."

Anne looked flabbergasted, "Why didn't you tell me. I thought I had some nasty messy panty-wanker. Why didn't you make me see that you wanted to join the SisterDom. I mean, Angie and I have had so much fun talking about old times with her brothers and their sisters, we must have had our eyes closed."

If I had thought earlier that Angie was more knowledgeable and more involved than I had expected, some of the recent comments were really beginning to make me wonder what was going on. What did she mean, her brothers and their sisters. I stood up. "Lets get on with it, we said it was time to go out, so lets go."

Almost before I had started, Anne had grabbed my wrist and pulled me back onto the sofa, "not so fast, girly, Angie and I are making the decisions now. You just sit back while we make some plans for your immediate future and perhaps, maybe, some longer term plans too. You can't have it both ways. If you dress up like this you are not my husband unless I want you that way. If you dress up at all, either I don't know about it or you dress properly and make a real effort to do your share. You just sit there or else. If you can peel off that dress and peel on a decent macho image permanently - well then, you may be able to persuade us this was just a little slip. On the other hand, if you are enjoying this as much as it seems and as much as the pole in your panties shows me, then you're stuck. You are mine, girly, till death do us part. I made my promises and you'll lie in my bed and like it."

I sometimes hate it when she mixes her cliches like that and still makes it sound sensible.

"Come on, Angie, she's ready for a bit of a workout and then we can go out on the town."

-------------------------------------------------------

Part the Fifth

Three girls get ready

So, we went upstairs, Angie in the front pulling me. Anne behind me fondling me behind and stroking me through my panties till I could barely stagger. We reached the bedroom where my first transformation had occurred so few hours before.

Anne helped me take off all my lovely things. The bra had made clear marks and she ran her finger down them and murmured, "the straps must be a bit tight, can't have that." She slipped my, my, panties down my stockinged legs and the glissade was so lovely that I shook with delight. She then did the same for herself.

Angie and Anne pulled me about like the rag dolly on the bed - first, they made me try on both my, yes my, bras - again I wriggled with pleasure and they both smiled and stroked me once more into a fever of excitement. Next, I put on the red dress, then the pink skirt, then her own black leather skirt, then the pink skirt again with two slips - which made a lovely frou-frou. Last of all, they made me try on a horrible scratchy boob-tube which I complained about loudly - so instead they made me choose between the loveliest frilled pale cream blouse and a soft pink silk-style blouse with almost see-through sleeves. I murmured that I couldn't wear the pink one with hairy arms and Anne said - "Well, they needn't be hairy for long - but I agree, we don't have time now. It will have to be the cream tonight. Get moving, turn round so I can do the buttons. No, let's see you try. I bet you can't even reach them yet."

I did try, but she was right. I could get one or two buttons but I wasn't even close to buttoning them. I was closer to breaking my wrist, fingers, collarbone and brain by the time the two monsters had finished crying with laughter.

At last, Anne tottered over to me and did the business. She murmured in my ear, "Don't push your luck. You are supposed to be a nice sweet girly - just like Angie says. If you don't stop getting us worked up while we work you over - you will never, ever be forgiven." Once more, her hands drifted slinkily over my despairing, desperate, aching flesh.

I was getting more and more excited until Angie snapped on the makeup lights and pulled me towards the stool.

"Don't get your hopes up, there's no time for that right now. You are going to get ready for an evening at the club and Anne is not going to rape my friend Jez while I am waiting to have a good time out. I dare say that it may be a long sleepless night but that depends - doesn't it. I mean, if you aren't a good girl then you will get no reward - will you."

Anne was already in the shower but she could still hear what Angie said somehow. "That's right, Angie, you tell him. If he doesn't do his utmost to be a real good sister, then he does not get to keep his lovely party outfit and he certainly doesn't get invited to sleep with his friend Geoff's wife AnnaBella."

"Okay, Angie, lets go for it. You make me look like a million dollars and we will all go to the ball."

"No way, Jose. Tonight, we can get you all dolled up, but for the million dollar event we wait until there is a ball. Your legs may be smooth, but they need more work and less hair. Also we certainly can't rely on a wig at a proper event so you will not be getting your hair cut unless we say so, and finally, YOU don't get to go to any ball unless we know that you can, so to speak, hold a ball and your partner can't tell."

"What do you mean. You're not going to make me dance with other men. I don't want to do anything like that. I love Annie, even though I can spare some for you. I am not queer, and I won't dance with blokes."

"Come on, don't be so silly. If the three of us go to a party, there is absolutely no chance that I won't get a wolf if I want one. There is also no chance that a self-respecting wolf won't be drooling over an apparently partner-less Anne, so that leaves you on your own. You can't partner Anne because Geoff won't be there. You can't be a wallflower because then you fail your qualification exam for the SisterDom, and you won't be sitting on your own because I am going to make you good enough to eat - or at least nibble. You're on the horns of a dilemma and you had better lie back and make plans to enjoy it."

I laid back so to speak, and Angie began to do my first evening make-up. First the base, then the blusher, then the first eye-colour and the second and the third. The bright lights hurt my eyes, but I watched every dab of the brushes eagerly, keen not to miss a moment of my education. I had never watched anything like it. I had never really given more than a casual glance while Anne spent so much time sitting in this spot and nor had I really noticed the final results that much. Not until it was my turn. As Angie dabbed the merest trace of mascara on my lashes, Anne came up behind me and hugged me tight. "This is going to be a good night. Now budge over, I need to freshen up as well. Move that little girly ass over and make room."

I did love the way she kept calling me 'girly'.

I decided to wind them up a bit, but carefully, so that they wouldn't prevent me going out in my new feminine loveliness. "Why do you keep calling me 'Girly'. You've got to remember I'm your husband and I don't want you to forget it."

"You're priceless, darling. Are you trying to say - Don't forget I'm the one who wears the panties round here. You'd better not be trying to put your foot down; you'd just trip over in those heels. And you'd better not be trying to get out of this. Angie and I have something much more exciting than a toy-boy. We've got a toy-girl, albeit it with a boy-toy, who will not dare to misbehave while we are out with her. You are going out - We are going to party - We are going to do our best to make an exhibition of you, if not tonight, as soon as we feel you can behave yourself in decent company. You will be my husband in bed or wherever the whim takes me but when Jez goes out she will be a real girly-girl or I want to know why."

I didn't argue, I was speechless. There seemed to be only one solution - either I was going to burst into tears or - so I pulled her to me and wasted layers of lipstick. Both options just emphasised to me how much 'girl' I had in me and how much more easily I was letting it show.

I had never realized how right those magazines were. I knew that I had been fond, to say the least, of panty-wearing, panty-fondling and even panty-wanking but just a few hours had made me realize that I was no longer 100% macho.

Angie pulled me away with a glare, "Don't you do that now, even though I know you love the feel of lipstick, we don't have time to waste. Anne, chop chop. We've got to get to the club so that Jez can get settled before it gets crowded."

Rush, rush, hustle, bustle. In moments we were all ready. I was allowed to look in the mirror at last. I just gaped. Instead of the young girl of the afternoon, there was a much more sultry looking 'real woman' in her mid twenties. She had much more makeup than I liked to see - but it made her look thrilling to my new eyes. There was a tiny dab of glitter to emphasise that 'she' knew what she was about.

Anne bent down and gave two more stabs to my male ego. First, she clipped a slave bracelet round my ankle, "That's a slave bracelet, girly. Just you realize who you belong to when we go out." Then she bent me over her lap and spanked me a few times with the hairbrush while she crooned, "Slaves get beaten, girly, slaves get beaten, girly and you are going to love it. That's a warning."

It wasn't hard enough to make me cry, or even hard enough to hurt too much, but it was enough for a warning. She had never done this to me before but it made me stretch my panties - I didn't come - but we all realized that Jez was reacting in a very suitably slaveish manner.

I nearly swooned. The A team smiled at each other again.

Anne and Angie first made me walk to and fro so they could check that I was walking 'properly'. All Angie said was, "Just take slightly smaller steps and you'll be fine. Somehow, you've learnt how to sway your hips in one afternoon. You'll make all the others jealous."

Anne interrupted, "Angie, how about not telling them. I mean, Jez does look pretty good." She turned to me, "Jez, darling, we have got to sit down and do some ultra quick planning. Angie, I want to change our original idea. Jez, we have been planning this for weeks. Ever since I realized that you were just as likely to be a girly as a panty-wanker, I've been planning with Angie to give you a proper session to see which is what and who is he.

"The original plan was to take you out for the evening to a club we know where the boss is very tolerant of girls and girlies. As you can guess, there is a bit of a difference between the two. In case you are confused, YOU are a girly and we are girls. The ordinary punters never quite know what the score is with the crowd in the corner, but they spend pounds and pounds trying to chat them up. The girls make sure that they are close by if anyone gets a bit tiresome or if any of their girlies looks like being found out. Its great fun and we were going to take you. But, now that I've had a look at my pretty little Jezebelle, I know that you are good enough to mix with the girls themselves.

"Normally, the girls make sure that the girlies are always on their feet, practising, so to speak, while they relax. I'm sure that some of them are lezzies, the way they make their girlies behave. It's not really fair, it's almost like they were pimps making their girls prick-tease all the fellas. Fortunately, most of the blokes are regulars and they know that its all 'Touch me once, touch me twice and that's your lot'.

"If you want, and this is the only time that you have a choice, you can be one of the real girls. The problem is, if you only dance now and again, the men know that this means you are a little more willing. It will be much more annoying to the other girls if we bring someone as good looking as you and make it clear that you are not just made-up for the evening.

"If you can carry it off, I'll make you so happy to be my girl that I'll even let you make some of the rules."

It was clear that there were going to be some changes in our household. I could only mutter, "I don't know what you want. I know what I want and I had never even guessed until today. This morning I was just a panty-fondler (I wasn't going to admit to being a panty-wanker - yukk ), but after Angie made me see, and feel, that pretending and messing about with oddments that didn't fit was silly, that it was so much more wonderful to do the job properly, well, I want to be as much of a girl as possible as much of the time as possible as long as possible and as long as you love me."

"Oh yes," said Anne, with a glitter of tears in her eyes, "Oh yes, that would be so much more fun. I know how good I feel when your prick is stuck deep and decent. You are never going to lose that, but I want so much more to have this little beauty cuddled up to me as well. I'm not going to admit to more than a few lesbian urges, thank you Angie, but when I realized that you had made Jez look so good in just one afternoon, I just knew that I could have a husband and a sister all in one. Jez may have had a busy day, but tomorrow really will be the first day of the rest of her life."

"I want to help you be the girl of my dreams. I want to dress you up, show you off, rip off your panties, lick your great big boy's clitty. I want to see you in virgin white, in lecherous leather. I want you to know that our marriage is going to be full of fun."

"Can't we start now, do we have to go out," I asked.

"Of course we are going out. Angie and I have planned an evening out and you are coming with us."

Even though I hadn't given any answer yet, I trusted them both to take care of me. Whether I behaved as a girl or a girly would be up to me. I knew that if I had enough confidence I would be able to cope with almost anything.

As we walked into town, Anne and Angie managed simultaneously and in stereo to tell me more about the plans for the evening. "We know a group of girls who look after girlies. We have only been on the fringes as we have never had one of our own. Once Angie rang me to say that she was pretty sure you were hooked, we've been planning to join the club. They all go to this club every Tuesday and we were going to take you there too. But, and its a bit more risky, because they will go mad when they realize, it's usual to make it very obvious who is which. Some of the girls are rather butch and make their girlies behave more like lezzies than anything else. One of the girls has even been trying really hard to steal a girly of her own.

Now, our original plan was just to go along with you as our own girly and make it fairly obvious that you were 'just a good friend'. But now that I've seen my sister Jez, I don't want to do it that way. I want to take you along as my real sister. This will be a much bigger coup when, or rather if, we let them find out."

-------------------------------------------------------

Part the Sixth

Into the Bar

And - How do you deal with a casanova?

We reached the club and Angie led the way in. Anne leant towards me and said, "I hadn't forgotten, but it's your choice. You have about half an hour to decide, we won't make it obvious either way. If you want to be a girly then everyone will look after you. If you are going to pass as a genuine girl then only Angie and I will be able to look after you."

As we climbed the steps, I did enjoy the knowledge that it was my own shoes going tip, tap on the polished wood floor. Angie looked over her shoulder and told us, "There's only the usual crowd - about 20 or so already. Archie the Wolf is by the bar."

Automatically, I looked over to the bar. This one was much more attractive than the four we met at the winebar. He was just over 6 foot tall so I had to look up at him a little from my 5' 7" plus heels. He was early thirties so much closer in age to Anne than myself. Perhaps I stared a little longer than was polite. My hands went up to my hair to check that there were no wandering curls. I turned as I got a dig in the ribs from Anne.

"What on earth are you doing. You don't come into a club, gaze starry-eyed at the first man you see and fluff your hair like that. Are you just asking him to come over and sweep you further off your feet. I'd almost think you'd had a massive hit of hormones and pheromones rather than just a couple of hours in drag."

I winced, "Sorry, darling, I don't know what I was thinking of. You'd better keep an eye on me."

"I'll do better than that. If you don't behave, I'll tie you in knots faster than a Turkish slaver ever did to his harem. I don't mind what you do this evening, but I will not have you drool over an average wolf like that Archie. You're not experienced enough to deal with that yet."

I subsided as girlishly as I could, but I couldn't help peeping up through my eyelashes to check if the Wolf had noticed me. Another dig.

"Don't do that either. Tart."

Angie came back with the cocktails. "Tequila Sunrise, for you Anne. Mixed Fruits for you, Dishy, and Bloody Mary for me. You will be getting no alcohol until we think its safe, Jez darling. You may want enough to relax you but we need to be sure that you are in control."

We settled back into the soft leather settees lined around the alcove. Only Anne could see the corner of the bar where the Wolf was sitting. We continued talking about the events of the day and what we could do the next day. I didn't talk very much, and when I did I tried to be careful.

As the first nervous rush passed, I fell into using a much softer voice than usual and, indeed, I found myself using a gentle lilt. As I did so, I realized that I should now be more grateful to my Gaelic stepmother and the many holidays I had spent in the Highlands.

-------------------------------------------------------

Part the Seventh

Gaelic memories

I had forgotten the long summer holidays spent in gentle strolls along the loch with my cousins. They wore a kilt all day winter and summer, but I had cried furiously the first time I had been made to wear one. I had arrived late one night and my cousins had been down in the town before I woke. Steppy, as she had always been known, had stood over me in my snug little bed.

"Oot ye come, time to rise. I've put yuir clothes awa' and taken a spare kilt from Alastair. I'll help ye put it on this fust time. Now dinna greet. Ah canna ha' ye dressed different fra' y' cousins. Ye'd stick oot like a glamish. In the proper tartan, ye'd be fine.

Those turned out to be magic months. I had eventually come to love my kilt. Alastair, Megan and Mhairi had been wonderful companions to a woeful 8 year old. I wiped a tear from my eye, carefully so as not to smudge, as I remembered how long it was since I had seen them.
-------------------------------------------------------

Anne saw how careful I was being with my voice, "You're doing fine. I had forgotten how lovely and soft you speak when you use the Gaelic. It's going to be a useful trick."

We had taken the second alcove which had only a few other girls in it. The first alcove was full - over a dozen - with a high-pitched cacophony tinkling like the glasses on the table. Some new girls had arrived and joined us. They recognized both Anne and Angie and I realized that this was the first 'moment of truth'.

"Hi, Angie, What's been happening recently. Hi, Anne, got the A-team with you tonight. Who's your friend?"

"Hello, Karen, meet Jezebelle. She's not as naughty as her namesake in the bible. She's a friend from out of town. She's never been to a club like this so we have to be nice to her, it's all a bit of a surprise to her so far. Jez, meet Karen, Jenny and her girl Thomasina."

I flicked a glance at Anne. Could a girly be identified by having such an conspicuous name. It couldn't be that obvious. If it was, was Jez a girl name or a girly name. At least she hadn't called me Geoffabelle.

It became clearer as a moment later she introduced the other girls in the alcove. It was becoming more apparent that everyone knew all the others well and that I would be quite noticeable as a newcomer. I would have to make my decision soon.

"Jez, you must meet Sally, Teresa and their sisters Joanne and Elizabeth."

Phew, the names were not a giveaway but it was pretty clear that the word sister had a special meaning. And so did the phrase ‘her girl’.

I decided to keep things as open as possible. I had already realized that I would need to gush in as much as possible and to use as many sweet, lovely, pretty words as would fit. "Hello, its my first time here, this seems such a lovely place to meet new friends. I know Anne and when I came to town today and she said she was going out I said, how super, and would there be room for little me." I could hardly stop.

The evening was wonderful. The girls were interesting and eager to share their skills at training their girlies. Most of these were husbands, but several were brothers or cousins and one or two were neighbours or workmates. They talked about the quality of the local shops and which assistants were particularly helpful. There was a lot of heated discussion about the amount of force necessary at certain times. Words and phrases new to either of my selves peppered the conversation. What on earth was a 'gaff'? Why was it of such importance for a 'new girl' to get accustomed to one? I was learning all the time.

I spent a long time talking with Teresa. She was a tiny brunette with an impish smile. I saw her waving at lots of the other girls and taking notes too. I had to ask her what she was doing. Her story was quite stunning. I found out that she had been working with her sister for the last few years making a deliberate effort to transform local boys into gorgeous girls.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Tangent

Teresa’s story

It had started when they were students with a flat behind the Town Hall. They had only been able to get boys to share. They were getting fed up with this, the mess and so on. Eventually, when yet another mucky failure had left and the interviews had found no new girl, they had sat alone talking and drinking with Antony, the newest recruit. And they had drunk a lot. "It's such a nuisance, the boys are alright but they're so untidy and unhelpful. It means that we can't study properly either."

The new flatmate had made the crucial suggestion. "I don't mean to be messy, but girls do put more effort into tidying up. If you made the rules tougher and I had to do the work or pay a fine - I could get used to that. I might complain a bit, but this looks like a nice flat so .... I should do my share, shouldn't I."

The idea had seemed appropriate so the new regime had begun. Antony had done his share of the cleaning and so on - his proper share of all the important jobs. If anything, Antony had done more than his share of the washing and ironing. Sally had commented on this one time, but he had smiled and said he didn't mind.

Then one day, Teresa had come in unexpectedly from a lecture and through the open bedroom door seen their apparently asexual lodger stepping into a pair of panties. She had flipped. "What the hell's going on here. I knew we made it clear that you weren't going to bring girls round here without checking and you definitely weren't to try anything with us - but stealing our panties. That's horrible. You can pack up and leave tonight."

"Excuse me. Stop being so outraged, these aren't yours or Sally's. As if I would be so stupid as to steal your things, for a start they wouldn't fit me. So please leave my bedroom while I finish getting dressed."

Teresa said she couldn't believe it. If they weren't her panties then whose were they. After a few minutes, she knocked and said, "I'm sorry I flew off the handle, but I need to know what's going on. Can I come in."

[Please wait for the longer version coming soon called “Training Stories” Alys P ]

* * * * *
At this interesting moment, we were interrupted. Anne leant over and said, "Jez, I want you to meet Jennifer. She is the organiser of this evening. I thought that it would be helpful to get you membership. But Jennifer says that you can't join immediately. There are already too many tutors and not enough new-girls. I know this is a bit of a shame, but you can come along as a visitor instead."

I carefully avoided looking at Anne. I knew that she was concealing her own delight at passing me off so successfully in front of a crowd of very well trained observers. I shrugged and flicked my hair to one side. "Well, perhaps some time later", I murmured in the lilt I was already getting so used to.

Anne moved along to sit beside me so I couldn't continue with Teresa. I was a little disappointed by this as I was learning so much from her. Anne said later that she had noticed this and actually interrupted on purpose before I made it too obvious that I was learning from her. A 'real girl' with some knowledge of the SisterDom would not have reacted to the story in the way I was. She had prepared the ground by saying that I was new when she introduced me to Karen, but perhaps Teresa hadn't heard.

"How do you feel, darling? Everything alright? I hope Tess hasn't been telling you too many stories about her life as a student and the post-graduate study Sally did on gender." I blinked. I hadn't guessed that Sally had been able to turn her game into a research project.

I spoke to Anne for a few minutes, asking questions about the other people in the club. There were about 40 altogether. The waitresses in rather revealing white catsuits were obviously ordinary girls - 'wrong'. The ordinary crowd were mostly girls and sisters and there were about half a dozen men. I was wrong there too. Two of the men were girls.

Anyway, because I was looking at the others, I found that they were looking at me. In a minute, Charles came straight over to our table. He was a slim-built man in his mid-thirties, about 5' 10" wearing well-cut trousers and a thin silk shirt. I don't think that the old me would have noticed what he was wearing but I was finding that all my senses were working differently from normal.

With encouragement from Anne, I eventually accepted an invitation to dance from Charles. He wasn't nearly as dangerous as the Wolf, but on the other hand, I had almost been looking forward to seeing how I would cope with that one. The music changed from an old rock and roll number to a slow smooch as we stepped onto the floor. I suddenly found myself in his arms, my head snuggled into his shoulder. My hand was on his shoulder and I felt the warmth of his skin through the thin shirt. My hand became a little sweaty and as I moved it across his shoulder I could feel the ripple of muscle under my fingers. I could feel his passion too - well, he had a big, hard stiffy against my thigh.

As we moved across the floor, I realized that he was a really good dancer. To my surprise, I had no trouble being led. In fact, the whole thing was so slick that I never even blinked when he gave me a thorough kiss to thank me. Although I did wriggle as his hands smoothed over my bum. Anne and Angie waited with bated breath for my comments as I was returned to the table.

"I saw you. You really enjoyed that. There is no way that you didn't. You just opened your lips to the first man that gave you a smooch. Then you ground your hips against his like a hula-hula girl. You're a naughty little lust-bucket - so you're being taken home at once."

We hadn't been the first to arrive and we weren't the first to leave. I was both horrified and delighted at how easy it had been. As we walked out, we giggled and fluttered like any group of girls leaving a party.

By the time, we reached the house, I found I was very tired. The flood of new sensations had absolutely exhausted me. Perhaps a few hours of tottering around on 2" heels had contributed too. As we struggled up the stairs, Anne noticed and told me to go straight to bed, she would be along in a moment to help remove the makeup and so on.

I smiled with pleasure as I stripped off my dress and got ready for bed. I left the bra and falsies on and, eventually, I was ready. Anne passed me my fabulous new satin nightie and led me to the bathroom for instruction in how to scrub off Jezebel's face. As every hour passed, I was getting more encouragement in my new life-style. Yes, it's true. I was already beginning to see this as a real Change-of-Life. I was dizzy with the emotions surging through my head.

Anne came to bed a few minutes later. I was very sleepy but I had a feeling that I ought to 'be a man' - despite my clothing - and take control of the situation. I didn't have a chance.

She slipped into bed and I heard the swoosh as her satin nightie slid across the sheets towards me. I had no time to turn to face her. She eased herself into a spoon position against my back. Her hands moved against my own nightdress and smoothed the satin along and around my nipples and down my sides. As she did this, she murmured in my ear. "Hush, little girl. Let me feel your breasts. Let me pleasure you." I was putty in her hands. I couldn't keep up the effort to be her husband when she was so sweetly reminding me of the pleasure of the evening. My body subsided and I relaxed as much as I could. Anne continued with these subtle physical and mental caresses until I slept. As I finally tumbled into the pillow I felt her kiss my lips and felt an electric tingle as our lipsticks melted together. "Goodnight, sweet sister."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Changes at home.

When I woke in the morning, Anne was already sorting through my wardrobe. "You aren't going to need most of these clothes from now on. I suppose we'll have to keep a few of Geoff's clothes for business and so on. But we can talk about that later. Angie and I had a little chat last night after you had fallen asleep. It is awfully important that we all decide exactly how much of a girl you are going to be. Are you going to be just an occasional sister or are you going to be my sister as often as possible.

I, personally, don't really want you to take the third option and go all the way. I want my girl to keep her giant clitoris or I am not going to get what I want. After a while, we can discuss whether you are going on hormones so that you have a proper pair of breasts - but that's several months away. Unless you have any significant plans of your own."

"No, darling, I don't. I never thought of having tits of my own. I just hated the coarseness and crudity of the male image - and especially the rough and drab clothes I had to wear. When I found a pair of your panties in my drawer, I tried them on, just for fun, and they were so smooth, so slinky, so enticing, I found that I had to try some more of your stuff, so I did. Gradually, I found that I was doing it more and more often until I was sure that you were beginning to suspect. I still don't know what made you realize but I don't really care. I am just so happy that you can see a sister in me.

"Going back to tits - I did once or twice imagine myself with real ones. It didn't feel right with a pair of socks stuffed into the bra. Mind you, it didn't feel right having that new protuberance sticking out - I couldn't see my toes, it was really different - but rather enticing."

"I'll give you enticing, you little tart. You're going to have to be much better behaved from now on. I really will not be pleased if I have the faintest suspicion that you have been a panty-wanker. Your body is at my total disposal, with occasional advice from Angie. That's a really expensive set of fake boobs you now have. I expect you to dress neatly and properly as Jezebel as soon as you get in from work and, for the moment, until you go back to work. If I do decide that you need more control, I will make sure that you wear panties all day and every day."

"Don't worry, darling. If you want me to wear panties all day, I'll do it. In fact, I don't mind if you tell me to do so right away. I think that it might be a bit obvious if you make me wear anything else."

Anne interrupted. "You will wear what I say when I say. If I want you in suspenders and stockings I will do so. If I want you in a bra - I will tell you. If I want you wearing a proper perfume rather than a vulgar macho so-called aftershave - then you will do so. If it gets to a point where I tell you to go to the shops in your lovely high heels, stark naked, well, I might encourage you to do so. Got that?"

Gulp. "Yes".

"Right. Today, you can put on your new blue bra, and the matching suspenders and panties. The blue dress I wore last Friday will probably be suitable if you can squeeze your disgusting fat body into it without damaging the seams. You're going on a diet until you can wear more of my clothes. We can't afford a complete new wardrobe - so you are going to suffer until you can fit into some of my gear. I reckon you'll have to lose about a stone and get at least two inches off your waist."

Gulp. "Yes".

"Fine. I was very confident you would agree. Or rather, that you would consider the alternative and my probable reaction if you were to disagree. Let's get you ready to go out for a proper shopping session."

Soon I was ready. My lips gleamed with my gorgeous new lipstick and Anne had put on a light daytime makeup. I skipped downstairs with the wonderful sensation of my dress sliding on my stockings, my breasts bouncing and my heart singing.

Angie was drinking a coffee. She did not look even as girlish as I did. She wore jeans and a leather jacket. She marched over to me and kissed me brutally hard. I realized that she was (I hoped) pretending to be a lesbian to my femme. My response was immediate - fortunately the tight support held me in. Angie did of course notice my instant flush and the embarrassed wriggle I made.

"Don't move, Girl", she snapped. "Anne and I need to continue your training and this is part of it." Even more than before, I flushed scarlet with a delirious combination of pleasure and embarrassment.

After a minimal breakfast of a glass of grapefruit juice, I was allowed out onto the streets again. We went past the five houses to the end of the road. With half my heart, I did hope that everyone was out, but at the last house, Mrs. Jones was coming out of the door just as we went past. She said hello to both Anne and Angie, then waited for them to complete the introductions. Mrs. Jones was a handsome rather than pretty woman in her late forties. We had had very little to do with her in the few months we had lived in the area, but Angie had been a local all her life. She said, "Sorry, we must rush, we have to take Jez to the shops." I could swear that I saw a flicker in Mrs. Jones's manner when Angie said Jez but as it turned out later this wasn't so.

We pranced off towards the shops - the sun was out and all of us were in a state of excitement. They had a new toy to play with - and their new toy was dazed by their whispered encouragements. "See that dishy dress in the window - don't you wish you had one like that?" "Look at that girl over there - we won't let you look that slovenly ever." "Smell that perfume, Jez, it would make the men just drool for you." "See that visible-pantie-line - you don't get that with decent panties like you have on."

As we paraded down the main street, I was ready to drag them into every dress shop and boutique. I found myself gushing, "oh that's so pretty." "Do you think that would suit me." and similar comments. Every time I said the right thing, I could feel my two guides smile with genuine pleasure.

They didn't let me go into even one shop. All of a sudden, we turned into a alleyway I should have remembered. Oh dear. Yes, we were going back to see Miss Sterling.

As we entered, I heard a faint bell ring. After just a moment, the curtain rustled and SHE entered the room. I was now more aware of the delightful feminine style of what I can only call a boudoir. Everything was pink, pearl or a delicate shade of grey. I saw that everything was designed to encourage girls as lucky as me to realize how very fortunate I was.

Without guessing the risk I was taking, I immediately said, "Good morning, Miss Sterling. It is so kind of you to spare the time to help me." The silence was awful.

Angie hissed, "Shut up. Here, girls don't open their mouths unless asked."

Mrs. Sterling merely glanced at me as if to say 'What, a talking toy'. She turned instead to the A team and began to speak. "I gather that you have clearly decided that our person is to remain uncut and unenhanced." I managed to remain expressionless as I heard and interpreted these significant statements. I certainly wanted to remain uncut, although the idea of having my own breasts was rather delicious.

"Yes," spoke Anne. "For the moment, I think we just need to buy a B-grade gaff, then check a couple of points and then start shopping."

After enduring a fit of pain - the gaff was fitted and I felt even more sure that I was going to do what my guides desired.

We went from shop to shop. I tried on pants and bras in one shop, blouses, skirts and dresses in another, sandals with the prettiest thin straps, high heels (at which I made a horrible exhibition of myself - tottering all over the place as if I had never worn them before - well, I hadn't much) in a third; at the last shop I tried another wig, in blonde, and then finally I was allowed to try on a really divine satin evening dress in pale pink with a purple underlining. I told Anne that it made me feel like a Princess and both she and Angie smiled broadly at my evident delight.

I don't think I could have felt more feminine at that moment. Less than 24 hours before I had been a posturing pretence of a female - now I felt feminine, smelt feminine, saw feminine and, indeed, touched and tasted feminine. If I had any vote in the matter, I wanted to continue like this for ever - so I said so. There was a short pause.

"Look, Jez. I know you couldn't feel much more girly just now - and we are awfully pleased that you are having such fun - but we can't make a decision about our sister Jez quite so quickly. I mean, we may have to wait another 24 hours before we are all certain about our plans. You have to go to work tomorrow. And while we can make sure that you are decently dressed, we will all have to wait and see how easy it all is and whether you feel comfortable as an 'inbetween'.

"Ooh, do you mean you'll let me wear my new panties to work?", I said. I had been wondering if this would be possible and here it was, one of my wishes already coming true.

"That's not going to be a problem, dear. What will be more of a problem is when the people at the office notice that you have a number of more subtle feminine factors to your appearance. You have had your eyebrows plucked, your nails will have a plain polish rather than tart-red as they are now, you will wear perfume and so on. The people at the office are not stupid, but we hope they are not very observant.

I was even less confident now about how my colleagues would deal with my new life-style. I knew that I was eager to blossom as a girl - but unless I was both careful and lucky, I would be at grave risk from exposure, disgust, discrimination and even losing my job.

We strolled across the park to the winebar. As we sat down, Angie ticked me off for not smoothing my skirt as I sat, she ticked me off for not sitting neatly with my legs together, she ticked me off for gulping my coffee. I could do nothing right. After several more criticisms, Anne came to my rescue.

"Come off it, Angie. Jez has been around for less than a day and you expect perfection. She's doing alright. We can spend the rest of the weekend on coaching - so give it a rest."

I looked gratefully at my wife. I could feel a warm glow in my heart at her willingness to help.

Angie said quite severely "I was only trying to help but perhaps there's no need to bully our eager little dish." I seemed to hear an unspoken 'yet' hovering at the end of that sentence.

We relaxed in the warm sunshine. I did make an effort to sit correctly and to match my pose, posture and attitude to the A team. I must have been quite successful because there were no further comments. After a while, Angie pulled out a package and held it out to me.

"Here's a catalogue for you to look at. We want you to tell us exactly what you think would make you into our little girl. It's got the lot. We know you like fondling the goods before you try them on, but this time you'll have to judge what you fancy by the picture alone."

I took the magazine and flamed scarlet as it fell open at a page full of different designs of fake boob. I turned page after page of underwear - bras, corsets, slips, petticoats, suspenders, g-strings, french-knickers, panties, teddies - and some of these were in rubber and plastic too; to my surprise, there was a pair of adult nappies too.

Further on, there was the loveliest nightie in satin with a blue trim - almost like the one I had worn the night before, but mine was prettier I thought. There were surprisingly few pages of dresses, blouses and skirts but I knew that I had seen lots of things to wear in the shops already.

"Come on. Tell us which ones you like. You may not get them but it will give us a much better idea of what things are going to suit both the outside of our Jez as well as fitting your own inside feelings."

I was glad our table was in the corner. It would have been quite embarrassing if other customers had seen exactly what sort of things we were giggling about. Gradually I calmed down, I started looking slowly but with increasing interest at each item. I was not at all keen on some of the stuff. The only word for it was 'tarty'. I wanted to look natural. I wanted to be the best looking girl in a dress that I could. I knew I was still only a man but I really wanted to look as feminine as possible.

Both Anne and Angie were pleased with my selection. It turned out that I only wanted quite ordinary underwear, simple dresses and just one or two pieces of jewellery. They allowed me to buy the cutest set of brooch, necklace and earrings. They weren't expensive - just a simple black and gold bead-knotwork with one single amethyst-colour pendant, paste of course I was told.

I demanded to be allowed to wear this at once, and although I was told they weren't really daytime wear I got away with it. I felt marvellous as we swished from shop to shop. I was getting more and more used to the way the new shoes made me walk, especially the way it made my hips move. My legs and thighs felt amazingly different, the extra height and changed posture caused by the shoes was the major factor, the pull and stretch of the nylon stockings was part of it, and the loose skirt was the final factor - both because the fresh air could blow up it and because the fabric was swirling and swishing against my skin. I mentioned this to Anne and she winked at me.

“And it’s been barely 24 hours since Jez came out to play. And you can attach any meaning you like to ‘barely’ and ‘came out’ if you want!” she giggled.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

By Monday, I was hooked on my new life as Jez. I didn't see it as a hobby, as a pastime or recreation. It was the rest of my life that was the distraction. Going to work was when I felt wrong, when I had to wear harsh, rough man-type clothes. At home, I could be the soft, frilly, pretty plaything of my wife and my best friend.

I did go to work on Monday, of course. But equally obviously, I wore panties instead of pants and I wore stockings as well. It felt strange with the tug of the nylon on my thighs as I sat down. The feel of the stockings in my shoes made my feet feel strange too. I decided I liked it. The feel of suspenders against my hips as I sat down was even more unusual. Again, I decided that I liked it too. I enjoyed the subtle reminders that I was now allowed, if not expected, to be a feminine person when I wished. And, by the way, the choice of the word ‘obviously’ was in the meaning of ‘You didn’t think I would NOT be wearing undies. Although I did enjoy it when Jade, the American girl at the club had called them intimates and delicates.

It was difficult at work. I found that I was looking at the other girls in the office with a new perspective. I had to prevent myself staring at their clothes, at their makeup, at their loveliness. I soon got myself under control though as there was work to be done. I worked so hard that I almost missed lunch. Fiona Goodfellow, who worked on the next desk, came past to remind me. I jumped as she touched my elbow. She smiled down at me and said, did I want her to get me anything or did I need a quick walk with her to the sandwich bar round the corner.

I did need a break and I did need a walk, so I said yes. We strolled to the corner and waited for a break in the traffic. Fiona chatted on about a few things then said, much too casually, "Did I see you and your wife coming out of the club last night ?"

Without thinking I nodded my head. Then I gasped as the question hit home. The Club! Last night! You and your wife! Ooops.

Fiona smiled back at me. "I thought it was you. I knew Anne from before, but I had no idea that you looked so gorgeous. I was only picking up my friend Alex, I don't really go there that often. I'll talk about this later.

[Fiona and Alex have their own story ‘Perfume Works’ coming later - Alys P]

Changing my life, what joy. To Joy.

It was the rite time ….. and the rite place. As Annis said, “It’s a kind of magic.”

And another AP-500 story - hooray me.

It may be the difference of a better-chosen title, but some recent stories have hit new heights - 1000 hits in a day; 100+ kudos too. But still nobody has been triggered to take one of my offerings to adapt, grow, build or whatever (as far as I know). Oh well. maybe sometime soon what with the suggestion by Angela Rasch and others for MORE STORIES.

---

Magic isn’t real. I knew. Miracles maybe – and they’re a sort of magic. And it’s not true what they say about God – well one of the things they say. That God never makes mistakes. How can that be true?

If God is responsible for ‘everything’ – then he’s responsible for the mistakes too. The boy with the cleft palate. The girl with no arms. The deaf, the blind, the ones with heart problems or brain damage. If, to take one example, there are about 700 babies for every one with a cleft palate – does God just not notice the 700th one? Or is it some cunning arrangement between him and Satan? I don’t know and despite what they say, the priests and know-alls don’t know.

So, you get talking with people and sometimes you open up in ways you never expected. And, more rarely, they fit with you and they know what you’re talking about and they know what to tell you and what advice. And you can give back too.

I had met Annis, Annis Thilykos, in Greenwich near the Cutty Sark. A blind date , in effect, as there was a group of six of us and there were two couples and us singletons. We clicked instantly. We liked the same things, hated the same things, thought the same about the guys who passed by, and the girls. It was wonderful. Then she asked the big question. Albeit very indirectly.

“You’re really good at this. For a girl, you really know how boys think. Did you have a big brother you hung out with – and you learned from him?”

“I’m sorry if it wasn’t clear. I’m the brother. I learnt like all the boys do.”

“Wow, difficult to believe – especially with that glossy long hair. How do you get it so right about the girls?”

“Let’s say I’m really interested in girls.”

“Do I detect a certain emphasis there?”

“Wh.. what d’y mean?”

“That you have an interest in the girls but not in the usual boy style. Y’not wanting to cuddle, kiss, fondle and get into their panties …. Your vibes aren’t ‘Me, boy – want sex’.”

I blushed. I stammered. I demonstrated maximum-unboyness. And Annis' eyes opened wide.

“That’s it – isn’t it. You’re not really a boy! Now I can see.” She gestured weirdly with her hands “And your true name is Rosalie. Unusual, but not the strangest!”

“How did you guess that?"

“First off, nothing I say is a guess. I have ways of knowing things – and that’s an example. Yes?”

She looked sideways at me – her hands flickered as if knotting and unknotting unseen strings. “You’re coming with me tonight. Equinox, full moon – and 13 women. But let’s just walk and look – learn what really attracts you. What you really want to be.”

We wandered and wondered. I spoke of loving silks, satins, velvet and fur. Of glowing colours.

It’s midnight – and I’m promised that after the pain I’ll be Rosalie. Joy. Maybe Rosalie Joy?! Please?

Annis Thilykos approximately translates to Female Wisdom

Coincidence, Luck or Fate?

The Fates of the ancient Greeks plotted and wove the threads of mankind. The Furies dealt with the tangles caused by the choices of those mere mortals. [Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos; Tisiphone, Alecto, Megaera]. You meddle with Fate and Fury alike at the risk of them noticing you. That’s a real risk.

------------------------------
I’ve always been a man’s man. Beer, (well, any sort of alcohol), late nights out with the boys, cars, sport (absolutely any sort of sport but actually taking part not so much just watching), girls (real or if not then imaginary), lots of talking about sex again (that’s to say talking about it again). You know what I mean.

Women and girls had no big interest for me. Nor even ladies (if there actually are any ladies, I too rarely met any who could be labelled thus). I spent more energy on wine and song than I ever did on women. I saw them as a necessary inconvenience, no that’s too blunt. I like women but I can’t seem to generate any rapport with them. Somehow, what I do and how I am just doesn’t make it happen that they become interested in me or that I become interested in them.

Friendly women did and do exist. I enjoy them but turning them into ‘more than friends’ ...or intimate friends or getting to have sex, let alone, getting to have a meaningful relationship including sex – that didn’t happen.

They were an occasional interest to replace far too much masturbation. So I was a loner, an ex-geek with minimal social skills, not many friends and too much time on my hands (so to speak). If I had been named Simon, I knew that if someone talked about Simple Simon, somehow the label would attach to what I did or how I behaved. Instead I was Jude – and after a while, everyone gave me the label I had at school especially by those who had never read the book - ‘Jude the Obscure’.

My job was a good one working at a metals dealership in the city. It paid excellently and had allowed me to take on a super flat in Docklands overlooking the Thames. I lived well, worked hard, played hard and thought myself to be a top man. Except when I looked a little harder at my childhood ambitions and realised by how much I had failed so far to achieve any of my aims. I was not a millionaire. I was not surrounded by gorgeous women. I was not in a solid relationship with a comfortable home and the promise of a future. I didn’t have a job that I enjoyed. I wasn’t recognised as being ‘good value’ or even as a ‘solid citizen’. I was beneath notice. Not beneath contempt - but even that didn’t happen. Nobody noticed me for good or bad.

I had listened too often to Arlo Guthrie’s FBI song – Y’now you think ‘I’m doing better than he is’ and he may be thinking ‘I’m doing better than HE is’ ... just think of the last man – he’s so alone in the world he doesn’t even have a street to lay in for a truck to run him over.’

It was yet another Friday evening after work. I had spent too long in the bar with my not-so-mates from work. I had drunk more than I needed and quite often I had built myself up to think about chatting up again the lovely woman I could see at the end of the bar. Yeah, the sentence should have been written ‘thinking again’, duh, not ‘chatting up again’.

Back in the wine bar, I did it. I actually did. I actually managed to walk more or less casually towards her and say ‘Would you allow me to buy you a drink, madam.”

Oh the suavity, the style, the skill, the success – not.

“Spouting polite words from a dribbling mouth is not how you should ask a lady to give you a moment of her attention!” The words were not said with any especial venom or dislike – but every syllable she uttered made it clear that I was barely a fraction above contempt.

“I beg pardon, lady.” I offered a hifalutin’ attempt at a verbal grovel. It was wasted.

Even her reply was weary. “I’m tired, fed up and mildly irritated. I haven’t the energy to teach you better manners and barely the willingness even if I had the energy. You tire me. Go away.”

I went. But only as far as the seat near the fireplace. From there I kept an eye on her. Was I being hopeful? Was I being stupid? I just needed to do it.

Over the next hour, several other men approached her. It was evident from their reaction that she rebuffed them with considerably more severity than I had been subject to. I wondered why she stayed if this was what she endured more than occasionally.

As the maybe seventh hopeful suitor ( I’d lost count) departed with his tail between his legs, I caught her eye and raised my glass. If I had hoped for a flicker of grateful response then that was not what I got. The glare, the acid tinged rebuke that I knew was on her lips – I didn’t stay.

----------------------------------------

It was more than a month before I saw her again. I had had a better week and a less strenuous evening so decided to tempt fate when I saw her sitting alone at the bar. I made my way to her, more carefully and cautiously than before.

“This evening, would the offer of a drink be taken more agreeably – or shall I leave before my request is spoken?”

“This evening, young man, you may attend with greater ease and even confidence than before. I am tired but not as last time and my irritation levels are merely at a low simmer.”

I have no idea why, but I tried once more to be stylish in my reply. “That can be how a week comes to an end – when tasks are not quite complete, deadlines are stretched, inconsiderate bosses have been pulling from above and ineffectual underlings have been pushing from below and we will not mention the customer who allegedly must be always right.”

A flicker of a smile might have touched her lips – but not her eyes. “With a glib and perhaps rehearsed phrase, you do cover the salient points of an irritated state which is spoiling my preference for TGIF. I am grateful it’s Friday but I could be more pleased and I could be more pleasant company.”

“Then I won’t take up any more of your time. But I will offer my card so that, at a better time, we might share a libation.”

“You talk of a libation? To which gods might that be offered?”

“Take your pick, Ahriman to Zeus via Ishtar, Moloch and Zebedee. I do not believe the myths and legends and, to be a little more blunt about so-called gods and their man-created rules, I care not for much other than ‘Do as You would be Done by’ as a motto for daily life and the majority of my ethics.”

“Bold words. Bold words. To give such little thought to the principles of life and to believe so little in the gods. And I further advise you that you should not mention any god lightly. To amend your Shakespeare, there are more gods in heaven and earth than you know.”

“I try to be kind, and tonight I judged that this night you might accept a little kindness.”

“You would be amazed how kindness can affect the threads of life.”

“Er, if I knew what that meant then I could continue this conversation.”

“Never mind. Tonight I thank you for your offer and say ‘maybe next time’. And here is my card.“

Taking the order to depart as unspoken but immediate, I took the card and began to walk away admiring the calligraphy and the overall quality. Stylish, bold, impressive and feminine were the words that came to mind. A different corner of my mind murmured ‘how accurate, how suitable’.

Megan Fury of AMT Assessment Bureau, with telephone and email. I noticed that there was no address and raised an eyebrow and turned half-back.

The lady, Megan, murmured “We tend not to put an address. This ensures that we attend our clients rather than they approach us.”

I completed my turn and spoke again with a hint of a question in my tone. “But you have enough clients to give you the need to, let’s say, unwind at the end of a week?”

“The end of the week can coincide with the ending of sufficient tasks, that’s true. And some tasks, to use your phrase - 'let’s say’- are more rewarding than others. We, that is, myself and my two sisters, do take considerable care both with our assessment and our judgement.”

“Do you have any special talents that put you into your particular line of business?”

“Oh, yes, dear boy. We have years of experience even in realms no longer visited by most people. Years of experience in places and with people beyond the understanding of ordinary folk.”

Some of her phrasing was kind of exotic.

“But enough of this pleasantry for tonight. I am wearied of this idle chatter and you would not wish to be near me were I to demonstrate my irritation. For thy sake, get thee hence and wait for a more suitable occasion. I know that there will be one such but not for a while. Depart, Mr Jude Mansfield.”

“With an instruction that, er, explicit, I hear and obey, Lady Megan. Until a later time. As I depart, I shall wonder how you knew my name.”

“Perhaps you gave me your card on a previous occasion. Or I have resources unbeknown.”

I knew that I had only ever met her once before – and I had not given her my card.

Time passed.
----------------------------------------

I went on with my life. Work was alright, edging towards unsatisfactory. My boss was a woman and, for some reason, she was getting to dislike me more and more by the day. It had started some months ago. By hindsight, there was an opportunity for a opening, albeit junior, in the department and I learnt that her sister had applied expecting to get the job. Somehow there was also a rumour that I was expected to leave soon. This would have ensured both instant promotion and better salary for those around and below me. And yet I had no plans to leave.

Gradually, it became obvious that my work was being very harshly assessed. Good work was claimed as hers by my boss, Ms Gail Moss. Bad work by her was blamed on me. It wasn’t good. I did overhear her one day complaining as she left the office. “I hate men working for me. I so much prefer to work with women. And that Jude – sometimes I’d swear he’s a woofter. His gestures – sometimes. And he talks better than I do – I really don’t need many more reasons to stitch him up. I give him a couple of months – max.”

I did not like hearing that.

I began to find myself commenting on the situation. “I’m really feeling under pressure. In some circumstances, no, not some circumstances. She’s taking ordinary office politics into actual bullying and abuse. I can’t do anything about it. She’s doing things that are adequately satisfactory for the company and her bosses but completely out of order as regards being a human. If I had a chance to teach her a thing or two – wouldn’t I go for it. But perhaps not so much retaliation or revenge, just showing her the error of her ways.’

----------------------------------------

Then, just days later, I overheard another couple of friends at the office coffee-bar – at least I thought they were friends. It took some time to realize that they were talking about me.

“What’s up with all these rumours. The Tornado’s been making some really blunt comments about one of her staff. He can’t be as bad as she says. He was okay until she arrived. It can’t be her, as she’s got a fantastic reputation. Even if it’s just a personality conflict, something’s going to have to give. And that means he’ll go rather than her.” Much later I realized that The Tornado referred to Gail - that was the quality of office humour.

“I don’t really care about her or him. I’m more worried about the undercurrent that the whole company is under threat. Chuck says there’s been some iffy advice from Tornado’s department and he’s out for blood. “ I didn’t hear any more as they moved out of earshot.

----------------------------------------

About a month or nearly two went past. Another evening came and my circumstances had altered greatly. My job had come to an end as the company teetered on the edge of bankruptcy after a series of disastrous speculations. My boss had continued her manipulations and ensured that I was going to be one of the first to get the push. My flat had depended on the income I had been making. So of the major planks to a person’s life, both work and home were no longer existent.

I had grown up with a belief that a man’s life is better structured if he has all the available scaffolding to both hold him up or to catch him if one segment fails. Family, Job, Finances, Social, Local and so on. Several of my parents’ friends had died and, too often, part of their diagnosis had been ‘there’s nothing to keep us going now that everything has fallen apart’.

My parents had died, one of a heart attack, the other of boredom within the year. Siblings had I none. Cousins neither as both parents had only unwed siblings who failed at any physical bastardry, being merely bastards by attitude and habit. I did not care for them and our lives barely touched.

No job so no finances; no house so no base or location; no family so no backup ……

My social life, already poor, had disintegrated with the decline in cash. I had never realized how much and how many of my friends had, in effect, been bought. My semi-regular rugby involvement had gradually faded as I took out my anger on colleagues and opponents alike. I really don’t know why I even bothered to go back to that bar. Oh yes, I had been promised a casual interview to see how I was getting along – or not.

And there at the bar, was Megan Fury. Looking directly at me as if I was expected and awaited.

“I’ve been waiting. There’s a time and a place – and, for you, this is it. My, er, cousins have spent more time on your relatively insignificant thread than we would ever have expected. We’re experts in what we do. Usually, a significant thread can be seen from far away, it has a texture and a colour so much more alive than those around. Insofar as one could argue that a quantity of threads makes a tapestry – that is how it usually happens.”

“But your thread is ‘different’ and we have spent time assessing it. There is no way to call what you contribute ‘significant’ either as a typical and ordinary thread let alone as a worthwhile part of any tapestry. You are closest to a mere danglement perhaps, not quite a simple loose thread but little different. Although somehow strangely close to a small tangle. We are not certain that we understand all the possibilities. Perhaps, I should say, we do not understand the possibilities yet. Time has a way of unfolding and re-organising all the options so that they can be seen more clearly. But we believe that there is a tipping point in the near future.”

I said before that her phrasing and wording was exotic. This was babble. Exotic babble.

She paused yet before I could speak she continued, “Are you aware of any imminent changes in your life, young man?”

“No. My life is about as dull as it could be. No excitement and minimal likelihood of change. The recent decline in my fortune shows no sign of imminent improvement in any aspect."

Her next question took me aback. “Did you ever decide which god was worthy of your offered libation?”

“I never realised that you were in any way being serious about that comment.”

“Another has written ‘a god’s most potent curses can come by way of a casual prayer'.”

“I don’t pray.”

“What, you never wish for anything. You never wonder ‘What if that happened’? You never think ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if’. You never say, ‘Oh god, I wish such and such hadn’t happened’. Each of those can be taken as a prayer by a wandering wondering god. You never wished for retribution? You never wished for the woman who abused you at work to ‘get her comeuppance? You never thought ‘sometime if I’m in a position to do the same to you? Never anything like that, mmm?

What had she said ‘ The God’s most potent curses can arrive as an answer to prayer ……. But I hadn’t prayed, had I? And with my recent comments about ‘all the gods’, which one was likely to have answered. I think there’s trouble already happening or getting closer.

“You talk of gods differently from anyone I have ever met. Why do you do that?”

“In times past, I knew more gods and more about gods than I ever wished.”

“Should I be worried?”

“That is beyond any means I have of answering. I am no oracle, no caster of fortunes. There are times I can call on others of my family – and at such times, unusual things can happen. But I am not a granter of wishes, as such. Perhaps, more nearly, I have the ability to make things happen. Perchance to give people what they deserve or that which will make them more appreciative of their fortune. You could rather say that my choices for my clients often occur due to the wishes, hopes and even fears of others. And I misspoke when I said perchance – because I would not agree that chance is amongst the causes of my actions and decisions. It may be that it is chance that makes an event or a person noticeable – but there are limits to chance.”

Megan paused and I did not interrupt. “As I say, my kin can assist. My sister Alice or Tiffany, maybe or Chloe and Lecky. Some of my relatives have unusual names, perhaps eventually you may discern something from that. Fortune can be kindly or less so, Retribution similarly. “

Megan paused again and this time I thought it viable to speak. “So, you have less knowledge of such as Joy, Patience, Virtue, Honor ….?

“No, they are not amongst my kin. I could say we know of them but not as close kin. You might say they work for a different god.” Wow – the exotic babble factor was rising.

I lifted my hand to suggest that I had a question and would like to speak. I did it not as a child begging to be allowed to interrupt but – by hindsight - more as an equal participant in a complex discussion. “What are you thinking or planning when you say ‘there is a tipping point’ and ‘you have spent time looking at the differentness of my thread’. Should I be worried about what might happen? Is there someone who has offered prayers or as an alternative, a libation.”

“You concern yourself overmuch. There is little you could do about it were we so minded. But I recall your politeness and I can make you an offer. When you were young, about 10, I believe, you expressed a childish desire to your mother. How deep is that desire buried? Is it gone and forgotten? Or, would you absent your inner self from the outer Jude for which you are named in favour of the Judy you once wished to be? I fancy you ought to remember more about those days. Perhaps think about them as interesting times, and worthy of due consideration.”

I sat stunned. How could this woman know these things. It had been for a few short months only while spending the summer with my two neighbour‘s daughters, Grace and Joan.

“H… how did you know about Judy? Nobody but Joan and Grace know about her.”

“When you have a moment to think then perhaps the answer to that, and some more, will come to you. You are not going to get a direct answer from me. How I know no longer matters. To confuse you further, I don’t need your answer immediately. I suspect that you will be thinking about your answer for a while yet. Perhaps tonight, perhaps over the weekend. I suspect that you will find things to look at and people to talk to in the next few days who will help you make your mind up. I tend to have a way of knowing about things like that. And I have to tell you that one piece of your thread has been, er, untwisted during this conversation. What I expected from previous events was more akin to a passing of ships in the night – almost unseen, almost without communication. You have startled me, young Jude.”

It might have been my imagination, but I thought I heard the murmur of ‘Judy’ tied in with the word. “I haven’t got a clue what you mean about that. But going back, what did you mean about ’interesting times’ – that’s supposed to be a curse in Chinese culture?”

Her expression was strange. Perhaps a flicker of amusement, perhaps concern. She waved a hand and it seemed some of my concerns about what she had said faded. “Patterns change, now I feel that we’ll meet tomorrow, and mayhap one time more.” Were her parting words.

As I went home, my brain was in a complete twiddle. To suggest it was merely spinning and veering would have implied some sort of control over what it was doing. It was doing nothing as coherent or organised as mere spinning. How did she know about Judy? How did she know, as she seemed to, that I had barely thought about Judy for years. It had begun with Aunt Sylvia finding me wearing my mum’s undies.

===================== Flashback

What I remember is that Aunt Sylvia caught me wearing my Mum’s bra and panties. Wrong size, wrong shape, wrong everything – except I had wanted to try them. They called to me. But as soon as Auntie Sylvia saw me both she and the clothes screamed to be removed. But they had felt nice. Auntie was staying for a few weeks and I had got careless about my interest in Mum’s undies. And I had been interested in them for ages.

Even as a young child, I had been more at ease with girls than boys. As far as I could tell never with any enormous preference. When I was needed to do things with boys, I had little problem with behaving as a boy. When I had to do things with girls, then I think I behaved pretty much like one of them. To my young self and now even more so to my older self, I acted as if boys and girls under the age of about six or seven were very similar. Not exactly similar, of course, one group was more likely to run around and play with pretend guns and diggers, the other preferred to sit and play with dolls.

As I have grown and learnt, I realize that one group was primarily for Competitors (and not all of them would be boys) and one group was for Cooperators (and not all of them would be girls).

But that was back then. Years ago.

By the time I was 10 I had been ‘mostly boy’ for some years. The playing with girls had fallen away as I changed schools and we moved house. In those days, it was rare and very frowned-on to think or mention ‘being different’. And I had learnt that ‘being a bit of a girly boy’ was one of the worst sorts of difference to be.

But at the age of maybe 9, something happened, and I can’t remember the exact details, but I got interested in Mum’s panties. And trying on the bra followed a while later.

It didn’t take long to realize that Auntie had given Mum a hint about what I was doing. Hearing what my Mum said to me, clearly Auntie had said something like ‘I saw Jude looking at your underwear when he helped with the laundry’ rather than the exact truth. Thankfully Auntie had some willingness not to drop me in the deep and dirty.

This was confirmed when she left and I found a clean and folded pair of her panties under my pillow with a blank sheet of paper with a lipstick kiss on it. What was I supposed to think? What was I supposed to do? Well, yes, that meant that I thought about Judy for a while again. But eventually I threw the panties away and hoped that I would never be tempted again.

It was the next summer that I spent so much time with Joan and Grace. That turned into several complete weeks to begin with, then more nearly many days over several months of pleasant playtime with my friends – and often I would be Judy.

I must have been about 10 – the same age as them. My dad had been dangerously ill and Mum had to spend a lot of time looking after him. After a fortnight or so of me being ‘dropped off for the day’ at the neighbours – Mrs Harrison became Auntie Suzanne and I started staying more permanently. And with my mum being so tired, she forgot to leave a set of keys for me to get into the house for clean clothes. And I was a boy – so I got dirty. I never understood it. I think the girls did the same things as me but their whites would stay pristine and mine – not so. And sometimes I had brought no spares and sometimes too, as I said, my door was locked.

In a household of just women – Suzanne, Joan and Grace – there wasn’t a lot of choice about what to wear. And there was definitely no spare money. Going into town one day when I had got all dirty and was wearing my least dirty clothes, we passed a Charity shop and I said ‘perhaps they’ll have something I can use’. Auntie Suzanne was very firm that we ‘won’t be doing that’.

So, there were times when I had to wear clothes borrowed from Joan or Grace. They were very kind and didn’t complain that I was borrowing their clothes (and almost certainly making them dirty!). Sometimes we agreed that if I was dressing as a girl then that day, I’d do things that they wanted. And it kept my clothes cleaner too.

I had loved spending time with Joan and Grace. Playing tea-parties with their dollies, playing dress-up with their frills and frocks. I lost count of the times I said ‘come on, that’s enough’; ‘Think about something different’ ‘I’m not a little girl’; ‘I’ve never been a little girl’ and so on. But my comments had very little effect. I never actually wanted anything other than some people to play with. But Joan and Grace were the only children of my age anywhere nearby. There wasn’t a lot of choice. As they were girls, I often played girl games with them, and sometimes, even though it was 2 to 1, they played my games with me.

Was it just coincidence that the weather had been drab and dull for day after day and it had to be indoor games?

After dad got back and spent more weeks recovering before going back to his job, life went on. I found other things to do, other interests. I think, looking back, I’d never actually been that excited or even interested in the ‘dressing-up’. I’d been too young to get a sexual thrill out of it, no stiffy, no ejaculation that I recall. Perhaps I was just experimenting, wondering or even testing the limits.

I never needed to ‘talk it through’ with any sort of consultant or counsellor. So I never thought about it much. It was in the past and long gone. Why was I suddenly being reminded of those long ago days. Long ago and long forgotten.

But that night after seeing Ms Fury for the second time, I went home. And I couldn’t stop thinking about those days. Her words had really stirred me up. Old memories kept circling.

My now-tortured brain kept coming back to the days of Joan, Grace and Judy. I found that I was thinking of the clothes and how pretty they were. And how much fun I had playing girl games with them. Then I remembered later times.

Long-forgotten moments were popping into my memory. Times when I had found myself looking at girls and women. But not looking at them – looking at their clothes and wondering. Just wondering what it would feel like to wear something so pretty, so gorgeous, so feminine.

……………….. Now

On the way home from the winebar I found myself walking my usual route but noticing only the shops which catered for women. Hairdressers (6), Nailbars (3), Shoe shops (4), Lingerie Shops (2), Clothes shops (5), Department Stores (1). And I started wondering again. What would it be like to try, just try, some of these things.

And suddenly I was noticing only adverts with the same feminine themes – Perfume, Beauty, ‘Do you want to change your whole life in One Hour?’

Why had I never noticed all this. Usually I noticed the shops and the pubs and the bookies and the bloke stuff. What was different about tonight? Well, don’t be silly, of course, I knew one of the ‘differences’. Megan had me all worked up and worked over about my short time as Judy.

And some of the shops were eye-catching. I was finding myself interested in what was on display. I slowed down and looked more closely. Now I was including Jewellery shops, a Corset shop!, Tattoos for women (too many). And I was looking at the women who I went past in the street. And I wasn’t looking at them the way I used to.

In the past, I had been looking as a normal man – she’s pretty; she’s very pretty; she’s pretty enough to turn and check again; oh my, she’s beautiful and all the more basic versions all the way up to the 'testosterone-driven zero-brain-max-groin ‘I would fxxk that in an instant’.

Actually most men – no I can’t say that – many men take their excitement and interest little further than the three, five or maximum eight seconds for a pretty girl to hove into view and go past. Perhaps with oneself stationary and the target also stationary, say in a coffee bar or pub, there may be longer opportunities for eye-contact and eye-dalliance. But I believe not that many men actually think of passing women in terms of how soon they could fxxk a complete stranger. And actually I don’t want to know any who think that way.

And I think the sorts of men who do are not interested in fxxking – they are intent on power and the abuse of that power. I hope most men would disapprove very strongly of these fellow males. Having been brought up in a household with one of the key phrases being ‘Not Wrong Just Different’ – I truly felt that abuse came into the unsavoury category of ‘Not Different Just Wrong’.

But tonight I was looking at women with new eyes – almost as if I was doing it as a female. I was looking at their shoes for style and heel-height. I was admiring their stockings and the hem of their skirts. I was watching keenly for VPL and the hint of panties. I was always admiring how women can keep white trousers clean and pristine in almost all conditions. How do they do that?

I was paying close attention to their bras – how well did they fit? Was the sway of the mammary always a wonderful memory – or was too much just too much and too little just not enough. I wondered what it would feel like to have breasts. I found myself envying those with what I decided was the right size breast. I think I was focussing on the B and C cup mostly – but it’s not a question one often asks a perfect stranger – or even a close friend. Perhaps that’s why best mates are called bosom pals!

I wasn’t looking at them as sexual objects – what was wrong with me? I wasn’t even looking at their individual components for the possible sexual urge or surge that might give me – their breasts, groins, lips, hair, bums, that is all the bits I might fantasize about. I was looking at them as people, as individuals. What was wrong with me, I wondered again?

Each step closer to home, I found myself wondering about the feminine aspects of a person. What made a person male or female? I had read enough about the vagaries of physicality to accept that intersexed babies were enormously more common than people thought (they 'knew' such 'ungodly mistakes' were incredibly rare, ha); Or than the medical profession had ever accepted (very rare). Or than the Bible allowed for (no mention). Although perhaps there was an allowable view that modern diagnosis and decades of weird chemicals MIGHT have caused an increase. Whatever, I had no strong views on gender or even sexuality.

I knew that some of my friends were lesbian, that some were homosexual, that two were significantly into BDSM and that one had been abused as a teenager by her father. I knew that I twitched the first few times that Jack introduced Kelvin as ‘my husband’ rather than ‘my partner’. I knew this because Jack often reminded me. It had amused him that my efforts to be open-minded and tolerant were so easily undermined.

But then I began to wonder in the same way about ALL the differences, all the minorities that were now increasingly seen as ‘Different and possibly acceptable’.

Transgender, Transexual, Transvestite ….. all these used to be words of contempt, hatred and abuse – but now, Wow. It was amazing how often there were references to famous ‘celebrity’ trans people – Caitlin Jenner; Andrea Pejic as she now was and there were a lot more. I remembered dad being perplexed at how a favourite musician, Walter Carlos, had become Wendy. Confusing. But not as rare as people once thought. Certainly not as rare as the ‘normals’ wanted to believe.

And that was just one part of the re-assessment of Gender. Everything, well almost everything was being seen as no longer Black-White but part of a spectrum. There were perhaps philosophical debates which came down to black-v-white but physical and mental and emotional issues. Nowadays – so often a spectrum.

My mind diverted to identify some of the issues which were still Black and White. Angrily, nastily, venomously so in some cases. Democrat v Republican; Abortion v Never; Irish Protestant v Catholic; perhaps Pro-EU v Anti; Vegan v Rest of the World; Shia v Sunni; Muslim v The Rest; Arab v Israeli.

I remembered a map of Europe with all the ‘countries’ that wanted secession, Basques, Scots, Flemish; twenty or thirty examples – all hating their overlords. I remembered bits of Tom Lehrer singing in the 1960s, ‘All the white folks hate the black folks, and right folks hate the wrong folks ..... and everybody hates the Jews – but now it’s National Brotherhood Week …..’

Due to a recent discussion, my mind brought up the issue of Hunting v ‘Aren’t Foxes Sweet’; and others. By the time my mind had considered the hunting issue and my friends who HATED the film Bambi because every city-dweller went ‘Oh you can’t kill Bambi’ rather than the more balanced view ‘Deer are unbalancing the forests and a goodly percentage are no more than vermin!!’ - well, by then, I had thought quite enough about the ugliness of black-white issues.

So, I went back to thinking about spectrums. Male Female – I relabelled this as Masculine and Feminine and decided that 100% of either was extreme and that exactly 50/50 was also rather unlikely. In my mind, the usual so-called ‘normal’ breast-shaped curve rebuilt itself into a truly breast-shaped pair. So much for the simple labels of biblical Gender, I mused.

My mind then did the same with Sexuality. My deep knowledge of humankind ignored the enormous pressure of the minority LGB brigade to think ‘most people (even if the LGB disapprove) are heterosexual’. Some people are LGB and a mostly-ignored group are bisexual. I then realized that almost all the data I had ever read about was deeply biased by one or other group in its own favour. The LGB exaggerate their numbers and ‘They’ (the so-called normal members of society who are ‘in charge’) exaggerate to reduce minority pressure.

Recollecting the sex scandals of the late 2017s in Britain and the many other improprieties demonstrated by other elite people – politicians, celebrities etc – I thought ‘there’s going to be a lot of people who say ‘do as I say not as I do’. Sneering hypocrites – too many of them. Ha.

Looking at the available data and the often biassed anecdata, I saw another breast-shaped pairing for the Hetero-Homo graph. I tried to visualise this as a three-dimensional model with the two largest components being Heterosexual-Masculine and Heterosexual-Feminine. But my brain was unused to the exercise of thinking in 3D – so I had a coffee. And kept thinking.

I then made a mistake – I thought about ‘where do I fit’. And I thought about the likely graph for ‘Sexual Activity’. I couldn’t find anything of value on the web. I decided that there was unlikely to be a dip at the midpoint as most people would believe their frequency to be ‘average or a bit more’. So there would be ‘Rare / Asexual; Normal and Very Frequent / Pansexual on a graph of the so-called ‘normal’ shape.

This triple multi-dimensional model of Gender – Sexuality – Frequency was far beyond my capability to visualise. Oh dear. But it had made me think. Where was I on my impossible-to-visualise graph?.... a predominantly masculine ( I decided), predominantly heterosexual (I was sure) too rarely active (I knew THAT). I muddled about for a while on those thoughts. I had no experience, not even minor experimentation, with bisexuality. I wasn’t aware of any specifically feminine characteristics. I didn’t think I was inordinately macho or driven by testosterone so I MUST have some flexibility towards the feminine – but how much. That was a question I couldn’t even begin to answer. I guessed and allocated myself what I thought would be a reasonable 90-10 location on the graphs.

I got home and wasted sheets of paper and some computer time trying to draw my graphs. Then I had a large drink of wine and fell asleep. I did have some weird dreams.

In the dream I remembered best, I was seated with a group of six women in a semi-circle in front of me. They asked ‘Who are You?’ ‘How do you know?’ and ‘Why did you do this?’. Countless questions and yet it seemed they were always considering my answers very thoroughly. Even in my sleep, it felt exhausting. And I certainly woke up feeling that I had not had a good night’s sleep.

To my startlement, as I set off to begin another wasted day looking for a job, Ms Fury stepped away from a well-polished car and lifted a hand to catch my attention. “Mr Mansfield, a moment of your time, if you please.”

Well, I was certainly not doing anything which couldn’t be put off for a minute, a day or a decade. “Lady Megan, I am yours to command.”

“You offer to let me command you. You know not what you do. You should be more cautious with language where you attempt to impress without knowing the true power of words. Belike you will learn better.”

“Belike?”

“There is no need to wonder if perchance I use an archaic phrase. I learnt your language long ago, sometimes I use old words. Sometimes it causes infelicity when I use a word which has changed or lost its meaning – mayhap such as ‘belike’. But I tease you and I shouldn’t. I may not tell you what you should do but I suggest, as strongly as I may, that you go to the shop at the end of the high street and ask about the job there.”

“How will I know which shop?”

“You’ll know.”

I turned at a sudden noise behind me. When I turned back, Megan was gone. Surely, there hadn’t been time for her to get out of sight that quickly. Another puzzle. But the pressure of a job, of some faint chance of an income – that drove me forward to a future.

I wandered up the lane, noticing again the quantity of woman-oriented shops. I was now even including florists along with the clothes, shoes, handbags, beauty and hair and nail salons. None of them were advertising for staff - as if I would be even looking at getting a job at any of those!

I didn’t even notice any other shops or any other adverts. There wasn’t even one of those up-the-stairs personnel agencies – promising so much and, by what little I knew, delivering, um, variable quality.

So I kept going until the last shop which was the local medium-sized department store. And they WERE advertising for a job. Store Detective. What? Me?? But I didn’t have a job – and …… yet.

I went in and asked about the job. I was told to wait and someone from management would be down to see me. I said I would have a wander round the shop to see what was what. The girl said that she would expect the people upstairs to arrive either in a minute or in quarter of an hour. I took her hint and waited for a minute or so …… nobody arrived so I set off.

Blow me down, if I didn’t walk round the corner to see a woman sliding a necklace into her bag. What to do? No staff around to ask. I waited and watched. I saw the girl I had spoken to nearby and waved to get her attention. Just at that moment, the woman – a very smartly dressed woman aged about 40 – move towards the doors. I hesitated,

Decision made.

I followed her to the door and once she was outside, I said, “Excuse me madam, I’m sorry but I think I saw ….” I got no further than she began to run and – smack – into a boy on a bicycle. Of course, he shouldn’t have been on the pavement but it gave me an opportunity.

“Oh dear, madam. Oh please come back into the store where you can sit and catch your breath. Do you need any medical attention? Have you scraped yourself? Can I call someone for you?” By this point there was a crowd around including two of the store staff.

I took a risk while various helpers fluttered around. “Is there anyone I can call for you? Where do you live? Can I call someone?” And while making it look like I was being useful I dropped her handbag. Ooops.

“Oh no. I’m so sorry.” But all of a sudden, one of the girls piped up, “Excuse me, madam, but I don’t remember selling one of those necklaces today.”

The lady bluffed. “I bought it last week and it needs adjusting on the catch.”

“Oh, well that’s alright then. Come to the counter and we’ll see what can be done.” I didn’t know that that necklace had only arrived in the store the day before.

The ‘lady’ was escorted to the counter and the questions began. “Do you have the receipt?”

“'No', oh dear. Oh well, items of this value, we record the purchaser’s name and address.”

“Oh, you bought it at a different store in the group. Which one, can you remember?”

“I’m not sure that that particular store stocks this item. Can you hold on a minute?” The lady started up from her chair but, strangely, the other assistant seemed to have her by the arm.

“Mrs Jackson, I don’t think you’re going anywhere today. We’ve got your mugshot up in the office. We’ve got the police on their way. And to coin a phrase – you’re going to be nicked.”

“Well done, team. A good piece of work.”

I began to walk away, well more accurately, I began to slide into the background. Then Mrs Jackson blurted out. “It was that damned young man. He’s the one who stopped me.”

The two girls and the manager who had arrived just in time for the coup-de-grace blinked. Who? What?

“He’s nothing to do with us!” The manager beckoned me over, “Could you tell us exactly what happened, in your own words. I suspect the company will offer you some sort of reward. That’s a very expensive necklace and you’ve helped catch a notorious thief. She’s a regular along the whole south coast. Why, we may be able to keep her locked up for, ooh, several months this time.”

I began to explain. “I came here because a friend said I might get a job. I asked, was told to wait and took a stroll around the store. I turned the corner and saw your thief slide a necklace into her bag. I followed her while trying to attract the attention of one of your staff. Then she ran – bang into the kid on the bike – and here we all are.” See – I kept it simple.

“You’re wanting a job?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here. You’re advertising for a store detective.”

“Well. You’ve certainly shown that you can do some of that job. Come with me and I’ll see if we can do better for you than that.”

Wow.

“I’m going to see what there is. With the willingness to bend the rules as you’ve just shown. I mean, you must have known that you had no authority to stop the woman. She’ll tell some enormous lies about you. Did you know that you pushed her to the floor, slapped her, kicked her – that’s what she’ll say.”

“I think we might be lucky enough that at least one of the passersby is a friend of mine called Megan. She saw it all and will confirm that all I did was begin to speak and she turned and ran. Into the bike, as I said.” I had seen Megan in the crowd and somehow knew that she was there for exactly that reason. Wooh – am I getting psychic all of a sudden.

By now, we had reached his office. Adam Doulton – Assistant Manager – said the nameplate.

“I’m glad you’ve turned up. I think we’ll have you being a store detective for a few days – this’ll help you learn the layout, meet some of the people, get a feel for the place. By the end of the week, we can have had a few chats about where you’d like to be, where we think you might fit in, see what flexibility there is for both if us. But I like it that you think fast and that you felt involved enough to do the right thing for a shop where you had no relationship, no need to do anything for us. I like that. Does that sound interesting? Do you want to start on this rather informal basis?”

“I’d like a notion of the pay I’d be getting, the terms and so on. And apart from watching for thieves I have no idea what a store detective does. Do I get any training?”

“For today, no. Just learn what is where and keep your eyes open. If you fluke another catch like Mrs Jackson then I’d be amazed but, hey, that’s life isn’t it. I’d suggest you try and find the four richest sites in the store where there’s high value goods and what you think is poor security. Sometimes, all we need is common sense. And the benefit of new eyes.”

I set off. I had a map of the store and thought – jewellery, fur, small valuables – oh high-tech, phones and computer accessories, shoes maybe. By the end of the day, talking with my new friends Elly and Cyn (‘spelt C y n, darling but I prefer Sin’) I was finding out that cosmetics, razors and even babyfood were stolen.

I was told ‘People see them as overpriced but necessary and – ooops – some have fallen into my bag. Oh, really, my bag is lined to prevent the tags being noticed? I never knew that’. Give us patience please. So you go ‘You’re stealing and you’re banned and your ID will be circulated in the town and 20 miles around’, and they bluster and promise never to do it again. ‘It was just a momentary temptation. I’m poor. my children, my leg, my deaf mother, my dying cat’ …. We’ve heard it all. And probably one in a hundred is telling some sort of truth. You’ll learn.”

Elly joined in. “So how was it today? I gather you did score a second hit in the ladies department. How come?”

“Again, it was a fluke. I was just wandering around and nearly bumped into a young girl. Being a bloke like wot I am, I couldn’t help noticing that she was wearing a pretty blue dress and a bag which very nearly matched. I wasn’t making an effort to keep an eye on her, but I went past the counter and she said, ‘Well, thanks for your help, but I haven’t found anything I like yet. And I saw she was now wearing a belt and had a different bag in pale brown. So, bingo. Turned out she had three bras on, three pairs of panties, a load of expensive perfume and ….. well, you can guess. I’m flavour of the day.”

“Of the day? Of the month! We haven’t had so much to talk about since Miss Thompson got locked into the storeroom while she was working late on the stocktake.” Cyn giggled.

Being a busybody – and with nothing else to do that evening, I went on the web. ‘What are the best targets for shoplifters?' I was wrong. The first page said The shoplifters of today aren't necessarily looting diamond jewellery or high-end electronic products. They're looking for products that are compact, reasonably costly and can be sold for near-retail prices. Also, shoplifting today is a much larger industry than you might think, with many shoplifters selling their products to other companies that then go online to resell these items at discounted prices. Many of the most commonly stolen products are perhaps some of the most everyday items you could imagine, far from those classic stereotypes we all call up when we think of retail theft. The site listed Razors, Electric Toothbrushes, Perfumes, Designer Clothes & Shoes, Alcohol and Luxury Meat!

There were a few surprises. I did think that meat must be for personal consumption as what would it be like after a few hours outside the chiller. Yuk. Another told me The US National Association for Shoplifting Prevention estimates that shoplifters are reportedly only caught about every 50 times they shoplift; by then, a regular shoplifter has already stolen around $2,000 worth of goods.

Personally, being the sort of guy who plays with numbers , I couldn’t believe that the average lift was as little as $40 a time.

The next morning, I asked two girls in the perfume section what was the longest anyone stayed in their area ‘just looking’. They said that the main rush was at lunchtime and just after work but most came in, tried one or two and bought their usual – about 8 minutes for most of them. There were only a few who stayed longer than quarter of an hour. I said, how about I aim to come round three times an hour or so.

I talked with Mr Doulton and he pointed out the layout of the perfume section and said, you could probably do these two ends and the main section separately. So, for today, just keep circling, a few minutes at a time then off to some other department, change your jacket, and loop around. Since it’ll only be for fifteen, twenty minutes at a time, just pick up a jacket or whatever in the men’s department, get it swiped out and then hand it back in later.”

The rhythm of the day was set. I moved around trying to keep a low profile. And, to my amazement, to everybodys’ amazement I caught another 2 lifters. Both at the perfume counter, and one also wearing designer shoes unpaid for. Four in two days – nobody could believe it.

The next day I was told to try some other departments. Menswear – no success. Sports – no success.

Fourth day – back in womenswear and cosmetics – another hit. Cyn joked that perhaps I had a magic eye that only worked for women. We all took it as a joke. But it must have been true. I was getting a reputation for catching thieves – just female words in female departments.

By the next week, Mr Doulton had me moving around the departments and working the tills, tidying up stock, filling shelves, learning the various jobs. But time after time, while I was doing the same range of jobs in each department – it was only in the woman-oriented areas that I had any sales success. I sold a fur coat that had been on the rack for ‘a long time’. I sold a dress to a woman who apparently had a well-earned reputation for being picky.

And it continued to be almost completely in the womens’ departments that I caught naughty people. Except for the two girls stealing top-end trainers for their men. Gotcha.

Elly was the one who made the suggestion. “If you’re only successful in the ladies departments – we’re going to have to think about how you present. Some of the customers are going to be a bit, er, cautious or even put-off by being served by a young man.”

Cyn looked very thoughtful at this. Should I have been worried?

Wilchester isn’t a large town so I shouldn’t have been surprised that my ex-boss eventually came into the store.

She didn’t recognise me. Why should she. Like most people, someone known but in a wrong context – the link to memory is broken. And her view of me had been totally office-oriented.

But despite her nastiness, when I could have felt furious, malevolent and determined to do unto her what she did unto me …… I felt calm. Not kind, I’ll agree with that. But there was also a voice whispering ‘if she’s stupid and unkind to you, will she be stupid and unkind to others’.

So I watched very carefully. I could not believe what I saw. Unlike many of the lifters I had already come across, she wasn’t furtive or secretive. She simply picked up items and put them in her bag as if it was completely natural. It was one of our store bags – so clearly a pre-planned manoeuvre. And even more fortunately, it was a design of bag that had been replaced three days before. Ooops.

I knew that there would be repercussions if I was in any way involved – so I used one of my signals to call for help. I dropped my set of silver bangles. They made a loud clangle as designed. Not enough to distress our potential customers but enough to get one of the assistants to come and ‘help the clumsy customer’. I whispered to Elly, for it was she, “Lady in Mid-Blue skirt and grey top, naughties in the bag – old bag too.”

This made Elly snigger. My boss wasn’t an old bag – being a mere early forties. But she was about to be done. Yum.

She hadn’t done particularly much with us – but her car was full of loot, both her passengers were carrying. Her house was chock-full of stolen goods – who needs 16 iphones in their boxes. And both her passenger’s houses had more of the same.

It was never clear why they had gone into crime in such a big way. All of them had respectable jobs with well-earning husbands. But, once at the police station they began to talk – and golly did they talk. They steadily worked thought a list of sins primarily involving greed, jealousy, ambition and pride. Then they went into amazing details of the actual criminal misbehaviours they had eventually indulged in. These ranged from abuse, domestic violence, actual bodily harm, driving while under the influence, theft, taking without consent – dates, times, locations. ‘As if they had been taking truth-drugs’ was what the police sergeant said. He said there was very little the police needed to do apart from verify much of the self-incrimination. Most of the proof was sitting there.

And then it got into the news. Clearly, Miss Moss Messed up – and indeed the main headline was Miss Moss’s Mess. I almost kept a copy and framed it. But I had never been one to gloat if someone screwed up. For her, I did feel that she had got nothing like the disasters she had forced on so many others. But she had, in effect, lost the jobs of some 120 people. As a result, I knew that some would lose their houses, their marriages, their self-respect. On that basis, some years in prison seemed quite light. Even a long way short on the Scales of Justice.

As for what else came out at the trial, prim Miss Moss was a construct, a lie. She was on her second husband – the first having departed under vague circumstances. And, no, she hadn’t confessed to being part of that; except insofar as she was an enthusiastic adulterer, a bully at home and ever keen to empty a wandering wallet of his contents.

My reputation as the Woman-Catcher became a well-known secret in the company.

Shortly afterwards I got a postcard from some Greek island. It was signed Meg Fury to my surprise. Only a few words. “I heard about your ex-boss. Jealousy, envy and greed. Her new life is a Fated repayment for such deeds. As for you, the tangle unwinds and changes arrive.” The last sentence worried me a bit, Megan’s occasional involvement had been so, um, strange. And it was weird that the ‘fated’ had that Capital.

It was a day or so later that my heavily loaded bookshelf tottered and tipped its load. One book fell open at a page describing the Fates and the Furies.

There are Three Furies : Megaera deals with jealousy and envy, and punishes people who commit relevant crimes, especially marital infidelity;

Alecto's task is castigating the moral crimes (such as anger) of humans;

Tisiphone punished crimes of murder: parricide, fratricide and homicide.

The Fates are better-known with Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos; the Spinner of Threads, the Measurer and the Cutter.

Had I been closer than I would have dared to such a one? There were just too many coincidences. Megan Fury – I wondered. With her sisters Alice and Tiffany. AMT Assessment Bureau. How many coincidences could there be in a short period of one’s life?

Cross-Over Day at school

Cross-Over Day is a fertile place for real change. Children change at such a rate from their first days that magic-type changes can seem not that unusual. Some changes just have to happen. Even without magic.

An AP-500 story

---

I wanted a change. I didn’t dislike me – but I felt no vim, no eagerness. I was …. uninteresting – even to myself.

So – Cross-Over Day. I could be like many of the common herd and not bother. Or I could take a risk. But it was only two years until the end of school – two Cross-Over Days where I could be bold and different without any repercussion. What was I going to do?

I thought about the opposite of bookish, skinny, short-haired boy; each adjective one by one. Boy – Girl!! That decision surprised me but made the next choices more obvious. Bookish – Stupid. Skinny – Curvaceous. Short-haired – Long-haired. I thought about other words that could apply and wondered at how I had become trapped within my willingness to hide from ‘them’. Withdrawn – Outgoing; Cautious – Open; Grey - Colourful.

I was going to have to be a stupid, curvaceous, long blonde, smiling, bouncy …. a bimbo. How dreadful.

But in a weird way – the amount of change I was going to have to do to myself actually felt exciting. An opportunity. I wondered if I could get help from anybody. But I didn’t really feel that I had any friends to ask. Were there any good-enough friends? Any? I sat back and thought awhile.

Would Emily help. We had done a few things together. We were both in the hideaway below-the-radar nerd group. I could at least ask.

Amazing.

Emily had been thinking the same. She said ‘I’m tired of being me. I’m tired of avoiding the haters by being flat and dull and drab. I want a change as much as you. As you say -– bold, colourful, enthusiastic. Everything I’m not.“

Well, we talked for hours about breaking out of our self-imposed shells. Eventually, Emily said, “We’re going to have to get my sister involved. She works for the local theatre and’s bound to have some ideas on camouflage, disguise and costume”

“I think that sounds like ‘let’s take a deep breath and, um, see what happens’.”

“Are you up for it. Really up for this. We’re taking a bit of a risk and ….. y’know, it could go wrong.”

“Oh bollo. It’s Cross-Over Day. As long as we stand up for ourselves and are ready with a few prepared witticisms for the stupids, then we’ll be ok.”

“Are we going to tell the parent-units? Or anyone at school?”

“Probably. And no. Though we could deliver a letter to our class-teacher as a backup.”

“Agreed. So, we need to plan and start getting comfortable as Bimbi.”

“Em – like how?”

“Going to town, over in Borchester. You need everything – in case you’re so blonde you’ve forgotten – that means – shoes two, pop-sox pack, panties pack, cami, bra, fillers, blouses two, skirts two and maybe a dress. Some makeup and a wig. Only set you back a couple of hundred? Are you still up for it?”

I considered the new aspect of cost. Choice – to change or go dull-drab-grey forever. Decision .

“Yes.”

An AP 500 word story (basic text) for anyone to adapt, rewrite or build on. Thanks

Synopsis

"Madeleine is fed up with her revolting cousin Peter. He teases her for crying like a baby. She decides that if the cap fits, he will wear it."

Notes

The SisterDom is a group of wonderful women who know that it is important to help their men to access and release their inner girlhood. These women are willing to train and transition their new-girls using a variety of simple techniques, sometimes with a touch of ‘domination’ and strong encouragement. Characters do overlap from story to story.

============================

My name is Angela Winter. I'm a teenage girl with a younger sibling called Alan. We live in Swandon. You probably won't be able to believe what happens here, because it looks like a perfectly ordinary town. Since we arrived not quite two years ago, I have learnt about the most amazing things. I've discovered that there are women who enjoy having their men dress up in skirts and frilly undies. Some of these are mothers doing it to their children, others are aunts and nieces, or wives and husbands, sisters and brothers too. I've learnt that these transformed males are called new-girls, gurls, bois, or 'sisters'. There are people who offer training programs and all sorts of other surprises.

I know which shops will be 'helpful' to mothers who want to train their sons into corsets, for example. I even have a corset of my own, just to prevent Annette having the smallest waist. As you read this special journal, you will find all sorts of ordinary words have special meanings in this new world of Transformation, SisterDom and Girlhood. Sometimes, I put these in quotes to make it extra obvious.

This section of the diary is from a few months back.

Maddie and I talked often about the disgusting Peter. We talked about everything. Even though we had only known each other since the week we moved here, it had been such a special time that we were now firmly best friends. She had been there at the beginning of my new life in the new town where I had moved with my parents and my ex-brother Annette. Yes, that surprised you didn't it. You did read correctly, I used to have a brother and now his name is Annette. She is now my super sister and I love her very much. I help her as much as I can to be the most perfect girl.

Maddie helps too, just like she did when Annette was first 'born' just a year and a half before. Some people have even said Annette dresses better than me, but I refuse to believe that. I will agree that we do look absolutely darling when we go out on the town together. We are as alike as two peas in a pod. My Mum is really proud of us. But going back to this story. This is about Madeleine and me and our efforts to sort out the horrid Peter.

"He's just awful, Angie. He teases me about everything - my height, my weight, my clothes, my school-work - on and on and on. He calls me a baby whenever he makes me cry - so I just cry more. He's cleverer than me, he's stronger than me and he's just foul. I can never get the better of him. If I could get him into a dress and have photographs to prove it - I'd have him fixed."

We talked about how to do it. He wouldn't fall for the 'dare'. We'd have to find some other way to trap him. One phrase had caught my ear.

"Why does he always call you a baby?"

Maddie didn't have any answer.

When I continued, "Does he have some hang-up about babies?" she suddenly leapt in.

"Yes, I think he does. He certainly got all red and blushy when he had to help me put a nappy on his baby brother. I was quite surprised at how silly he was about it. Do you have some cunning plan as to how we can trap the little beast? "

I had no idea how to do it - but at one of Mum's meetings with another of the mothers who also had a new-girl, I had overheard them talking.

"Oh, Mary, you don't know how hard it's been," said the visitor. "When Wendy was about 8, she still used to wet her bed. Eventually, I lost my temper and put her back into nappies. I couldn't find pyjamas to fit so I had to give her a nightdress as well. All of a sudden I found that I had a far better behaved child than before. It was clear that she actually behaved better as Wendy so I did everything I could to encourage her. Like you, I was lucky enough to meet Mrs. Grant and she was ever so helpful. When she got to being a teenager and more noisy and everything, having her work at Jane's shop was also really good. I think she had forgotten those months in nappies and dresses - but she was soon as eager to become Wendy on a more permanent basis."

I told Madeleine the story and we both snuggled on the bed and whispered our ideas for devious cunning plans to each other.

"He obviously doesn't wet the bed - so we can't catch him that way. But if he is that twitchy about babies, then he would hate to be one wouldn't he?"

Madeleine just lay there and smirked. "Yeah," she hissed. "I'd love that. But I think that he wouldn't. Let's fix the little pig."

The next day was Sunday and we were both reading the paper. Suddenly, Maddie jabbed me with her elbow and pointed to one of the 'specialist' adverts. It wasn't a part of the paper that we normally read - but, golly, what a lot of unusual things there were there. We suddenly read them with new interest. There seemed to be only one possible interpretation to phrases such as 'Big baby' and 'Male lingerie'. We sat there in amazement. This was very, very interesting. Maddie pointed out that while one or two of these adverts asked for a pound or two, several were free. Our letters went off that afternoon and we waited eagerly for the replies to arrive.

When the brown envelopes arrived, we scurried upstairs with them and ripped them open as we leapt towards the bed. We leafed through the pages with our eyes popping and our faces flaming. We had believed that we were pretty unusual with having a boy who dressed up as a girl - but what was in these pages made us feel absolute novices.

Our plans firmed up. Maddie decided that a little expenditure was necessary to deal with Peter. I was only a little surprised at what she ordered. The catalogue called it an 'Adult-size Nappy-set'. She had obviously decided that Peter was going to be babified whether he liked it or not.

When Peter arrived for Christmas, Maddie and I began to attack almost at once. I deliberately annoyed Madeleine until she was almost in tears, at which Peter joined in accusing her of 'being a baby'. Conveniently, we were upstairs in Maddie's room. It was large enough for her desk and a settee so we often used it as our own sitting-room when we wanted to keep out of the way of her parents. For what we wanted to do, we definitely wanted to be alone. So, even though it meant that Peter was allowed in her bedroom, that's where we were.

This was our cue. We both went for him.

"How dare you accuse Maddie of being a baby."

"Just because she's willing to show her emotions."

"What do you know about being a baby."

"Do you think you're so manly that you would never cry. Let's see how you would like to be treated like a baby."

Peter stood there, stunned. Too fast for him to react, Madeleine grabbed him from behind and gagged him with one of her stockings, tying it tight round the back of his head. Then, she pushed him onto the bed and put on a pair of mittens so that he couldn't do anything with his hands.

In a moment, I had his trousers off and Maddie and I, in our turn, stopped still. He was wearing towelling pants. Where on earth had he got those from? They weren't as obvious as a nappy would have been but they were the same material. Here we were with plans to put him into a nappy and he was already wearing one. I pulled it down and he lay there naked in front of us. He was so shocked that he was behaving just like a big baby. Nobody else was in the house so his cries of anger and shame went unheard by anyone except us. We heard them with pleasure.

I felt him shudder as I powdered him and slipped on the full-size towel. As I heaved on the adult rubber waterproof pants we had bought from the catalogue, I could hear him faintly whimper as the tight elastic held the nappy tight to his legs.

He had been in the house for barely an hour and already we all knew that he was never going to dominate Madeleine the way he had expected.

Madeleine and I stood beside the bed and looked down at her big-baby cousin. He stared up at us with eyes filled with tears. I slowly and deliberately raised the camera and his eyes widened in horror. When the flash went, the creature closed his eyes in the pretence that it was all a dream. No chance. The pathetic animal was at our mercy.

As I lowered the camera, Maddie untied the gag. "Right, BABY. We now know all about you. We have photographs and the lot. You are going to do exactly what I want forever. First of all, you are going to be the sweetest and nicest and politest baby ever. If I ever have any lip from you, I'll rip down your trousers in public to reveal your ghastly secret. You won't call me names. You won't tease me. You won't interrupt while I'm talking. Nothing, never. Have you got me?"

The feeble blob nodded it's head in agreement. It whispered, "Please don't do anything to me. I'll do whatever you want. I'm so sorry." To our delight, a tear leaked out of it's eye.

We put one of my old nightdresses on the thing before taking another set of pictures. We made it as obvious as we could that this was a grown boy wearing a nappy and a girlish frilly nightie. We pushed the creature to one side and sat down on the bed.

Madeleine continued, "Right, first of all, every night while you are staying here you will be wearing this nappy and this nightdress. During the daytime, you will wear panties and a girl's vest beneath your ordinary clothes. Since it is clear that you already behave like a baby of your own free will, you will now behave as a baby whenever we decide. Okay, baby Barbara? You deserve a new name for your new status."

Baby Barbara nodded it's head.

"Now, we didn't hear you answer. What do you call me now I'm in charge of you?"

We both giggled when we heard the faint whisper of 'Nanny'. This was true domination. We had never felt this with Annette or April. They had just been boys who were lucky enough to wear skirts and frocks. This was better, or at least this was different.

Madeleine pulled me over to the settee and we talked feverishly for several minutes. She hugged me tight.

"I feel fantastic," she said. "The sense of power is tremendous. Now that I can see how feeble he is, I get all hot in my panties. I didn't understand that magazine we were reading in the bookshop until now. If I had something to smack our little baby with - I'd do it and it would be grrreat. What have we got."

With a devilish grin, I handed my friend her hairbrush.

It was amazing. I had never seen this side of her character. She pulled the giant baby across her lap and smacked it through the nappy until it was blubbing and sobbing as if it would never stop. Madeleine was exhausted and her hair was stuck to her forehead with sweat. She pushed the baby to one side and tied one wrist to the end of the bed with the stocking. Then she leapt to the settee where I was sitting, pulled me to her and gave me a deep kiss. To my amazement, her tongue slipped between my lips and she held my head so that I could not move.

"I find I enjoy being dominant. I find that I like being in control. Barbara is now ours to do what we want - but I've decided that you are also going to do what I want."

I looked at my friend with horror.

"Don't worry, Angie. I won't do anything that you don't beg me to do to you."

My expression of horror barely altered. What was I going to do with this newly aggressive teenage amazon. I should have reacted faster. She now pulled me across her lap and pulled down my panties. Gently, she put her hand between my thighs and began to stroke me. I gasped and tried to get away. But I didn't try very hard. I found that I was getting wetter and wetter as I tried not to react. After a moment she undid the buttons of my blouse and I shivered as she slid the cloth off my shoulders. She then unclipped my bra and gently caressed my breasts for a moment. From the table beside the bed, Madeleine had found a little pot of aromatherapy oil. As she once more cupped my breasts and moved her hands across my heaving body, the oil helped her fingers slide slickly over my skin. Even though I was still lying across her lap in a position of complete submission, I could say nothing. It was exciting. It was new. It was definitely pleasurable.

"Ooooh, don't stop. That's wonderful. Oooh, yes." I was losing control - but she wasn't.

"What if I do stop? What will you do if I stop? What will you do to make me start again? What if I do stop?" .... and her hands changed pace as she spoke. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes hard, sometimes a light as a feather. I was out of control. I could feel an orgasm building and I wanted it desperately. My thighs scissored frantically with the effort of rubbing my clitoris against something, anything. She knew, we both knew what I was trying to do.

"Can I smack YOU?" she whispered hotly.

"Oh, anything, anything. Just keep going, it's so wonderful."

The little vixen sniggered and began to beat my excited bottom. Sometimes gently, sometimes so hard that I yelped. But I couldn't argue with the heat surging through my body. I can't deny that we had played Nurses and Nurses a few times before but this, this was a lot different. This wasn't playing. This was sex.

It wasn't long before I was writhing under this soft torture. I could feel my breasts bouncing as I tried frantically to evade the next blow. I couldn't believe how hard my nipples had become. My thighs were soaking with excitement. Madeleine was hot as well. I could feel the scent rising from between her legs, provoking me more and more.

She must have beaten my poor bottom for some seven or eight minutes before she was satisfied. I was completely under her thumb. I also understood how relaxing it was to submit so thoroughly to a mistress.

When at last she finished smacking me, I lay there sobbing. Not only was my bum aflame but I was now desperate for sex. Maddie wriggled so that we were lying alongside, my legs fell apart in an attempt to cool down the furnace between in my crotch. She gave me a long, lingering kiss as I relaxed in her arms. Then, she took the pot of oil and gently, gently smoothed her hands over my red cheeks. It was delicious, despite the momentary extra pain. It only took a moment for me to grab her hands and force them to my itching pussy. I lay there whimpering with frustration as she forced her hands to stillness. I could feel them resting, twitching, flexing, on my thigh, so few inches from my dripping pussy.

She looked up at me and said, "Now you've got to beg me. I'm not going to do anything unless you ask properly." She brushed one hand lightly through my pubic hair as she spoke, making me arch my hips frantically towards her teasing hand.

I gazed into her eyes with shock. She couldn't mean it. I was lying there, legs wide apart like a gynaecology poster. Couldn't she tell what I wanted? I then realized how much she was enjoying this new game. She really did mean it. I was going to have to beg her to satisfy me. As I lay there summoning the will to speak, there was a thud.

We both leapt to our feet as we realized that the creature was still there. Despite being dressed in a nappy and nightie, it was still more or less a human being able to think, plot and plan. We were giving it far too much information. After all, we were the ones in control, weren't we ?

We grabbed the baby and pulled it back onto the bed. Our rampant desire fading temporarily while we gagged and blindfolded the menace. We then untied it from the bed and took it down the hallway to it's own room. Then we once more tied it to the bed. In order to remind it of it's total inferiority, Madeleine instructed me to smack it on the legs. After twenty or more hard slaps on the back of each thigh, it began to cry again. We left it there in a blubbing heap while we strolled back arm in arm to the comfort of Madeleine's boudoir. As a final gesture, I did loosen the gag just in case the creature had difficulty breathing.

-------------------------------------------------------

I won't go into any more detail about what we did and how much fun we had — but we did have a lot of fun. My poor pussy was aching, oozing and glistening wet with my juices and the dribble from Maddie’s hot, excited lips. But I can see from your expression that you want to know more about Baby Barbara and what happened to her.

-------------------------------------------------------

It was a good hour later that we moved on to the next stage of the changeover. We had talked eagerly about how to enforce our control as we lay in a blissful heap, dripping with sweat and juices. We knew that we had several hours before either parent would return so we could do our best, or even our worst, to our new toy.

When we went back into the room, Peter was, of course, still lying on the bed. The gag had come loose, as well as one arm had got loose and so he was lying there, to my immense satisfaction, with his thumb in his mouth. He was asleep, or at least dozing when we tiptoed in.

"Hello, baby," called Maddie.

Baby jerked as if an electric current had jolted him. His thumb came out of his mouth with a soft pop. Once more he went crimson with embarrassment.

"Likkle baby sucky thumb, ooh lovely." He went, if anything still redder.

"Likkle baby, want some foody-woody?", I waited for an answer and after a moment, he shook his head. That was a mistake, wasn't it.

"Baby must eat or never grow big and strong. Maddie, smack baby twice, at once."

Smack, smack.

"Now baby want lovely food ?"

This time, baby nodded.

I brought out the pot of food I had prepared earlier, in proper Blue Peter fashion. Although Blue Peter had never shown examples of how to look after big babies. Maddie had suggested that perhaps we needed to watch Really-Blue Peter. My response had been that now we had a Peter of our own to play with we wouldn't need to bother with kid's stuff in the same way. We had giggled deliciously, if not a little cruelly at some of the ideas we had had. Baby food, dirty nappies, punishment and training - we were so excited at what we would be able to do with a totally subservient dominated baby.

Maddie tied a towel round his neck as a bib. Baby's eyes widened as he realised what was happening next. Perhaps his ideas of being a baby were different from what he was getting. Ha. He tried feebly to evade the spoonful of mushy cornflakes. But Maddie pinched him and I stuffed the spoon in as his mouth opened to complain. This time, we had decided not to flavour his food - absolutely plain pap was to be his first meal. Perhaps next time, the curry, mustard and tabasco would become a weapon of control.

Every time he complained, another spoonful. Every time he tried to evade, a pinch. I fed him until he had eaten two large bowls. His tummy was bulging by the end. When we had finished, Maddie asked if Baby had had enough. Baby answered, "Yes."

Maddie put on her sternest expression, "Yes, what."

"Oh, yes, thank you nanny one and nanny two."

"That's better. Now baby go back to sleep."

Baby curled up beneath the duvet and we left him alone while we went back to Maddie's bed for further discussion and exploration. I told Maddie how sore my pussy already was — and she grinned and said ‘practice will make it more perfect, you’ll be doing what I want anyway’. Shamefaced, I nodded my acceptance in the face of this new trait my friend, indeed lover, was showing.

When we went back to baby, we were delighted to find that he was still asleep - and wet - and dirty. We dragged the grubby creature into the bathroom and scrubbed it really hard. Then we put on another nappy and left it alone all night. It tried to talk to us - but we couldn't understand a word. And once we had gagged him with a pair of my pants - we really couldn't hear a thing.

In the morning, the baby was dirty again. The two of us had talked about what to do next. The first step was to allow the baby to decide what age it should be treated as. Being in nappies was a wonderful punishment - but we needed to know that it was a proper punishment rather than something enjoyable. Maddie didn't want to believe that her cousin Peter actually wanted to be a baby - but there were limits. Cleaning giant nappies wasn't fun for us. We needed the ghastly child to be at least able to look after itself.

Not completely to our amazement, the ghastly child was much more reasonable in its attitude and behaviour when we released it in the morning. We were particularly pleased that it called us 'Mummy' and 'Aunty' in a suitably respectful manner. We had decided that this was the proper way for it to address us.

We began with emphasising the new rules which would be obeyed by him whenever he was at the house or on visits to my house. Maddie and I had spent considerable time making sure that these were not just sensible but designed to keep Baby Barbara in a truly subordinate position.

Baby was allowed to talk properly for a while so that we could decide what the proper regime should be. It had to be on the edge of what Baby was willing to accept but Baby had to be able to enjoy most of it. Baby said that he wanted the opportunity to wee and poo but would prefer to be able to ask for potty as well. We said that we weren’t really very keen on pooey nappies but perhaps sometimes we would allow it — but we would probably be quite severe.

We talked about feeding, bottles, dummies and all the things that real babies have. Baby told us that she thought there was an website called Big Babies which rather obviously sold things for Big Babies. We spent quite some time looking at the site and deciding what we could afford. Well, actually, we just told Baby what we were going to buy and then asked him if his bank account would cover the costs.

Baby looked quite ashamed and began to cry “You’ve made such a difference to me by saying you’ll help — but I really can’t afford to spend all that money.”

We both gave Baby a cuddle and I said, “Well, we will just have to make do with what we can afford and then gradually build up a wardrobe and the extra equipment so that baby is comfy.”

Shortly, Baby said, “This is getting to much for me, I need to have a rest.” And she just put her thumb in her mouth, curled up and went to sleep. — Just like a really good baby.

Maddie and I giggled and cuddled each other. “Wow”, Maddie said, “This is looking really, er, interesting.”

You don’t need details of what we did until Baby woke up.

Once baby was awake and had been bottled and fed, we began to talk about more ways we could help Baby find her right age and level of behaviour. We all agreed that baby would have to grow up until she decided or someone sterner decided that she was grown up ‘enough’.

“For a start,” Maddie said, “you’re going to have to talk like a baby, use baby words, perhaps even have a lisp.”

Baby muttered something which sounded like ‘No'.

Maddie’s eyes flashed. Baby did start to speak with a pretty little lisp. At times of stress, she even got a little stammer. It was so pretty, so delicious.

By the end of the week, Baby Barbara had progressed to wearing full-size little girl dresses from one of those remarkable brown-envelope catalogues. There was absolutely no argument as to who was in charge in Madeleine's house.

On one occasion, Baby tried to defy us and we actually put on the set of baby reins and had him at the gate of the garden ready to be taken into the park before she gave in and accepted that we were right, that we were always right and that we were going to be making all the decisions on Baby’s behalf for a long time to come.

We managed to keep Baby out of the way of Maddie’s parents for the whole week. Or we thought so. It was a few days later that her mum said — “Well, how did it go for the week with you sorting out young Peter — or is the name now Petra?”

Maddie gulped and blushed bright, bright scarlet.

“Did you think that I wouldn’t notice, Mad. I did. I’m not actually stupid. But I saw there was a truly Mad, mad scheme going on. Yes, one of your ‘mad’ plans, my Mad girl. So I watched, listened and kept your Dad out of the way. You can be confident that he noticed nothing and knows nothing. But I do know something and actually you are going to tell me ALL about it. I can tell when you are being, er, economical with the truth — this is not a suitable occasion. If I’m going to be involved in this — then I need to be told everything. So — start at the beginning, go on to the end and then stop — right. This is my stern voice now.

Maddie gulped again and began to talk about Baby Barbara.

After a few minutes, her mum was almost crying. “You mean you were all set to blackmail him into being a baby and doing what you told him and he was ALREADY in his own nappy. Oh, what a hoot.

Maddie tried to get past the part of the story where she ravished me but her mum was too alert and noticed the gap in the story. She pressed until Maddie went even more red and whispered, And then I did things with Angie even though I knew I shouldn’t.”

“You mean you had a totally exciting, wildly wet and willing teenage lesbian romp with your best friend. Oh, don’t be silly dear. Almost every pair of Best-Friends-Forever has done some sort of experimenting in that arena. It’s not unusual, you aren’t the first, you won’t be the last — but I would prefer it if it didn’t become a habit. Like it or not, society is much more willing to work with heterosexuals rather than any of the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transexual groups. I’m not too fussed in any direction — it so happens that the huge majority of my friends are not G, L, B or T — although a few are and some more might be.

“Live and Let Live — Love and Let Love seems a fair motto for me — but as regards Angie — don’t let your father hear you late at night, he’d get all upset and make silly comments which would not be at all, at all helpful.

“But, as regards your lovely big baby — what did you do next?”

Maddie told more of the story — and her mum giggled some more. “I was never too keen on Peter, He came across as a big-mouth and a bit of a nuisance.”

Maddie sniggered, “well, now he’s got a much much better mouth and he knows exactly how red his bottom will be if he even begins to do anything that we think is a ‘nuisance’. He’s learnt quite a lot. He’s been told to come back in three weeks for some more training.”

“Three weeks eh? Do you want me to get the sewing machine out so that he has some properly fitting costumes for whatever you think he needs teaching? And how are you planning to end this little game. There has to be some agreement by him — otherwise I’m going to cut things quite short and let him get on with his own life. Like it or not, he’s not actually a toy or a thing.”

As it turned out, Peter had been doing quite a lot of thinking while he was away — and the shock of what we did had sunk all the way into his skull and affected a change in the brain-cell he kept there.

-------------------------------------------------------

As it turned out, the baby game quickly became much more a game than a punishment or a method of Maddie controlling Peter. The wind-ups, the aggression, the petty nastiness — all evaporated and it was actually rather fun for the three of us.

The baby element of the game also faded away once the three of us were friends. This didn’t mean that Peter was allowed to go back to being a less-than-attractive example of the male species. It was Barbara who we went out with. It was Barbara who came to stay. It was an unrecognisable Barbara that Maddie’s father got all hot and bothered about at Halloween when she sat on his lap. That took a few drinks to make happen!!

By the end of the year, Barbara had grown into a really charming lady on the now frequent visits she made to our town. Usually, she turned up dressed quite demurely — but every now and then she did something which got her duly punished — and she would have to walk into town with a bulging skirt filled with a red, sore botty and a thick towelling nappy.

-------------------------------------------------------

Peter/Barbara has moved on but we do hear from her occasionally. She has found her own group of playmates and has begun to tell them about SisterDom and how much it can do to teach rough, wild, brash young boys about the nicer side of the fence.

Her particular interests have made it obvious that as well as the SisterDom, we might need a NannyHood equivalent so that the babies get the right treatment. It is clear that there are more than a few of them — although the majority of our clients are gurrls and new-sisters or whatever they are called nowadays.

Barbara has also told us that things can get even more complicated because there are also poor lost souls who actually need to be treated quite unkindly and regularly shown that they are actually subordinate to real women. I’m not so keen on this angle although the stories which I have been shown and some of the rather silly videos do talk a lot about sissies, femdom and the like. Not actually my like though.

I’m going to be quite busy enough looking after my friends as they learn about the simple task of being a male while dressing as a woman. There’s so much need out there — it must be the duty of those of us who are willing to help the poor darlings.

Madeleine aged 17 1/2
Peter/Barbara
Angela Winter aged 17 1/2 older sister see #2 & #3
mention of *Wendy, Mrs Grant, *Annette

Decisions, Decisions, Desissyons

How I began …… as a siss’sister. Some are born girls, some achieve girlhood, some have girlhood thrust into them. An adapted quotation. Ooops.

---

My nipples were rock hard. My groin pulsed with heat, a sensation I’d never felt before. I knew what an orgasm usually felt like. This was so different. My whole groin was warm, it felt moist. Strange – but wonderful too.

His hands stroked my back and flipped the clasp on my bra. My tiny breasts escaped from their silk and satin nests and two thirds of their content fell away. I heard the ‘huff’ of surprise …… and waited ….. but his hands continued to stroke. They wandered to the front and cupped my small excited breasts in two new cups made of warm hands and gentle fingers. It was wonderful. His hands stroked, caressed, slid downwards. At last one hand reached my groin, cupping my tiny stiffness while the other held me to his body and his hard, huge maleness while continuing to squeeze and stroke my nearest explosive nipple.

How had I got to this place, this situation?

When did it all start? Well, I knew the answer to that.

I was just sixteen. Two years ago now.

Mum and Dad and the two big sisters had gone out. I had been left a pile of jobs to do. One of them was to put away the ironing that Alli had finished but not had time to put away. For the first time in years, their private ironing, their fancy underwear rather than their day-to-day varieties, was part of the job. I had never really noticed their things before. But some of these were so pretty. I sniggered – putting their drawers in their drawers. But I knew what I was dealing with were neater, prettier, girlier – not drawers – but panties. And bras too. Lace and satin and silk and, just lovely. I held them in my hands and enjoyed the feel of them. One by one as I put them tidily into their drawers. And I saw the quantity, the variety, the colours, the silkiness, the smooth, soft, excitingness. Then I wondered what they would feel like being worn right, not just being fondled.

Then I found a pair of, well, not panties. These were loose-legged but still with lace and lovely sleek material. Now I know they’re called French knickers. They looked as if they would feel exciting in some way – but different from the snug fit of the panties I was already interested in.

The first time I put on an expensive pair of panties instead of the cotton ones I was used to. Those satin and lace creations had hooked me. They felt SO good. I think that was when this had started.

Over the next weeks, I got more and more excited. It was almost an addiction. I thought about panties all day, every day. I wanted panties of my own. I wanted ….. so I bought panties – for ME. And I wore MY panties. And, lo, it was good. (see the benefits of a Christian education.)

And verily, I went forth, and when accompanied by siblings or mother sadly spent time wandering in the wilderness away from the beauties of the lingerie departments where I would feign be – until I was alone and the need for pretty things overwhelmed me and I gave into temptation. And I bought more panties and my first bra and my first stockings. Weren’t suspenders and clips difficult at first?

Gradually I accumulated a tiny wardrobe. I hid it under the floor of my own wardrobe – a four-inch space. I had to hope that the noise as I lifted the board was not noticeable.

And in the next months, I hope that none suspected. I wore panties as much of the time as I could. Nearly being caught by mischance and wicked opportunity – but good fortune was on my side and I believe ‘they’ never noticed.

That night two weeks ago, I went back to my apartment. I was now living in a micro-flat at the house of a friend of a school-teacher. I had seen the small advert on the noticeboard and applied. Fortunately it was a mile or more from home and served a different school area – so very few people knew anything about me. So I was able to be Olivia more of the time – instead of being dull Dan.

But not all secrets can be kept forever.

I wanted more than just me enjoying the feeling and the excitement. I wanted to share it. I wanted other people to enjoy me looking this good and feeling this good.

And then it was just a short step, well, giggle, a sway and a swish and they were feeling ME. It was fantastic. Stroking my own hands up my stockings or across my satin-pantied bottom was, excellent – Thanks Mr Burns. Even if I couldn’t do the hand gesture single-handed.

But when someone else did it – that was so much better.

So here I am. At the Club. It’s a very, um, selective club for people with a special interest in clothing and so on. Oh stop pussyfooting around, silly boy, I tell myself.

Okay, it’s a club for sissies and men or even women who love them too. There are limits. Skin to skin contact is discouraged – but fortunately not forbidden.

I’ve only been here a few times. I was so lucky to be in the lingerie shop buying some new bras when Lady Prendergast came in. She knew instantly what I was and gave me a card for The Club.

I was SO nervous that first time. One of the other girls saw me and came straight over. “It’s your first time, isn’t it?, she giggled.
I was too busy admiring her breasts to answer. Then she tipped my chin with a long red-nailed finger. “Look here, darling. Even if you’re just admiring. Even if you’re thinking that you want boobs like this for yourself.” Another giggle.

“How ….”

“You’re not the first pretty-boy to come here you know. And I mean ‘come’ “– and her hand brushed across the front of my tented skirt – and I almost did!!!! “But you’re very pretty. Almost girly enough to, well. I mustn’t say too much or I’ll be punished. And I might not like that.”

“Is it that obvious? I mean that ….”

“Only to those of us who know, darling. And what’s your name, your girl-name?”

I’d never really thought about it – but instantly I chose my new name, Olivia. I loved her drawings and had pages of them stored. And Christeen. And LatexAndy.

That was the first night. Adama, that was her name, introduced me to quite a few people. I enjoyed them seeing what and who I was. The first people I met were the other girls who worked at the Club, the barmaids, waitresses and servers. And, what a surprise, almost every one had a name like me. Paula, Patricia, Carla, Charlotte, Denise, Roberta, Robette, Sandy, Alex.

And, eventually, I let one of the men hold me to their side, and stroke my bottom, and my thighs, and my side-boob and, well not quite all over.

That was Rojer. A Scandinavian, he said. I didn’t care. I was just dazzled by his interest in me. I didn’t remember anyone caring about me the way he said, the way he, um, demonstrated. At one point, he took my hand, my long thin glittery fingers held in his big strong masculine paw, and pressed it to his trouser-front. I gasped at what I felt there. So BIG. So interesting.

I went back a few nights later. Not the next two because Rojer said he wouldn’t be there. Did that make me an easy target. I don’t know. I didn’t really care. I just knew that I was eager for more attention from him.

But he brought some friends with him. They sort of surrounded me. Keeping me captive in a prison made of their legs – all pressed together leaving a little room for me to turn and tease.

They made a game of it. Pushing me from one to the other. Making me wobble and topple on my not-very-high heels. So many times, I could only prevent myself from falling headlong by putting my hand on their, er, thighs, or nearby. They smiled and I giggled each time.

I tried not to drink everything they gave me. But what’s a guy to do when they’re being so generous. Fortunately for me, Rojer told me to stop when I had drunk the second one. He told the others not to tease me. “My pretty one here is so young, so tender. It would be unkind to make it too easy by making him too drunk.” And he turned to me and whispered, “Do you want to be my pretty girly-boy or pretty-boy?”

I blushed and giggled yet again, “Whatever you would prefer. I just love being with you.”

Rojer was so kind when I said that. He replied. “Sweetie, I’m the first man who has noticed you here. It may be that a stronger man will claim you – and I will have to let you go. But in the meantime, I’ll think of you and treat you as a pretty-boy – as you are indeed so pretty and still a boy.” And his hand stroked across my front, giving a little squeeze too. I felt that squeeze all the way from my hard, hard (mid-size) penis to my heart and to my soul and to my brain. And everybody said ‘MORE’.

If I could have gone brighter red with excitement and embarrassment – then I would have done. Instead I squeaked because one of the others, Frank, gave my bottom a squeeze just at the same time. That just added to the excitement and the certainty that – in this place, here and now, I was attractive and wanted.

After a while, by mid-evening, I was barely able to stand and was perched on Rojer’s knee. He held me tight by my waist. I felt so comfortable, so relaxed.

Then he pulled me gently towards his lips and kissed me like I had never been kissed before. Alright, more truth, I had barely been kissed before. And never by a man like Rojer. I loved it. I loved him. I turned within his arms and dedicated my lips to his. My hands went round his neck as if I was welding my mouth to his. Tongue snaking against tongue. Never was there a kiss like that. At least one of the other men in our tiny circle sighed as Rojer got his reward.

Rojer’s comments made me think. Next time I went to the club I arrived early so that I could talk with Allison, one of the girls I had really felt a rapport with.

We talked for such a long time. Even after the clients began to arrive we kept talking. Until Rojer came over to me and asked if he might interrupt. I didn’t really answer but jumped up and cuddled him instantly. It was a sort of answer without words really.
He smiled and hugged me back. His strong arms went around me and he lifted me off the ground as he held me tight. I could feel his wonderful penis grow hard and solid as my front-bottom pressed against him. Even though I had never seen it and only felt it once before – I knew it was hard, male, eager, longer than mine, thicker than mine, needier than mine. And with the little brain it had, it wanted me.

I sighed with pleasure as he bent his lips to mine. Then his hands tightened and he pressed me even harder into his truly man-sized groin. My own tiny groin shuddered with a tiny heat – as if I was having a tiny orgasm.

Rojer grinned, “Well done, sweet boy. Your first sissygasm if I’m correct.”

It wasn’t the same as a boy-cum. I was used to them. But my panties were wonderfully oozy and damp. And the perfume of my excitement spiralled to my senses.

I would never have guessed that such a thing was possible. But it was gorgeous, wonderful, more satisfying somehow than the wank-type outpourings I managed by myself. And without being touched. I wondered what it would feel like – skin to skin.
I think Rojer guessed. He smiled even more broadly. “Sometime soon we must find out how well we, um, get on together. I’m looking forward to more than kisses, you know.”

I swooned and tucked my head into his neck. He smelt wonderful. Manly, Inviting. I felt so delicate next to him. Skinny, small and vulnerable next to a true man.

What came next was the hook that drew me finally and completely into my new life. He touched me.

It was so fantastic as he first touched me properly, y’know, the way that a man touches a sissy. At last he put his hand on my, well, I call it my front-bottom like some children do. I jolted with shock. I’d never had another hand placed there. Not like that. With a masculine firmness. So different from playing with myself. Doing it myself, even at times of maximum relaxation, I was always going to know what my hand would do next. But another person, another hand, so different. So nice.

Then he gave a little pat, and a stroke. And everything in my world jolted. I jerked in his hand as my sissy-sperm splashed into my panties. If being touched was so wonderful, then having my first man-touch orgasm was enough to make me want this life forever.
We spent a lot of time talking that night. He wanted to know about me – the real me. The one who had been hiding for so long. He tried to help me decide what sort of girl-boy-sissy I actually was.

What did I think of my penis? Did I love it? Did I want it gone? What sort of things did I like doing? Or having done to me? Innocent?! I was as naïve as a ….. well, fill in your own guess! I thought more about myself than I had ever done. And he refused to let me have more than a coupe of sips because he said it was so important that I knew who I was – and where I might be going.
Rojer was such a kind man. He knew so much about the needs of sissies and how they differed from each other. Now I know that he was, in fact, a sort of catcher and trainer for The Club on behalf of more senior, more experienced people.

But knowing what I know now, well I’ve never stopped loving him for his kindness even if there was some subtle, to me, indoctrination of as they now call it grooming. I was a new, young, eager sissy and I wanted more of the attention, the affection.

But, as I said, some secrets come out to play when you want them to stay neatly hidden in the safety of darkness.

It was sister Anya who found out.

No – no cliché. She didn’t come to the club for some escapade of her own. She wasn’t tracking me down to see what awfulness I was doing. She just wanted to see me. She came to my tiny little apartment. And she saw no evidence at all of a boy or a young man living there. She peeped through the curtains and saw – well, let’s be truthful, scanties and undies and dresses and all the things that an eager young girl or her somewhat-male sissy equivalent would need for a life of leisure and pleasure.

So she waited, just around the corner until I got back from work – yes I had a job as an office gopher – and was aiming to get ready for an evening out. Not, on this occasion, at The Club but an ordinary evening out for Olivia.

I’d been in for nearly half-an-hour when the doorbell rang. Being a sissy and therefore at times of maximum sissyhood a bit dim, I opened the door. There was I in my yellow and cream undies facing my sister. I don’t know what she was wearing.

She gasped. She began as if to run away. Then stopped. “So all the borrowing of my things, it’s made you gay has it?”

I was appalled. She had known! How? When? For how long? What about the others, Mum and Alli.

“No. I’m not gay. I just love undies.”

“From where I’m standing and looking at the way you’re dressed, it’s a lot more complicated than just wearing undies now and again. Just the undies are expensive. But those look like top-quality artificial boobage and those are really expensive and even more so as they fit you properly. Not like most cross-dressers I’ve ever met. Tell me more.”

It was a command – but it did not have the power and weight of a man, a real man, behind it. The confidence that Rojer had given me allowed me to get back control of the situation. “Well, there’s a surprise. Hello, Anya, come into my little abode. D’y want a coffee or a tea maybe?”

“I’ll have a tea, please, jasmine if you’ve got it. Then I want to ask a number of questions of my, erm, are you my sister? I think not. I’d guess you’re more of a girly-boy or even a sissy. Am I right.”

I was in control. “Yes, you’re right, Anny. I’m a sissy now. And I love it.”

“Don’t you think we ought to know. We are your family. And we do love you – even if you seem to have moved off and split somewhat in the last year or so. We know you’re still alive – but not much else. Are you, so to speak, a sissy forever now. Is that going to be your whole life – or just evenings, weekends and so on?”

“At the moment, I’m a sissy when I want to be. I know there may come a time when a Master tries to make the decision for me – but I have no intention of going that way. I know that sissies get old. And an old sissy has very little future. Unwanted, uncared-for, replaced by younger sissies. Not a pretty picture.”

“Sooooo – tell me how you’re going to avoid this fate. Have you enough willpower to stand up to a Master, or presumably to a Mistress? Tell me the last time, tell me the first time you said ‘no’.”

I squirmed and mumbled, “I nearly, no I did say stop last Saturday.”

“And did he stop? Did you say stop again when he didn’t stop?”

“Well, actually, yes I did. But I did give in a while later.”

“So, your tough-sissy approach doesn’t really work, hmm?”

“What can I say?”

“Oh, that you’re just a silly-billy sissy with not much in your head and even less in self-control. And I know that you’re tougher and stronger than that. I’m not letting my little bro – or even little sissyster be made less than she can be. You’re going to need help to avoid going all the way down the sissyslippery slope. We’re going to have to work together.”

“What’s all this with adding ‘sissy’ to words?”

“Seemed rather appropriate to me, kinda clever too. Sissyster means my sissy sister, duh.”

“Mrhggmph.”

“Was that a grumble, some sort of complaint, criticism, hmmm? I’ve got a cure for that.”

And shortly after, my mouth was plugged with her fresh warm panties and a garter-belt stretched to hold it in place. This time when I tried to say ‘mrhggmph’ all that could be heard was something similar like ‘mrhggmph’.

I was actually really excited by this new feeling. I could tell because my tiny sissy-clit was straining for release. I knew that if I could just rub it a little then I would have a humungous and really satisfying cum. But as well as my mouth, my arms were tied and my legs were tied. I couldn’t even rub my thighs together in a no-doubt hopeless attempt to frott myself. I was in agony. And it was wonderful.

It felt like I had to wait hours for Anny to come back. I heard the telephone ring while I was, um, ‘tied up’. I knew that I’d have to be careful how I answered the phone next time. Telling the truth had obvious difficulties. Lying could be worse. Being ‘unavailable’ was not what Sissies were supposed to deliver. Very much wrongo.

But what Anny had said did make me think. I realized that I had been dazzled by people being interested in me. They had groomed me. Obviously I had been a very willing participant. I giggled ‘participanties for me’.

But, how sensible was I being? What was the future if I did continue? What was my future if I stopped? Abd who was I going to get good advice from? Rojer? – don’t be silly! Anny? – maybe. Myself? – don’t be silly! One of the girls at the Club? Doubtful – every one of them had their own plans.

What was I going to do? What did I want from life? Being a sissy had some advantages but so much of this would be in the short term. What was the expectation for an OLD sissy? Was a sissy like me actually capable of competent thought – or was I a bimbo-sissy too. I licked my lips – so nice. shifted in my chair and felt my breasts rub against their satin comfort – so nice. I felt my minicock as it was squeezed by my thighs – so wonderful.

Could I give up all the pleasure I was getting now – for something vague and in the future?

END

Desperately seeking Susie

I had never guessed what sort of a girl I was needing. But Susie was the one. Despite her, um, issues.

An AP-500 to be borrowed or adapted …...

---

I saw her late on a Friday. Gorgeous, long black hair, lovely legs sheathed in shimmering nylon. Her breasts like those admired in the rather colourful sections of the Bible such as the Song of Solomon…” Your two breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle which feed among the lilies”.

She was not beautiful exactly. But she attracted me like a magnet. I could not get her out of my memory. She walked away down Chiswick High Street towards the Church.

I caught glimpses of her over the next weeks. One time, I was sort-of following her and she looked up and locked eyes with me. I was caught. She knew I was keen on her and that I wanted her. And she winked at me. She knew that I was, if not stalking, at least watching out for her.

And I couldn’t stop.

Gradually, by seeing where she was going and where she came from, I learnt more. Was I surprised to find a company making and selling up-market lingerie?

Of course she noticed me. It wasn’t stalking – not in a grubby, furtive way ………. . Maybe to a lot of people what I was doing was stalking. But I wasn’t doing anything ugly or vile, let alone abusive, I told myself.

It was months later that, pure fluke, I did get close enough to find out more about her. I'd gone into a bar I’d never noticed. She was talking with a group of three other girls.

I, subtly, who am I kidding, went nearer.

At a table behind her, I enjoyed the view. I guess I was pretty obvious. All four, then later six, of them were pretty or attractive or downright gorgeous. But it was my girl that I watched. After a while, once they knew that I knew they were watching me watching them – is that getting a bit complicated? - they began to play for their audience. And I lapped it up.

After a while, she came towards me. Slinky, hips swaying like a dancer, her red jersey dress clinging like a second skin – no evidence of underwear.

“Hey there, honey. Ma’ names Susie. D’y walk on the wildside?” To my horror and wonder and instant pleasure she stroked her hand across the front of my trousers. Then she took my hand and did the same. And my fingers touched something hard – and not usual on a woman.

And from that moment on – I was walking that wildside, her wildside. Eagerly. Devotedly.

Putty in her hands – well not putty everywhere. But my brain was soft and mushy compared to the governing part of my anatomy. That was hard, staring, eager, wanting, wanton.

I had been a sad, tired, bored middle-aged man and I had been seeking for something. And now I had a glimpse of what I had wanted. I’d never realized. Now I was an addict. And Susie was exactly what I had been seeking. Desperately.

Hands …… stroking …….. wonderfully!

-------------------------------
And another AP-500 story

Are You ‘The Man in the Dress’?

What have I done – what have I won? What am I doing? Why am I trying on a whole collection of new clothes? Clothes so very unlike anything I have ever worn before.

I’ve put 50 stories up so far. I was aiming for the next one to be kind of special rather than just ‘ok’ !!….. but it’s not up to me to judge. If you feel like hitting the ‘kudos’ button for my stories or for anybody else – please be generous. And maybe even drop a dollar into the kitty for Erin who on our behalf has spent much more money than is sensible.

Thanks AP

--------------------------

I enter competitions. It’s one of the things I enjoy doing. Sometimes I win, generally I hear nothing. But I’ve won a year’s supply of dog biscuits (given quietly and anonymously to the local dog’s home); I’ve won a car which I was allowed to sell; two holidays – one to Skegness (which was nearly as dull as I expected) and one to the Edinburgh Festival with tickets for three days – wow). I’ve won quite a lot over the years. But never anything that made my life really complicated.

Until now.

I’ve won a competition which should, well, oh god, how do I describe the hole I’ve got myself into. I entered a competition for Beauty products and all that. Oh god, I really do have to go into details. The top prize was for a Lady’s Supreme Weekend. A trip to a famous underwear shop for new lingerie; then to a dress shop for three new dresses and other outfits; shoe shop for shoes to match; beauty parlour; hairdresser; to a Grand Presentation at a local hotel – and lots of minor items of less immediate importance - except the big extra : the winner would almost certainly be expected to attend suitable events in the weeks and months afterwards, for publicity and promotions.

And the prize was not transferable. Although of course I could refuse it.

And the prize could not be converted to cash.

And even though I had never even thought about anything like this. I had never pretended to dress up. Never thought about dressing up. Never wanted to dress up. Somehow, the idea of accepting the prize excited me.

What to do?

I’m a thirty-two year old single man. Five foot eight and slim-ish. Quite fit, with neck-length mouse-coloured hair. Nothing special to look at, I’d say. My social life is quite busy – after all I’ve had a number of girlfriends since I was seventeen. And I’ve been, er, active with about eight – and I’ve never had a one-nighter or actually anything less than a month with any of them.

I certainly don’t look effeminate or girly or anything like that – but where has this idea come from? And the idea is so strong. I can feel myself being readied for a plunge into ice-cold boiling water – and I’m ready. I want it. I feel absolutely certain that this is what I want to do. Even though I’ve never had any idea like this before.

I’m in a bit of a dither. Alright, I’ve flipped my lid temporarily – but this strange, burning intent keeps pushing at me. So, I call my friend Nancy.

“Nancy, I’ve been a bit of a pillock. I’ve got a problem and I think you can give me an idea what to do. I need to make a decision quite urgently – and I’m either going to be really embarrassed or very embarrassed.”

“Oh, dear me, boyo. That sounds just too exciting for words. Scamper over here. I’ll get the tea on and chill a bottle for later. Yeah?”

“You’re not going to believe this story. I’ll be there in about half an hour. Thanks.”

----------------------

“You’ve done WHAT?”

“Erm. I said – I won this competition.” And I waved the leaflet at her.

There were tears in her eyes. “I wondered about entering that. I could see me having such a great time. And now it turns out that you’ve won. You plonker. Didn’t you read the conditions. The strict rule that this was only suitable for women over the age of 18. You idiot, dolt, you mere man.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect to win.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have entered, should you. Idiot. Again.”

“Nance, my chum. We have to deal with what is – not what we would like. I’ve got this situation – what do I do about it?”

“Why are you even thinking about NOT refusing the offer? You’ve just told me that you’ve never even thought about doing any girly type stuff. You’ve never cross-dressed, have you, you said. Have you ever worn your sister’s panties? Stolen any of mine from the laundry hamper? What have you done in the line of a dirty young man wandering through Marks and Sparks fondling the panties and looking at the bras? You’re blushing. So at least you’ve been that interested in girly stuff.”

“Well, yeah, but only because I don’t get near enough often enough to the real thing.”

“So, if a girl asked ‘do you want to get into my panties’ – you’d never think of wearing them for yourself.”

“Erm, no. Perhaps if she suggested it as some sort of sexy prank.”

“We are far far away from a ‘sexy little prank’ here, my friend. This has to be for real – if you’re going for it. And I guess you wouldn’t be here unless you were thinking that way. Am I right?”

“Erm. Dunno. Really, I don’t know. It’s just. Somehow I’ve got in into my mind that I’d like to find out.”

“Find out what?”

“What it’s like to wear pretty clothes, to be made to look beautiful. Whether it would be exciting or weird or what. Am I nuts?”

“You’re going a bit beyond the average for unusual behaviour, that’s for sure. Have you any idea why you’ve started wondering about this?”

“No idea. None. I might have been wandering the internet, like you do, but I’ve never deliberately looked at tranny stuff, the shemales, the sissies and all that.”

“You know a lot of the words for someone who’s done no wandering in that area!”

“Well, y’know. Late evenings with perhaps a drink taken.”

“You ARE a dirty young man.”

“No, really, really not. But now I think about it there was one picture that caught my attention. It was me – it really looked like me and then suddenly it was transposed, transformed into a girl. As if I was a girl. And she was really pretty.”

“Well, show me.”

“Can’t. I only saw it the once and I could never find it again. I did look because I couldn’t believe how real the girl was and how like me the boy was. And now it’s in my head. And I can’t get rid of it. Then I won the competition. I entered some weeks ago and got the news last night. I found the picture about a fortnight ago so I didn’t enter with this in mind. I couldn’t have – the timing’s all wrong.”

“But now that the picture IS in your head – you’re wondering, eh?”

“Guess so.”

“So – choices. Are you going for this or not.”

I took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Are you going to tell them in advance that there is a problem?”

“Give me some for and againsts.”

“If they know, they can prepare to do a better job. You’ll know in advance who is willing to help and who isn’t. They might want to build a new advertising project ….. ‘if we can do this for a young man, how beautiful can we make YOU’ sort of thing. I’m sure I can think of other points.”

“Perhaps it’s the hair.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I’ve always been fascinated by long hair. And the competition promises hair extensions. I’ve always wondered what they’d feel like. The hair brushing against my neck and shoulders. I’ve always had an eye for girls with long hair.”

“NOW we’re getting to some of the nitty-gritty. That’s interesting. Just hair is it. Not makeup, lipstick, frills, or anything else.”

“Well, not until that photograph.”

“That’s really got inside your head, hasn’t it.”

“Did the girl in the photograph have a name?”

“Not that I remember. Giselle maybe.”

“Did you look up all the combinations of Giselle and transition, cross-dress, transgender and so on?”

“No, I tried to find it on the history – but without success.”

“Should we look to see if Giselle is for real?”

“I don’t know. I think if I’m going to do this, then it’s me for me, not me as a copy of anything.”

“That’s a much better attitude. Don’t be a copy of anything – be an original. Now let’s look at this leaflet and your letter. Exactly who are the companies who have signed up to this. I’d be more certain they’d be flexible if they were local rather than part of a chain. And do I get anything from any of them myself.”

There was a pause while Nancy read. I picked up a magazine and, pure fluke, found it falling open at an article on hair extensions. I was as usual instantly fascinated. I really did love long hair – and here (perhaps) was an opportunity to find what it was like for myself, on myself. I wanted it. Each time I thought about it, I wanted it more.

“How are you going to deal with work?”

“er…”

“and how are you going to deal with your parents?”

“um ….”

“And what are you going to do if you like it?

“mmmmph..”

“And you haven’t thought about this at all have you?”

“errghgh. No. Clearly not. I just ….”

“You just what? Got yourself into a tangle, got all excited about the hair idea dn put your brain in neutral. You’re a pillock. Even for a man, you’re being dim, stupid, unbright. Pillock.”

“Okay, yes. I didn’t think it through. But I’m still fascinated by the whole idea. I think I still want to do it.”

“You are as bonkers as custard on steak.” She did have a few amazingly colourful expressions learnt from her Jamaican grandmother.

“Help me, please.”

“You know, that one of the few times you’ve said ‘please’ to me and definitely the first time you’ve said ‘help me’ as if you meant it. You want my help, truly. You’ll do what I suggest.”

“….. Yes. Yes, I will.” I repeated it more forcefully. “I don’t know how this is going to work out but I want to have the experience.”

“First off, I really think you’re going to have to be up front and open to the organisers. You are willing to do whatever they ask but you’re doing it as a young man interested in the experiment. You’re not, as far as you know, transgender in any way. You just want to know what it feels like in a beautiful dress, with long lustrous hair out in public.”

“In public?” I squeaked.

“Did you read ANY of the competition rules. Were you pissed or something when you did it? Gawd, you’re even more off beam than I thought. Yes, In public. Several of the events you have signed up for by ‘winning’ include appearing in public and even speaking in public.”

“I think they’re going to throw me out as fast as they can.”

“Yes, but maybe no. It mostly depends on what they can see in you as a new and different advertising package. I think we need to measure you thoroughly, go to the shops and see what sort of things you would be willing to try – then talk to the organisers. When do they want a reply?”

“Probably by today, but I’m sure tomorrow would do.”

“We need to get ahead of them. Give me their details and I’ll do a bit of webbing to find a mate who can help. After all, everyone is only a few clicks away.”

“Mmmm. Okay.”

“And we’ll go to my salon too.”

“Wha, why?”

“So you can try on a few wigs and decide if they’re anything like you imagine or if they give you some idea of the feel you want.”

“Oh.”

-----------------------

It didn’t take very long for Nance to find her link.

“Yvonne, it’s Nance. I’ve got a problem and an idea.”

“Cooee, that’s not the usual start to one of our chats. What about the wine, the where and the when.”

“Definitely but later. Are you able to talk freely?”

“Pretty much, wassup?”

“I have a friend who has been told they’ve won the Beauty Girl contest.”

“Yumm.”

“Wants to know the feeling of wearing a beautiful dress, long hair, all the works.”

“And …”

“30 years old, bit of a hideout, definitely inexperienced, willing to do pretty much whatever the organisers want, five foot eight, thin but not skinny.”

“And – how about some numbers, breast, waist, hip, cup, weight, you know.”

“I haven’t got all the measurements yet. But we’re on our way to get some new undies and a dress.”

“Whaat. Excuse me. What is going on here? A 30 year old and you’re going to get underwear and a dress. What is this some sort of wind-up or what? You’re not trying to swing this for some sort of freak or something? What is she, three foot tall, three foot wide? A nun? An alien with green skin?”

“Getting close, Yvie. She’s a bloke. My sometimes friend and neighbouring idiot, Martin. He entered the competition without reading the rules and conditions (he was probably a bit pissed) but weirdly and amazingly he wants to go through with it. Even though he’s never dressed up before. I’ve met some of his friends before and the girls say he’s definitely not homosexual – but he wants to do this. Full on, willing – at the moment – to agree with whatever he’s asked to do. I’m not sure I understand what this is all about – but he’s not drunk. He’s not, visibly, been smoking wacky baccy or drugs or anything like that. He’s just hit the weird-ometer bigtime. What do you think?”

“If he wants to put on a dress, there must be easier ways.”

“I haven’t asked him about that. But he has won the competition. So?”

“Yeah, ‘so’. So what do you want me to do?”

“How about sounding out the organisers. You’re an occasional journalist. Give them the story as ‘I’ve heard about this exciting new project you’ve got now that your winner turns out to be a young man …. and that he’s willing to comply with all the rules of the competition, the dresses and the appearances. I’m so excited to see how you can sell all your products with, what’s your slogan going to be? ‘If we can make a young man this beautiful, what can we do for YOU?’.”

“You have been doing some thinking about this. And Martin is really willing to go with this?”

“I think he’s planning to get at least some money out of this. It’s going to be difficult for him to stay with his company if he takes a lot of time off.”

“What does he do now?”

“He’s currently a web-designer, having been a salesman until he diversified.”

“So, what? Mid-level, earning okay but would like more?”

“Pretty much.”

“I’ll send out some feelers. Be back asap. Then a BIG drink this evening, yeah.”

“Usual place, yep. 7-ish.”

I pulled my eyebrows back down after their exhausting effort at going up and up and up as Nance’s call progressed. “So.”

“As yet, nothing changes. We gotta get moving and see what you could look like.”

So – it was into town and in and out of a variety of shops that I had never been into before. Never thought of going into before. Salons to talk about hair extensions, hair-styles, nails, makeup lessons and options that baffled me. Words that baffled me.

Then the clothes shops. First the underwear shop – where Nance insisted that I ask the girl to help me choose a bra. And insisted that I ask if the girl could check the fit for me. And then made it worse by asking about inserts and fake-boobage. I was alternately scarlet and pale.

But I did leave the shop with several bras of my own – including the one I was wearing which held a set of 36 D prosthetics. That’s what the girl said the proper word was for them. They were lightly stuck to my fortunately almost hairless skin. Nance had popped next door to get a quick razor to minimise the fluff even more. The weight of the breasts was weird, but fascinating. The new curve at the bottom of my eyeline was equally interesting. It was indeed true that it was more difficult to see my feet. That made me smile.

Then back to the dress shops to find some clothes to wear that fit my new outline and my new character.

And I still didn’t understand why the whole idea had taken off like it had. Why was I suddenly so intent on dressing up, on pretending to be a woman, even going so far as to be willing, if not eager, to parade in public as a cross-dressing man. To consider doing so as a deliberate publicity angle which would ‘out’ me as thoroughly as any cross-dresser had ever been outed in recent years.

Was I nuts?

But I left that shop with three dresses, four blouse and skirt combinations that would make ten or more outfits. A couple of cardigans and other sundries.

Then to the shoe shop – and the whole rigmarole began again. Measurement. Try-on. Try-on more. Select. Pay. Leave.

And into several accessory shops – Select, consider, change, more choices, decide, pay. I could feel my wallet whimpering with pain. But my determination to present to the organisers seemed to outweigh any potential embarrassment.

The car was full of bags by the time we left. The last stops were various second-hand and charity shops where Nance said “there’s always a chance that you’ll find something really good for just pennies. I got a beaut handbag a few weeks back.”

“How are you coping with all this, eh, Marti?”

“Marti?”

“Whatever you might say, I aint acallin’ you ‘Martin’ dressed like that. Do ma street-cred no good at all. Not until it’s all sorted and the contest organisers want to have you out as ‘Martin, the man who won our girls-only competition’. Or whatever they decide to do.”

“Have you heard from Yvonne?”

“Not yet – but I expect she’ll be pretty quick in getting an answer. But whether that’s going to be a ‘go or a go away’ – that I haven’t got a clue about. Would you be upset about a ‘go away.?”

“I really don’t know. I don’t know quite why I’ve got so intent on this idea of dressing. It’s as if I’ve got a splinter - and I can’t rest until it’s fixed.”

“If you asked me – you’re completely bonkers. But if you really do want it then Yvie is the one who I reckon is most likely to make it happen. She’s really good at getting things to go her way – or in this case – getting them to go your way, Marti girl.”

There was a pause as we walked to the nearby coffee shop. Nance saw me watching the other people walking by.

“Tha’s good. To look at the folk and see what you like. Every time you sit and watch you’ll see several outfits that looks awful and maybe something that looks great. And sometimes you’ll think ‘now that piece with that other piece would look great on that woman’. But by golly where they are on who they’re with – it don’t work none.”

Almost as we sat down, Nance’s phone rang.

I could tell from the excitement and the voice that it was Yvie – and that the news was a ‘go’.

Nance’s eyes lit up as she listened. She nodded enthusiastically at me. As soon as she was off the phone, she said ‘we’ve gotta move. They want photos and some clothes from a couple of specific stores. And they want to see you in them asap. Move it, Marti girl.”

I moved it – even though my feet were beginning to hurt. And the heels were only 2 ½ inches high.

Was I mad? Had someone drugged me? Had I been hypnotized? What was I thinking?

Would I work out answers before or after I took this truly ludicrous idea any further. I could see that the pressure was building and that all too soon someone would be saying ‘there’s rules and so on that you’ve broken – do you want to go to court about this ….. or else.”

What did I really want to happen. Then the breeze caught the edge of my dress and I thought once more ‘that feels gorgeous. What have I been missing for so long? Perhaps I just want to break out of my cosy little hutch and do something wild?’

My mind clutched at the thought and I grabbed a pen from my pocket ‘The Man who wants to be Different’. Perhaps that was an idea I could put forward. I suddenly realized that I was really tired of being ‘just too ordinary’. Time for a change – maybe?

But was converting my whole wardrobe and lifestyle to that of ‘The Man in a Dress’ - was that going too far. I didn’t know – but I was enjoying the process so far.

The two shops which Yvie had specified weren’t too far away. It was fortunate that they both had branches in our mid-sized town of Birchester. And that they had some of the items which were listed on Nance’s phone in the right size for me.

Once we had taken a whole series of photographs and selected the 10 or so best – and emailed them to Yvie and the organisers – I thought we were done for the day. But Nance said we were meeting Yvie in an hour to talk about the possible range of options. What we might be able to push for. What we or rather I, might be pushed into doing.

Yvie liked my phrase ‘The Man who wanted to be Different’. And she had already talked with the organisers about a campaign based on ‘The Man in the Dress’.

Perhaps ……..

I just don't know what will happen next ...... who does?

EU Directive on Gender and Sexual Orientation

This is not supposed to be a prediction – but you have to be hopeful that it isn’t.

The references to 'Identity Theft' and to 'Crime and Punishment' are meant to be 'humorous' or even EUmurous. !!

---

EU Directive on Gender and Sexual Orientation

Bureau of Information & Control BIC 98-1572-2016-06-2d

Regarding the Standard Differentiation of the Sex and Gender for all members, whether adult or child, of all nations within the European Union community.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Attention - It has become clear that the simplistic differentiation of sex and gender according to the standard social structures is not suitable for the modern analysis of the driving forces necessary to ensure domination of the minor nations.

It is essential for forward planning that there is clear and simple identification of all people. The EU recognises the absolute importance of Tolerance and to that end it has been decided that all individuals should be clearly identified as to their key characteristics. It is completely certain that clear identification of groups and sub-groups is a simple way to ensure that intolerance is easily and quickly detected. The new EU detector systems which are speedily being positioned at many of the congregation points of the major cities can detect groups of those likely to be the target of intolerance by means of the signals from the EUAOI chips. Similarly, the proximity of those who have displayed inappropriate intolerance can be detected and the correct official response can be organised promptly.

As stated, identification of individuals will occur in three ways – firstly, their EU (Adult Only) Identification ‘EUAOI’ Card has the standard EUAOID chip and therefore will contain codes which state the possessor’s age, nationality, gender, sexual orientation, political preference, religious affiliation in addition to the standard data on address, bank(s) details, workplace(s) details, tax status, medical history, travel history per passport, and membership of organisations.

It is recognised that some individuals will see this as an ‘invasion of privacy’ but all this data is available by simple interrogation of the databases held within the EU departments. This information has been voluntarily submitted at some time by the individual and therefore it is already EU-available. Note – This data is NOT in the public domain. None of this data is available to the public but only to authorised and validated members of the EU officiat.

The second way that data will be available is for those possessors who have accepted the EUAOIC ‘chip’ which is subcutaneously implanted and which contains all of the above plus their biometric data. As before, it is strongly encouraged that frequent travellers adopt this additional security measure in order that their cross-border transit be done most efficiently.

The MacDonald Agricultural classification system was considered whereby the European Identification Every Individual & Occupation EIEIO codes would be preferred to the EUAIO system. The EIEIO system was deemed defective as regards the Common Agricultural Policy protocols for differentiation.

The third form of EUAOI identification is for those who have been arrested or found guilty of ‘significant crimes within or against the European Union’. As has become acceptable practice, these people will be tattooed on the forehead with the codes that identify their especial crime. The technology now exists for this to be removed at the end of the sentence period with no significant residue remaining visible to the naked eye.

It is absolutely essential for this identification system to be complete and thorough. To this end, it will be critical that all adults within the EU are forced to state their gender, which is of course determined by outward sexual characteristics at birth, and their sexual orientation which it must be accepted is often a subjective assessment.

The EU cannot accept or allow any polymorphism or changeability in these statements of fact about individuals. According to the advice given by the IPCC, Climate Change Committee, which underlies all scientific work in these enlightened days of the early 21st century, there are no satisfactory reasons for any alteration in gender orientation or sexual presentation after the age of 16.

To that end, it has been decided at the highest level, that any pre-adults, ie children, who display unusual cross-gender or cross-sexual behaviour will be given the requisite treatment of oestrogenisation or testosterosation prior to their 16th birthday in accordance with the decisions of 2 authorised doctors or social workers or priests or other significant EU-approved officials.

It is essential that this process be performed with complete impartiality. If there are psychological reports then these may be considered. If the parent or parents or carers have expressed opinions then these may be considered within the constraints of the relevant EU directives on Childcare: see reference “Childcare – should this be by State or Parent EU-DoC-3452167.”

The key factor in assessing sexual orientation will be determined by the choice of sexual partner by the pre-adult. The Child Only Identification (Temporary) User-Specific chip which is implanted as standard for all new babies can be easily interrogated by hand-held scanner and provides the relevant information.

If the COITUS chip has not been activated for sexual activity, then the relevant official is expected to make the required determination. It is not the duty or responsibility of the pre-adult or any of those who claim significant involvement in the pre-adult’s early life. The official’s expert determination may be related to perceived social interaction, web-browsing history or standard societal expectation. The determination, as with all EU official statements and directives, is NOT challengeable or changeable.

It must be noted that as regards the notification of sex and gender, investigators need to be aware of the acronyms such as LGB, GBLT, BGLOATI? And similar. As an example BGLOATIQ? stands letter by letter for Bisexual; Gay; Lesbian, Other; Asexual; Transexual; Intersexed; Questioning and Uncertain.

Facebook did produce a sub-list of some 50 categories relating to the TIQ? categories. At the European levels of documentation and control, it has been determined that that level of nearly spurious accuracy is not helpful. In effect, the numbers of people self-identifying into these last categories is very small – even though accuracy may be to such people of extreme importance.

To ask individuals to self-determine their gender beliefs about themselves would be, in the words of Herr Fucker, “equivalent to asking people to give levels of detail about their sexual identification and activities – what fetishes, what frequency of adultery and so on. We do not foresee such information being necessary yet.|”

Bearing in mind the words of Jean Money “We have designed a bureaucratic empire which will be beyond the capacity of the uninitiated to understand or alter – all we must do is ensure their compliance and that they fit into their allocated boxes”.

The EU has a duty to demand Tolerance of all people by all other people. The EU has begun the great task of obliterating the vile and evil influence of nationality. We can do more by ensuring that there is no ambiguity or improper variation in sexual presentation, sexual activity, gender presentation or interpersonal attitudes.

It is the duty of the EU bureaucratic empire to reduce the perception of difference and to smash intolerance.

First it was just a pair of panties ….

For a while, I thought the arguments were about me – but that changed. Then it was about me, sort of. Ain’t life complicated?

---

Is it my fault? What are they arguing about now. I can hear them. They try to keep it down but the anger and emotion they are spraying around. I can hear too much of it.

“I hate what he’s doing.” “It’s just wrong.” “Why can’t he be normal?” That’s what I can hear my mum shouting.

Dad is a bit quieter – but his voice rises too as he gets excited and angry in return. “He’s not that weird. I’ve been looking on the net. Lots of people disapprove. What did they say at school?”

I mean, comments like that, it’s got to be me they’re talking about. But what have I done that’s ‘weird’. I think I’m a fairly average kid. Nearly 15, skinny, quite fit but not that sporty. Academically middle-top but good at languages. Five foot 4, long hair because I like it keeping my ears warm in winter. No spottier than average. Some friends of both sexes, guys and gals both, er and including one lesbian and one who wonders if he’s gay. What’s weird about that. No siblings – so I have to make do with my better friends, Paolo and his sister Bianca. They live two doors away. Their dad runs the best local Italian restaurant.

Am I doing something wrong? Are they worried that I might do something wrong? I’ve talked with others at school – I’ve had to talk to someone. Even though we’re only 14 or 15, some of us know far too much about families doing badly.

Jacko said, “George, it’s mostly about Money, Sex or Work. That’s what my uncle told me. So that means it’s not about you. Unless you cost too much money or, naah, I’m not bringing sex into it.”

Janie’s contribution was “The priest said it’s always about sin. Then he told me again about the Deadly Sins, y’know, I remember it like Gospel but as J-Gaspel – Jealousy, Greed, Anger, Sloth, Pride, Envy and Lust. He said that all the other bad things are really just extensions or combinations of these. Abuse, Hate, Unkindness, Theft, Adultery and an endless list of other badnesses.”

Ed just looked even more sad and mumbled “At least my shrink said it’s important that I never blame myself for their issues.”

Paolo who is at school with us while his sister is at a local school specialising in music, butted in. “I can promise you, them saying ‘weird’ – that can’t be you. I mean we’re your mates and we know that you might be a little strange in some ways, we all are, but weird. Mate, they ain’t talking ‘bout you.” His efforts at slang-speak weren’t that convincing.

Francesca, who rarely joined in, said, “It’s hard not to blame yourself sometimes. I know I did. And now they’re actually divorcing and they try to get me to make judgements on the other. It’s horrid, really unkind.” And she burst into tears.

All of us, including several of the boys, knew enough to join in a big hug. Things calmed down after a minute.

“Thanks, folks. But I’m going to forget what I’ve just said, I’ll agree with Paolo. You’re just like all of us, a bit off-centre but no way weird. Relax. It’s not about you. But what they are doing is upsetting you and they’ve got to be told somehow.”

“But some of the things they say, they don’t sound like they’re talking about me. I've also heard ‘But it’s outside our control anyway’ and ‘It’s really none of our business’. That sort of thing really confuses me. Anyway, we can’t keep talking now, it’s time for exciting lessons.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Back home, Arnold and Jessie were having another go.

“Shall we have another try at this. We’ve done a lot of screaming and shouting so can we try for this session to keep thing a bit low key. We can do that thing, y’know, where you put your hand up to say I want to say something – and the other has to pause within ten seconds to finish their sentence.”

“If it helps us get a bit further with this disgusting situation. Yeah, alright, I shouldn’t have started off with an opening phrase like that.”

“Jess, how about – if it helps us get a bit further with a situation that is showing a significant difference in attitude between us. We’ve got to sort something out."

“You smooth-talking lawyer-type, you…”

Dad help up his hand. “Let’s keep the compliments aside as well as the insults. We’ll get further. So what was the big event that told you about his, er, special interests.”

“I went into his room, y’know. I was shocked at what I found. Racked behind his proper things, there were several dresses. The drawers held more than a few panties and even bras. There was a lot of girly stuff. It was such a shock. I mean I’d never guessed that he might be that sort of a boy. At least they weren’t my things. But I don’t know where he must have got them. Charity shops maybe, or stealing from clothes lines or something equally perverted. Sorry again, oops. He came across as a solid and typical male as far as I knew. It’s enough to make one scream.”

“Well, I dunno. It’s so far outside my experience. And let’s keep words like ‘perverted’ out of it. But the law says we have to be more tolerant these days.”

“What the hell does that mean. There’s no LAW that can force anyone to accept wrong behaviour and wrong thinking or any sort of wrongness. It’s wrong and that should be the end of it. When these stupid lawmakers actually have it happen in their own families, huh, I bet they change their tune. I’m not accepting something so very wrong. I’m entitled to my opinions. And I’m entitled to say what’s acceptable under my own roof. But I agree, that was then. After all I’m several years older – but I’d been at University for a while. I wasn’t up-to-date with what was happening at home. I went In to tidy up because I thought mum was having to do too much at home ‘cos she was working long hours too. But, I’ve got to separate then from now. But this is my own roof and I do have a say in what goes on.”

“But now he’s only got you to talk to and be open to. There’s no other relatives now. Grandad and Nan might have been able to help – but not any more.”

“I bet there’s others like him, that he could talk to. It’s wrong and there’s an end to it. Not in my house. Not with my support or acceptance. I can’t do it. I’m not that much of a christian but I bet the bible has things to say against it.”

“I’m not sure you can use that argument, Jess. If you’re not much of a christian, isn’t pulling a quote from the bible a bit iffy.”

“Huh, well, yes and no. Come on, western civilization, whether it’s actually civilized or not, is based on the whole judeo-christian format – patriarchal, legalistic and all the rest. Of course the bible underlies a lot of how we think and what we think are good and bad actions and attitudes.

“I can go with that. But I’m going to say that times and cultures do change. What was suitable for middle eastern nomads in say 3,000 BC may not be exactly suited for us nowadays. When you bring into it the King James Bible which the god squad seem to treat as even better than all other bibles – even that had King James wanting his own special interpretations about rulership and male power. And probably a lot of other stuff too. Every translator and interpreter is going to add his own views. I’ve read the bible too and bits of it stick with me. Yes, and bits of it really just don’t fit.”

“How many Sunday god squad know that there’s two version of the creation in the first verses of Genesis and that they contradict each other. How many know that there’s a replacement set of 10 commandments because the stone tablets of the first ones got broken – and by the way, apparently the 10th says ‘you must not seethe baby goats in their mothers’ milk’. What the heck has that got to do with anything. Oh, and the list of people you mustn’t have sex with forgets to list daughters. And there’s more than one of the dirty old men in the bible who, as they say, ‘knew’ his daughters. If the Sunday squad actually thought about what they are told and what their bible tells them – they might behave better. I’m happy with how I operate which is Charles Kingsley actually ‘Do as you would be Done by’; with the threat of ‘Be Done by as You Did.”

“Come one, Arnie dear. We don’t need these glib interruptions. I’ve been asked to support my brother or as he says he is, my so-called sister while he …… oh, I can’t say it. It’s just so wrong. Well, I’m not comfortable with it am I? If I had been less uncomfortable I wouldn’t have barely spoken with him for the last ten years or so. I hate myself, well some of me, for that.”

“Slow down, honey. Can I add a bible comment if you’re going to use one. ‘Judge not lest ye be judged’. Can you really not help your brother when he asks for help. Is it so difficult not to keep loving him the way you have always done. He needs help. He’s asked you, his only sister, for help. I do accept that he’s not my brother so I can be a little separate in my views. But haven’t you seen the difference in him. He used to be curled up and barely able to contribute. I didn’t think he looked that good in that costume, but it wasn’t too girly, and the person sitting in the winebar with us was interested, involved, listening. All those were, for me, changes for the better. I thought your brother was a bit of a waste of space. I mean, 40 years old looking and behaving like a dull teenager. But this new version, Elle, was …. What did you think?”

“I couldn’t get past the fact – and it is a fact – that it was my brother. He’s not a woman. How can he be. He can pretend as much as he likes. He’ll never bleed. He’ll never have a baby. He’ll never be anything other than a sort of castrated eunuch pretending to fake it. But I have hated not being able to talk and do things with Len. I’ve hurt myself probably at least as much as I’ve hurt him.”

“Now come on. That sort of comment is really ugly. Are you saying that barren women aren’t real any longer. That menopause stops women being women. Is your Auntie Sophie no longer a woman now she’s over 50? Has your Auntie Beth never been a proper woman because she can’t have children? Is your lesbian friend Alex not a proper woman or rather is her butch partner not a real woman? Think back to last Saturday – and I’ll ask again – was Elle as real as any woman in the winebar.”

“She hadn’t done her makeup properly.”

“Wow. Did you hear yourself. Well done. You used She and Her. And is that really your big reaction to seeing Elle after such a gap since you last met and spoke.”

“Well it was an accident. I didn’t mean to.”

“I’d almost consider it as a hopeful sign. I think Elle is a much more interesting person than Len. Len bored me. But Elle is still in a way your brother. Well, definitely your sibling – that can never change. And Elle needs help. She’s asked YOU, well probably us, for help.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like everything that a person does or says – but do you love your sibling? It’s quite simple. Love the person, hate the behaviour – I do remember that from last Easter. Most of the sermons that tradition drags us to are so dull, but I do listen and the occasional phrase does stick.”

“I say again, I don’t like it – but I’ll give it a go. There is a lot to like about Len even if he’s done decades of boring, drab and uninteresting.”

“Well, I’ll ask again. What did you think of Elle in comparison.”

“I’m still trying not to think about it. Seeing Len there in what was clearly a blouse and a pair of woman’s jeans was very distracting. And I kept on seeing the hair and the makeup and the earrings and so on. It got in the way.”

“Come on. Take a deep breath, relax, think back and concentrate on how you reacted to Elle the woman rather than all the things that made you uncomfortable.”

“I think seeing my brother behave so differently from normal was actually the hardest thing. All of a sudden, it wasn’t the old Len sitting there and not taking any interest.”

“And….”

“God, you do keep pushing me, don’t you.”

“And …”

“Alright, the new version of Len was more like the little brother I remember from when we were teens. Interested, excited, sparkling. But I can’t see that dressing up is going to make a real difference.”

“Let’s ask it another way. Do you want dull Len for the next 20, 30 years or would you prefer to have Elle and have things move forward with this interested, exciting, sparkling sibling that’s been hidden for so long.”

“But why does he have to dress up and pretend like this? It’s horrid.”

“Because the interested and excited and sparkling version doesn’t think he’s any good pretending to be an apparently typical male and believes deep down that his thoughts are feminine rather than masculine, that his attitudes are feminine, that his reaction to things is feminine. That he’s more of a woman than he has ever been a man. And he wants to be happy and sees this as a way to get there.”

“But he’s not a woman.”

“Grrrrrr. I can tell you as another bloke, that he’s not much of a typical man. He has never had any interest in sports, drink and being a lad, action and adventure – naah, boys’ toys and so on – naaaah again, cars – nope. Have you never noticed he says dreadful things like ‘And how did you feel’ and ‘that must have made you emotional’. Them’s girl words. As a boy would say ‘Yukk.”

Jessie’s eyes opened wide with shock. “Oh my god, you’re right. On the few occasions he does get involved, that’s exactly the sort of things he says. I saw him crying at Sleepless in Seattle that time. Oh no, have I really been that unkind to him.”

“Honey, if you really want to start over with your sib – then she’s a girl called Elle. And it’s HER.”

“I’m taking a deep breath here. When are we next due to see ‘her’.”

“Oh come on, Jess. You’ve got to drop that special emphasis. I heard it. This is your brother, well, wanting to be ex-brother Elle. Please try harder. I know you love him, so can’t you love her too.”

“But ….”

“You know you can do it. I don’t know what especial tweak has got into your head about this but if you love your sibling, Elle, than you can do this. I’m not going to pretend it’s all going to be easy. In fact until I really saw how much more interesting Elle was than your, frankly, really boring Len – I wouldn’t have bothered. But something has jolted Elle out of that hole. And I’m willing to give it, that is the situation, not ‘it’ as in Elle is a thing, a decent go.”

“I’ll keep mumbling ‘but’ and ‘I don’t like it’ at intervals.”

“That’s all right, I suppose. But Elle, will you give her the love and encouragement and even help that you can.”

“What? You’re expecting me to teach her makeup and all the girl stuff.”

“I’m not demanding or expecting anything. I’m hoping that you will love Elle as this new person. If, and it’s an if of variable size, if you at times feel like giving real help then that’ll happen – or sometimes it won’t. Do you really mean that you wouldn’t take the opportunity to go shopping with a friend where you can help each other rather than always trying to do it on your own. I’ve heard you grumble about that often enough.”

“I could take her to a better hairdresser.”

“There must be some who know what to do with clients like Elle. It’s her birthday in about six weeks. Could you work with Elle to make her feel special? What would you do for yourself to make you feel special?”

“Well, a trip to the salon or spa would be a start. Then to finish with a nice evening out, dinner or a concert perhaps. A new dress or such to make the event more special. Yeah, I can see ways to deliver that to, er, Elle.”

“Doesn’t sound as difficult as you made it out to be a while ago.”

“S’pose. But it feels like you’ve pushed me a long way in not very long timewise.”

“Now you know, you know, I can’t push you unless you’re willing to be pushed. Be fair.”

Jess pretended to do her Diana pout, peeping from under her fringe. Then she relaxed, grinned at her man and went with, “Can’t get out of that one, darling. I’ll confess to not being the most flexible person on this beach.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And are you going to let Elle come to the house?”

“I’m not keen. What is George going to be thinking by now. Are you or I going to ask if he knows what’s up. He’s bound to have heard us – so he knows something big is happening.”

“You’re pushing again. But if I’ve got to do it then I’ve got to get on with it. Alright. I’ll make some phone calls.”

“Golly. After the last few days I’m amazed we got to this point without a death in the house.”

“Have I been that bad? Really?”

“It ain’t been nice. You know how determined you get when you know you’re right and someone’s pushed the wrong button. That tidal wave of angry upset emotion pours over everybody nearby and they can barely think. It ain’t nice being on the receiving end. Us normal folk can only cope with a thimble or bucket of emotion and a tidal-wave just whelms us right big until we can’t think.”

“Put that way, it does sound, murmurs the small calm voice of reason somewhere at the back of my head, as if I’ve been a bit over-the-top.”

“Dare I say yes. But ‘yes’. And I don’t think I deserved some of the things you said. And I’m pretty sure that Elle, for another, needs to have his sister back and accepting his need for support.”

“I’ll try. I really will. And I’ll try to reset my brain to Her and She, I will try.”

“I can’t ask for more than that and I’m equally certain that Elle wouldn’t want to ask for more either. Make your calls and give Elle some of that love you have.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

…………………. JESSICA

“Elle, what’s up?”

“I’ve lost my job. They say I haven’t been doing well enough but I know because Charlie in Accounts told me that they’re lying. It’s because I told HR about my future plans – they’re lying about it and slinging me out. I bet they’ll give me a crap reference too. And without the job, I can’t afford that house. It’s all falling apart.”

“What’s the worst bit – the house, the job or the income or what?”

“It’s really only a two-room flat. It’s all I want to afford in order to save money for the op.”

I felt my stomach lurch. What was Elle going to demand from me?

“So, I’m going to downsize into a rented room instead. It’ll be cheaper and so on. I might ask if I can store some stuff for a while. I know some nurses in the flats opposite, so when I come back from Thailand they’ll be able to keep an eye on me.”

“Thailand?”

“Yes, Sis. It’s where the likes of me go if we can afford it to get ourselves, er, sorted out plumbing-wise.”

“I hate that. I hate the idea of you mutilating yourself so deliberately.”

“Sis, I can only tell you what my counsellor said one time. I was saying that someone had called it ‘mutilation’ and she had said, ‘why not look at it as your penis and balls being the real imperfection and their continued existence being a sort of mutilation in reverse.’ That's my view - I'm removing an imperfection."

“But, it’s still …. Anyway. If you’re going to have this operation, what sort of care are these nurses offering?”

“Don’t know yet. I’ve never really met them. But I’m told they’re friendly.”

“How long would you have to be recovering?”

“Depends a bit on how smoothly the op goes, how long I can stay in Thailand because flying back will not be that good if the surgery is recent; and then as long as it takes. Say five, six weeks minimum of mostly in bed and all that.”

“You can’t be expecting some nurses you’ve never met to …….. oh dear. Have I been so horrid that you felt you couldn’t ask me? Oh, Elle. Have I really been that much of a shitty sister?”

“Sis. I can’t say much else than, ‘yes’ you have made it hard to ask. But, can I ask, please. Sis, can I come and stay for just a few days until I feel okay to go back to my place?”

“You do realize you’ve just said ‘quite a lot of weeks of recovery’ and then asked to stay here with us ‘for a few days’. Oh hell, Elle. Ask properly.” My brain is spinning but, suddenly and awfully, I’m realizing I haven’t

“Jess, my sister. I know I don’t ask often because it scares me so much to be rejected, but, please, sis, can I stay with you for a while – time as yet unspecified – until I can cope on my own.”

“I’d be a right shit if I said no. I’d deserve to no longer be your sister. I don’t like a whole lot of this but I’m not letting my brother, my apparently soon-to-be sister ask for help from complete strangers rather than me. You can stay. You can stay even longer than the average guest who turns into bad fish after a few days.”

“I don’t know what to say, sis.”

“I’ve got conditions. We’ll have you to stay this next weekend as it’s a bank-holiday so we can see if we can actually fit together for several days. There’s probably things we have to sort out. And there’s Georgie too.”

“How and what about Georgie?”

“You won’t be surprised to know that we’ve had some argy-bargy about all this. Georgie’s got right upset and we need to tell him what’s up. He doesn’t know he’s got an uncle who likes to dress-up …… no sorry, I’ve been learning and that came out all wrong. His mum’s got a sibling who has been having problems and the end result after a lot of talking and assessing is that the person who has been presenting as his Uncle Len is a woman inside; mentally and emotionally a woman and she’s going to have herself tidied up and then will be living and working as a woman.”

“For someone who was saying what you did say only a month or so ago, I’m amazed at you. I’m proud of you that you can cope so well with what I need to do.”

“Elle, what I’ve just said is how I have to present it to Georgie. It’s not that close to what I still think. It still feels wrong to me that you have to change this way. But I’m not trusting my only sibling to some casual nurses who live nearby. If I have to change to do this – then bloody hell, Elle, I’ll have to change.”

“Then each time you change, I’ll get more proud of you.” And my little sister wiped her eye carefully, so as not to smudge her makeup.

“Oh you big softy. You really are a girl aren’t you.”

“Mmmmph, yes.” And we managed one of our very best hugs.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

……………………. GEORGE

I was back from school. It was Thursday evening and things were happening. Furniture was going to and fro. I wondered if the cooker was going to go out – old joke.

Mum saw my expression. She looked tired but excited too. “We’ve got a guest for the weekend. My brother’s coming to stay.”

“Uncle Len. But I thought there was some sort of problem?”

“Well, yes ….. and also no. He’s coming to stay because he’s got some things to sort out. If the weekend goes well, then there might be a longer stay in a few months. After a bit of, erm, effort on my part, I’ve agreed to help.”

“Mum, are you calling it all that shouting by you and Dad ‘just a bit of argy-bargy’?”

“I don’t know what to say. I was getting all wound up and not coping with some issues. Did all that really upset you?”

“You want the truth? I was getting really screwed up. I thought perhaps you would be divorcing or something. I heard you talking about him and things in his room and behaving weirdly and lots more. I couldn’t work out what I was supposed to have been doing. But if it’s Uncle Len – then it was about him. What’s he been doing that got you so screwed up? I think I ought to know a bit more. I do deserve something – I was thinking so many bad things. What's uncle Len done or doing then?”

Mum had gone a startling mixture of red, white, scarlet.

“He’s a, erm. He’s, er. He’s not really your uncle any more.”

Cogs whirred inside my brain. “Oh, it’s this Elle I’ve heard you talking about. Elle is uncle Len – what he’s turning into a woman. Wow. Weird but I’ve read about people like him, or her or whatever. He’s one of these transvessites is he?”

“You’re going to need to learn a few things before Elle arrives. I began by not understanding anything about this. But I have learnt. Some of it’s a bit strange, some of it’s a lot strange – but that’s what you call it with other people. When it’s as close to home as Uncle Len and Elle are – you’ve got to learn or drown. I was drowning – and being cruel because of it. Get yourself a drink and I’ll give you an expanded version of the birds and bees.”

“Yukk. Not the bums and burrs again.”

“Is that what you call it at school?”

“Yeah, because mostly you can’t get to do it at home, so it’s out in the woods and wilds where one of you gets burrs in the bum. Well, allegedly.”

“Okay. What you need to know about the Elles of this new world. Like it or not, and rather a lot don’t – the male-female gender divide is not always clear and simple. First of the variations is the physical. At birth, most babies are quite easily distinguished as to girlness or boyness. But some aren’t – and they used to be medically sorted into what doctors saw as their correct gender. And doctors don’t always get it right.”

“But as well as physically being vague boy-girl wise, some others were vague emotionally and mentally. It’s a dreadful oversimplification about Men from Mars, Women from Venus – but it’s accepted that women are generally better and certainly more visibly emotional. Also that while men tend to compete, women tend to cooperate. There are real differences – and again it’s not ever a clear divide. It’s a spread, a range, a spectrum if you like. And Elle has been podded, poked, analysed and assessed sufficient that what she feels like in her mind and soul is agreed. She’s a woman. Your uncle is an ex. My brother is going to be my sister. And we are going to go on just fine as a slightly different family.”

“Oh, and by the way, what she is is not a transvestite. That’s a word for someone who enjoys and wears the clothes of the opposite gender. A male transsexual wants to be treated as a woman and a transgender person, if male, needs the surgery to make their outside match their inside. You can get girls going boyside as well as boys going feminine.”

“I’d almost say ‘too much information’ but if this new Elle is coming, what, tomorrow, then I need to get my mind straight, don’t I?”

“You’re a good lad. Just be nice to Elle. It’s a hard road and too many are unkind and even abusive about it. Well, you heard me a few weeks back - well, yesterday too until I got a good listen to what I'd been saying. There's all sorts of bad words about prejudice, unkindness and actually abuse - that I was doing to my own brother. I was scared and upset. Don’t ask why my brother dressing up should scare or upset me – logic doesn’t always come into it when you get emotional. Just be kind, and as your Dad has suggested a few times to me, If you’re not sure what to say, stay silent and wait a bit.”

“Do you still love Uncle Len, well, Elle, I suppose now.”

“I never stopped loving hi..her. I was confused and being pulled out of my comfort zone.”

“Can I talk to Elle about why and stuff?”

“Why do you want …. I suppose so. Perhaps you’ll learn something, perhaps if I’m listening I might learn something too. But be nice and be kind. It's a better start than what I was doing."

------------------------------

At school next day, the gang immediately noticed that I was more relaxed.

“Hey, George, you’re looking not so stressed. Good news or something?” said Paolo.

“Yeah, I’ve been told what all the fuss was between Mum and Dad. It’s all sorted and I’m not weird. Great isn’t it?”

“Do we need to know what it was all about, y’know in case it kicks off again and you need to escape to us?”

“You know I’ve got an uncle Len, my Mum’s brother ….. well, he’s coming to stay this weekend. But as my Auntie Elle. My mum was having a bit of a time coping with all of it. And I heard it wrong.”

“Your uncle, sorry, auntie is a cross-dresser. Unusual but judging by the papers there’s more than a few of them. Is he queer?”

“No. My mum told me and I talked with my dad too. Elle’s not a cross-dresser – they’re happy just to wear girly clothes. He’s, well, she’s a woman according to the docs and is getting sorted for that.”

“Yurk, what, getting his bits chopped.”

“Well, yes. She’s told mum that she’s a girl and things like that don’t belong on a girl or woman.”

“Wouldn’t go for that, me.”

“Makes it a bit obvious that you don’t want to be a girl then.”

“Not me, no way. If I want to get into a girl’s panties that’s me getting them off her not me dressing in them. No way.”

“Me too. Although.”

“What d’you mean …. ‘Although’ ?”

“Well, you’ve probably seen them more than me, girl’s panties like Bianca’s, they’re very different from what we get. I mean they’re shinier, they look slidier and just, well, different.”

“You’ve been checking out Bianca’s panties?”

“No. But I’m round your place so often. Your sister’s pretty messy with her things. I’ve just noticed once or twice.”

“You have been checking out her panties. What in the bathroom washbasket, that’s yukky.”

“No way. That would be grubby. When I’ve helped out with the washing a few times.”

“That’s almost worse. You’ve been … what have you been doing with her stuff?”

“Just folding it up and putting it away, like you have to.”

“Does she know you’ve been handling her panties … and presumably her bras and stuff too?”

“She was there when I was doing it one time.”

“What did she say?”

“Not much. I think she said, be careful with those. They’re called ‘delicates’ for a reason.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“No, I mean. Didn’t you have a feel.”

“How else would I know that they’re slidy and shiny and soft. Pretty too.”

“Getting a bit iffy there, boy. We don’t use words like pretty. Not unless you use gorgeous, cute, beautiful, lovely and sweet as well. Them’s the girly words.”

“Don’t be daft. Your mum asked for my help – I helped. Since that meant putting the washing away that’s what I did.”

“But you went into Bianca’s room. I can’t do that.”

“I couldn’t not do that could I. I couldn’t put her bra and panties into YOUR room.

“This conversation is getting loopy. Let’s leave it.”

We both grunted – as boys do to signal agreement.

But it didn’t help when Paolo said as he turned off to his lesson, ‘Slidy and shiny, you said, mmm?”

I was getting concerned. Truly, I'd had never thought about Bianca’s clothes when I was helping out. Well, not a lot. They were clearly amazingly different from what I wore as a boy, but once I'd had been shown how to fold her bra, I’d just got one with it – and the same with the panties. Olivia, their mum, had been quite straightforward about it.

“They’re just clothes, everyone wear them, well, except for the actual nudistes. It is nice sometime to be without the clothes, yes?” Once in a while her idiosyncratic style of English came out. My mind almost blanked out at the idea of Olivia without the clothes.

My mind veered and span during the day. Was Paolo thinking about his sister’s panties. Somehow his comments had made me think about them too. I knew what they felt like in the hand – but what would they be like …… no, I didn’t want to think about it. But I couldn’t stop. The mental image of smooth, soft, sleek nylon panties.

Yet again, I went round to Paolo’s house after finishing my homework. I’m not boasting but I was brighter and I worked a bit harder than Paolo so, almost always, I finished before he did. It was Thursday so unusually Bianca was home too.

She caught me as I came through to the kitchen for a drink and nibbles. “Hi, Georgio.”

Then to my surprise, she said, “Do you want to come to my room for a moment?”

This was not allowed. Olivia and her dad Giovanni had strict rules. “But…”

“Oh, don’t be silly. I’ll have to leave the door open. But we need to talk.”

We went upstairs. Bianca went first and I couldn’t help but stare at her long legs and the abbreviated skirt which hid the panties I’d spent so much of the day thinking about. I MUST STOP thinking about her PANTIES. My brain screamed at me.

At the top of the stairs, Bianca glanced back and knew that I was not looking at anything other than her legs. She grinned to herself.

I went into her room and sat on the stool by her vanity table while she sat on the bed, legs crossed and almost letting me get a glimpse.

“Paolo has been telling me things. Things that I’d more or less forgotten. And then he told me other things too, things he’s got questions about. Got me quite interested he did. Made me want to help you, both of you.”

“Erm, what, what’re you talking about?”

“Paolo told me, reminded me. About you sorting out the washing that day. About you stroking my panties.”

“I never did.”

“He said you said they were soft, silky, shiny. How could you know that …. Without, as I say.”

“But I didn’t.”

“You would if there was a next time, mmm. Wouldn’t you.”

I couldn’t answer, didn’t answer. My scarlet face was my answer.

“Paolo said he would if you would.”

“He’d do what?”

“Wear a pair of my panties, silly.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because you want to know what they feel like on your skin, sliding up your legs, brushing softly, snuggling all silky-like instead of just a piece of cloth in your hand.”

“What do you think?”

“Me. I think it’s strangely exciting to have my two closest friends want to try on my panties. I’ve got four pairs just back from the wash. They’re almost new. Which do you want?”

Four pairs of panties waited on the bed. Pink with flowers, white with lace, white with satin bows, white with black stitching. I felt strange. Excited and scared at the same time. Excited but somehow feeling that this was wrong as well.

“I don’t know.” Then a thought hit me. Was this how Uncle had started? But Mum had told me that he had always been a bit of a girl. And that now he wanted to get his things chopped off. Not me. No. I stood up.

“No. I’m not doing it. It’s not right. I’d get as screwed up as Uncle.”

“What’s your uncle got to do with wearing my panties. It’s not likely to be an offer I’ll repeat.”

“He’s turning into a woman. And I don’t want to take that risk.”

“I’m pretty sure that that sort of thing isn’t infectious. You don’t catch it because somebody nearby does it or has it, whatever.”

“Then I’ll go with the nature versus nurture argument. Since most things are a combination of the two, then being near someone who’s changing sex, gender, whatever. I don’t want to take the risk.”

“If there was no risk?”

“Then I’d probably do it. Ever since Paolo found out this morning that I’d had to fold and put away your undies, he’s been on and on about what did they feel like. It’s made me wonder too. And Auntie too – is there something that special about women’s clothes as compared to what we wear?”

“How can you answer that without experience. And I can promise you that putting on a pair of my panties just the once can’t have any effect. So why don’t you try. Then Paolo can have a go.” She giggled.

“At least if Paolo does it too, you can’t embarrass him and me both. Alright, but both of us together so we’re all in it together.”

Bianca called out, “Paolo, can I borrow you for a moment?”

As he came along the corridor, Bianca added a couple more panties to the options.

“Paolo, what you talked about. Here’s Georgio and there’s a selection of panties for you to choose from. Come on. Don’t waste time. Choose and swap what you’ve got for whatever you select – and then tell me they feel lovely – or be bold enough to say you don’t like them.”

Paolo looked at me. I looked back at him. We both glanced at Bianca who waited for us to make our move.

“Okay, come on Paolo. I’ve chosen mine. Get with it. Time for us to get into Bianca’s panties.” I smirked at Bianca as I said it.

“That was just so wrong saying that, Georgio. You might be paying for that.” But she was smiling as she said it.

Paolo nudged me. “Ready, boyo.”

“Okay, let’s do it.” We both turned away from Bianca and dropped our trousers and pants. Then we slid the new underwear up our legs and ….. they did feel very different. The softness and silkiness I remembered from before. But there was so much more to it. The panties felt lovely.

I couldn’t help it. I smiled. Paolo saw it, Bianca saw it.

“You do like them. Oh that’s so good. I wanted to know because of Thomas. I want him to try a pair of my panties. That’ll teach him for telling his mates ‘I’d really like to get into Bianca’s knickers’. I’ll teach him about knickers and the getting-into-them of.”

“Why Thomas? You mean Thomas the tennis player or Thomas the actor. Those are the only two you know aren’t they?”

“Actor Thomas would be easy to get into a pair of my panties. I’ve got Tennis Thomas. I was, er, spending time with him and he was stroking my panties, I mean really, my panties rather than my luscious and nearby thigh. Bad boy. So there’s two reasons. But I want to check him out. And seeing as how easy it’s been to persuade both of you to try out my panties and to look like you’re enjoying it – then it should be the same with him.”

“And if you ever want to borrow a pair of my panties, then just ask.” And she giggled again.

“Okay, boys, off you go. You can keep the panties. Here’s your trousers.” And she held up her phone to remind us about the pictures – as if we needed reminding. Even sisters and best friends can do BAD things.

Back at home, I rapidly changed my pants and hid the panties in my school bag ready to return them to Paolo on Tuesday unless I had a chance beforehand. What with Uncle Elle or whatever he-she was wanting to be called staying for the long weekend, I wasn’t sure what plans were in hand.

But I was now wondering about a whole bunch of new ideas, new sensations, new feelings.

But every now and again, when I thought about the new pleasure that I had experienced with those panties, I also knew that I was different from Uncle Elle. I had been reading on the net. Okay, that meant I read a lot of information, a quantity of misinformation, disinformation, guesswork, wishful thinking, rubbish, weird, close-to-porn and full-force ugly porn. The last being difficult to avoid when you type in words like transgender or cross-dressing.

But amongst the sludge, I did pick out enough pearls. I kept coming back to the basic definitions of cross-dresser all the way through to transgender. It became quite clear that the common label LGBT was very misleading. I mean, time after time, the first three letters are all about who and how people have sex whereas the letter T was about gender.

I found it really difficult to understand why this difference wasn’t made more clear. I felt this more strongly when I looked at the other letters that have got attached to LGBT. After all, there’s now LGBTIQA? which is getting pretty complicated. And then I read that Facebook has over 50 different gender labels.

By the time I’d finished, I had a pretty neat document. I had the LGB at the top because they are the best-known labels for non-heterosexual or non-straight sexual activity. I then listed the three main Gender variants – T I Q - Trans, Intersex and Questioning.

There are other letters but they have more than one meaning so I decided to ignore them. Even Q could also mean Queer. A could mean Aromantic or Asexual, P could mean Pansexual or Polysexual. But even with the most exaggerated estimates, I did realize that there’s not very many people in some of these categories. But one couldn’t take this to mean that being in a category and no longer feeling alone wasn’t crucial to the people who have these feelings and behaviours.

Actually there was a whole pack of strangeness in that several of the letters seemed to refer to the amount of sexual activity – Pansexual, Polyamatory, Asexual and probably others that seemed a bit unclear to me. And as with T, some dealt with gender and identity and what people had inside their heads. One site had a slogan 'Gender is not Genitals'. That seemed to me to be a really useful statement. I wondered why it wasn't better known.

The only simple statement after looking at all that was ‘ Ain’t Humans Wonderfully Different’.

Y’know how things don’t always work out the way you plan? Yep, dang thing bounced on me again.

I’d left my schoolbag in its usual placed in my room. Mum came in to check that my room was clean and tidy – not that anyone else would likely be coming in but I was expected to keep my door open and passing strangers as well as Mum and Dad would be able to see in. And this weekend, the passing stranger would be Uncle Elle. Not much more than 24 hours to go.

I don’t know why I had developed this new name for hi.. her. But it felt like I could cope with it and I wasn’t thinking how she would deal with it. But, heck, I’m a teenager and my social skills aren’t that well practised for unusual situations. And having an uncle transition right there in my house was VERY unusual.

So. Mum’s looking round, turns to leave and catches her heel in the handle of my bag. Everything falls out and I mean everything.

Some minutes later, Mum called me up to my room. I’d been reading in the front room where the sun made it warm and the chair just fitted me right.

“Explanation?” And the panties were dangling from her hand.

“They’re Bianca’s.”

“And? Given? Borrowed? Stolen? They are for her? They are from her? Mmmmm?”

“No. Ye.. It’s a bit difficult.”

“I’ll ask another way then. Is this something complicated and to do with Elle coming to stay and sort of you wanting to ..”

I held my hand up to stop her going down THAT route. “I can promise it’s nothing to do with Uncle Elle.” Her eyes widened as she heard my new label for Elle. “It was Bianca wanting to play a trick on a friend. Somehow she persuaded both Paolo and me to try on a pair of her panties to answer whether they were smoother and softer than boy pants. Of course, neither of us wanted to but you know how persuasive that girl can be.”

“Mmmmm, and?”

“Oh. But then she tried to steal our own pants, took pictures and told us to get out of her room.”

“In her room, you know that’s forb....”

The hand-stop signal again “Of course I know, but she was in charge and … the door was open anyway and it was all three of us.”

Her hand-stop. “I could hear that as being even worse – but I won’t. Do I need to speak with Bianca or, worse, do I need to speak with her mum. On second thought, ring Bianca and get her to come round here. Her Second-Mum needs a word. But don’t say what it’s about even if she asks or guesses.”

“Now, as to this. You say Bianca wanted to know if you felt panties like this slick little number were ‘softer and smoother’ than your usual underwear. Hmmm? Were they? Did you like them? Enjoy them? Want a pair for yourself? What were you going to do with these?”

Always answer the easy question. “I was going to return them over the weekend if there was an opportunity. I mean what with Uncle Elle being around, there might be changes to what I usually do.”

“I do note the speed with which you avoided answering. Well, did they feel very different?”

“Of course, they felt different. And putting them on while Paolo did the same and Bianca was in the room, oops, perhaps that wasn’t obvious.”

Mum’s expression was very calm, too calm. “And?”

“They did feel different, they’re a different material, more stretchy so they clung more, the whole feel of them was different and mine aren’t smooth nylon or whatever these are.”

“And …. Did you like them?”

“Really, I can’t answer that. The whole situation was just … too strange.”

“Do you want to keep these?”

“Why would I? I said I’m giving them back as soon as possible.”

“Mmmmm. I’ll think about this. And what’s this about ‘Uncle Elle’? I’m not sure that she’s going to be happy about that.”

“I’ve only ever called him Uncle Len. To jump all the way to Elle wouldn’t feel right and Auntie Elle feels wrong too. Auntie Len would be almost worse, but I thought recognising hi.. er, her, sorry I can’t get my mind round this so suddenly. I thought Uncle Elle was what I could cope with and I hoped that … she wouldn’t be too upset.”

“I’ll have a word. But it would be kind of you to listen hard to what Elle says. Perhaps it may be a bit early for you to call adults by their first names, but it’s going to begin to happen soon. I had the same problem at your age. My best friend’s parents told me to call them Anne and Jake instead of Mrs Jacobs and Sir which was my usual way. I got round it by waiting to catch their eye and saying ‘Um’. It took about a year before I could call her Anne and another year before I got to Jake. I’d prefer it if you could avoid going ‘um’ to anybody. Elle’s having a hard time currently. Any kindness we can offer is going to be so much appreciated. I know this because I was part of the problem until recently.”

“You?”

“Yep. I couldn’t cope with my brother’s needs. I was unkind, judgmental, and probably a lot worse when, as his only sibling, heck, his only close relative, he deserved my love. But I was hiding behind my prejudices and ignorance about how much she was hurting.”

“Hurting?”

“My brother has told me that every day dressing up as a man has been an act, a pretence, a fake life dressing and behaving in a role that is just wrong. She’s a woman. Inside and wanting to be outside too so she stops feeling quite so wrong. She’s a woman in her head, in her emotions, in her soul, in her heart. The only bit that’s wrong is what she calls ‘an ugly little plumbing problem’. I really have learnt so much from her and a couple of her friends.”

“What, you mean there’s lots of others out there like Uncle, sorry, like Elle.”

“I never knew. So how likely is it that you knew? But there’s a whole range of people in the real world. Some of them have problems with Gender, some with Sexual preference. I really didn’t know. But my brother has been lying to the world for almost his whole life – because he isn’t male in any significant way. And my sister is coming to stay. Okay. So be nice.”

“Now, go away and find some chores or whatever until I’ve spoken with Bianca.”

Bianca came over about half an hour later. I was finishing the washing up and drying. Generally, none of us knock anymore because we’re so close to being a giant family in two houses. Bianca hissed at me as she went past, “What’s this about?”

I shrugged. I wasn’t going to get into any more trouble. Damned Panties!

Bianca left about twenty minutes later – without saying goodbye.

Mum came up to my room where I was doing stuff. “Well, young man. I have spoken to Bianca in my role as Second-Mum. She will not be inviting you into her bedroom again. She will not be offering you panties to wear. The one’s you were given are in the wash and will be returned to her. She is contemplating what she is going to decide shall be her punishment. Now, as for you. I have concerns.”

“Bianca’s timing is not useful or helpful. You are at the exact age when all the complications of sex, sexuality, sexiness and sexual attraction are beginning to be or about to be of major major interest to you. You’re a boy. Day by hour by minute, you are about to get injections of testosterone and the like from your various glands. This is going to happen unless you are extraordinarily unusual and what I know of your medical history says your very middle-of-the-road except sizewise.”

“At this time, the competent parent will mumble something about the birds and the bees and point you at a book or the internet. There you will find completely the wrong information and, all too likely, be drowned in a tidal wave of quite startling pornography. This is not what I want to happen. I can give you books and leaflets about the relatively simple process of sexual intercourse, protection from diseases and babies, and a number of other very physical activities. Your body will soon be demanding that you react to the pheromones of a woman in heat. It’s natural. But it’s as far from love and love-making as is possible.”

“But all of this will be new to you. New sensations, new feelings, new desires. If life has dealt you a typical hand, then you are likely to be heterosexual and interested only in women. If you have a good hand, then you will eventually focus on just one woman and aim at a family, marriage and a life together. But you do not know enough about yourself yet to even guess at the hand you’ve got. It may be that you’ll turn out to be homosexual or bisexual or some other more complicated alternative – and whatever you choose, I have learnt enough recently to say ‘I will always love you’.”

“It depends on who you talk to but being gay or whatever is not completely driven by genetics and is not completely a free choice. It is, like most human situations, a combination of Nature and Nurture. We have tried to be better than adequate as parents but we will have made mistakes, sometimes for the bad and even sometimes for the better. You’ll be able to judge in a few years. And, sorry, lost my thread there. But, right at this moment, I’ll go back to saying you don’t know what cards you have. Bianca’s rather selfish suggestion that you try on panties so that she can play a trick on her friend Thomas is not good. It could be that you enjoy it so much that you want to wear panties more often, then perhaps other girl’s clothes, or ....., I don’t know. But playing around with a young man’s head when they’re too young to know what experiments are safe and which are less safe – I won’t have it.”

“As parents we try our best. Sometimes a thing will happen that we think is enormously significant but you barely notice, sometimes it’ll be the other way round. Aged about fifteen, I was singing one day and my cousin said ‘You can’t sing’. So I pretty much never sang for thirty years. Then I was singing to myself and a friend who sings in a choir said ‘you sing so nice, join me in the choir’. Now, I think my cousin who really could sing had lied to me because he was jealous. But I lost thirty years of enjoying singing. And I'm always alert for someone else to say the same. It hurts that sort of thing. But sometimes, it's as if it was never said, never heard, never remembered. The person saying it will NEVER know which. And that's why you should never say unkind things.”

“Have I talked enough, kiddo? There’s big issues lining up for us to talk about. Or maybe for some of it, there’s your dad or Them-there (her nickname for Bianca and Paolo’s mum and dad). But I won’t have any more of this with Bianca playing games. But I may take the occasional opportunity to instruct you in girl-boy differences. Like the different jobs they do – like in the house, around the house and outside too. I do not want you falling into the jobs for men versus jobs for girls trap. Every boy should be able to iron a shirt, cook three recipes and so on while every girl should be able to change a tyre, attach an electric plug and so on for her too. I’ll think of some lessons. You might learn a lot.” She turned to go off to the kitchen. “And don’t do that pretend-scream. I’m a mum and I have eyes in the back of my head. For that, you come to the kitchen and peel potatoes. You can wear an apron to prevent spilling anything of your clean clothes!”

-------------------------------

By the evening, I had done tasks and jobs and chores all over the house and garden. Friday after school was more jobs as well as homework to be done in a hurry so I was knacked and taking a quick break on my bed before Elle arrived. I had practised using just Elle during the day. It didn’t feel right but then Uncle Elle had been pushed out of my head by doing so. Elle was due in about an hour – just in time for dinner.

I was quite startled when Elle turned up. Obviously she’d been doing something with Mum because she was in the car too. Elle looked pretty good for a woman the same vintage as Mum – well as far as a teenager judges age. Elle was actually a lot younger but in your 30s that can barely matter. Mum was 42 after her birthday last month, so Elle was about 31. They did look awfully like sisters.

She was wearing, heck, that’s a girl thing. You don’t need to know. Anyway, just in case, a yellow sundress with a green and white trim. Sandals with a low heel and a sort of flicky short hairstyle. I could tell she had breasts because I could see them and the outline of a bra. Golly, Elle really is my auntie and no longer my uncle.

I came forward. “Do you need help with you bags, Elle. It’s nice to be seeing you. You look very neat.”

“Oh, this old thing, just an old dress that seemed to suit. But your Mum and I have been to the salon and I’m polished and shone up as good as an old wagon like me can be done. But thanks for saying it. And there’s three bags altogether, if you’d be so kind.”

Mum complimented me “Very smooth, young man. Sounded like you’d rehearsed that a couple of times. And the extra ‘You look very neat’, well done for that too."

“Gee, golly thanks, Ma.”

“Don’t be cheeky or I’ll eat all the chocolate biscuits in the bag I carry with me. Verily, the treasures of the mall have been secured ‘gainst possible future threats of afternoon starvation. We must needs enjoy them while there’s time. But I need to go the other direction for some ingredients, I’ll be back later, maybe half an hour. I’ll leave you to make tea for Elle and so on.”

We grinned at each other. I hauled the bags and tottered back down to the kitchen pretending absolute exhaustion for revival and refreshment. Elle was there but Mum had gone already. “What did you have in those bags? A collection of your pet rocks?”

“Oh, just the usual, dear. Girls travel with more stuff than any bloke ever managed. You’ve no idea, until now, how much 42 pairs of shoes can weigh.”

“Forty-two!?”

“Oh don’t be silly. That would need at least 84 different outfits. There’s about five or six pairs of shoes – but there’s other things too. A girl needs to have choices every day.”

“Un… Elle, sorry I’ve been calling you Uncle Elle in my head for a few days. I’ve been trying to train myself into Elle like Mum suggested.”

“Uncle Elle … that’d be a new one. I know you’ve called me uncle for a while but I’d really like it if you could manage NOT to call me uncle. ‘Elle’ would be just fine. I do understand that it might be a bit tricky, but stick with it for a while and it’ll get easier. You up for that?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I can ask. But if you have any issues or concerns, then, please just ask.”

There was a pause.

“George, DO you have a question?”

“Er, would it really have upset you if I’d said ‘Uncle Elle’?”

“Okay, I think you had another question to ask, but I’ll deal with the one you’ve asked. Yes, it would have hurt me. It would probably be almost as bad as if someone called you a ‘girl’ or a ‘sissy’ or anything like that. It’s kind of strange but calling a boy a girl is seen as really insulting. But I’m trying and learning to be the girl I am inside and I’ve got to unlearn all the acting and boy-pretending I’ve done for years and years. I don’t need any reminder that I used to be called a boy, well, man. There's enough like me who call using the old names is 'dead-naming'. They are able, and really want, to call their old self 'dead'.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that. I'll try harder. So..., was it suddenly that you decided to become a girl?”

“There’s so many words I want to comment on there. But it wasn’t sudden although for some it can be. I didn’t decide to become a girl, it was rather that I came to understand that I actually was a girl; just that I had a little difficulty which made people call me a boy. Like I say, it wasn’t sudden but I don’t know if I was typical or not.”

“Er, why?”

“Generally, folk like me there’s the obvious and well known or well-storied ways – the ones who play with girl toys as soon as possible and do girl type things and want to play with the girls rather than the boys and so on; the others just gradually realise there’s something wrong by the time they’re 10 to 12 before puberty starts to come along. There's those for whom puberty just feels wrong. And there’s those who as you say ‘suddenly’ have something happen which makes them realise they’re a girl. For me, it was just a series of events over a couple of years with my best friends. There were four, sometimes five of us. We were all between 9 and maybe 11 at the beginning. Sandy, Gina, Fiona, Edward and myself. The first thing, I guess, was when we were at the beach. Because of the variable weather and it being cool to start with, Ed and I wore jeans and fleeces. Then it got boiling hot and we were melting. Ed started it by saying ‘what can I do, I’m going to become a puddle of blood and sweat. I haven’t got much else to wear except swimming trunks. And Mum expects me to cover up with something when it’s this bright’.

Sandy was the one who made the offer. “I’ve got something spare” and she giggled, “but you might not be too keen. I guess it depends how brave you are.”

‘Uh oh, sort of a dare being made here’ I thought.

“For some reason, I got this as a spare.” And she held up a white, green and yellow sundress. “Are you hot enough to be brave enough to wear it?”

Ted spoke up. “I really don’t like the idea but I’m so dreadfully hot. I feel a bit faint actually and I’ve been close to sunstroke before. Not again, please. So, yes, I’m not being brave I’m going to be sensible.”

“What about you, Len?” said Fiona.

Elle added “If you’re wondering about all our parents, they were further down the beach and had deliberately left us to ourselves. My parents were actually away sorting out something with your mum, so I’d got Gina’s parents in change of me. They were only about five minutes away but we’d all had a big discussion about giving us some independence and a chance to make mistakes in a safe place. There only real rule was no swimming unless we were back with some parents. This was in the days when parents gave their kids room and opportunities to grow.”

“So, Fiona makes this comment. ‘If Ted is getting cool, what about Len? Does either of you have anything else spare?’. “

There was a pause. “Doesn’t anyone have anything. Well, I’ve got a suggestion. I’ve got some money with me and there’s a shop just up from the beach and I saw a sundress I’d love to have. If I buy it, then Len has got a dress to borrow just like Ted. And in a while, I’ve got a new dress for me. Excellent.”

"There was a longer pause. I definitely kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to volunteer nothing. But I could see that Ted was now smiling and I was getting more and more like the puddle of blood and sweat he had forecast."

“So it happened. Fiona went off and bought the dress and I put it on. And it was so much better. I was cool, I was comfortable. It felt so much better. But I didn’t stop being a boy. Not then anyway.”

“So, what then?”

“It was a week or so later. The holiday photos had come back and my parents saw them. They had missed out on the beach day and somehow they didn’t know about the dress. Obviously they asked about the photos with boys in dresses and they got told what had happened. They said two things, ‘next time plan your day out more carefully’ and ‘even though you had to so as to get cool, did you like wearing the dress?’ Well, it was Mum who said it, but Dad clearly knew about it and agreed.”

“I didn’t know what to say to that. I’d never really thought about the dress and what it had felt like. I’d liked the extra comfort from the dress but whether I liked the dress itself, I hadn’t thought about it. So I said so."

“If you had another boiling hot day, would it be convenient to have a sundress available?”

“Wow. Never thought about that. Er, I don’t think so, no. Boys don’t wear dresses, do they?”

“Generally not, but there’s exceptions to every rule. Girls can wear anything a boy does and boys and girls are almost indistinguishable at your age. If you want to, then it won’t matter. Think about it. If you do want to I won’t object. And you did look pretty in that dress. Did you wear it all day?”

“Mum, I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

“I do hear you. But Fiona’s mum has had her asking if Elle can come round to play. So Fiona and her mum are quite happy if you want to. So, do think about it, yes?”

“I’m not saying no straight away if Fiona wants it, but it does seem a bit strange. I’m a boy after all, and isn’t there some rule about boys not wearing girl’s clothes?”

“Kiddo, it’s not rule. It’s just an expectation. Looking at it with a bit of common-sense, it’s all a bit skew really. Like I said all of thirty seconds ago – if you want to wear something and I don’t argue then you can wear it. Dresses in summer are, as far as I’m concerned really sensible, they’re cool, they cover a lot of skin, an extra layer like a cardigan keeps you warmer when it’s cold. I think dresses are great. You can choose the colour, the material and the overall look with so much more variety and style than a boring bloke gets to wear. I’m all in favour. And at your age, barely anybody can tell if you’re a boy or girl. They go by the big signals like what clothes you’re wearing. If you’re happy once in a while to wear a dress and be mistaken for a girl – that’s just part of the rich tapestry of life.”

“But my hair’s not right.”

“That’s easy enough to correct. Short as it is, brushing it differently will make an amazing difference. Are you interested? Talking about your hair is a sort of indicator that you’re not too upset!”

“Even if I could wear whatever I want – I really don’t want anybody saying ‘there’s a boy in a dress - weird, hiss, boo, abuse, etc.”

“Fair enough. So – the follow up question. If I take you upstairs and sort out your hair, would you like to go over to Fiona’s as Elle or Len?”

“Can you give me some more ideas as to why to say yes or no. After all, you are actually a woman and might have some ideas as to what I might gain from doing so, also you are a little older than me and therefore have more experience of life. I could guess that means you could give me some useful guidance. I say carefully, could, because you are, after all, my mother and may have defects of which I am unaware.”

“Are you sure you’re only 11. That’s an awfully, actually dreadfully, intelligent set of thoughts. All set out in a row with logic apparently linking one sentence to another. What have you been doing alone in your room – I can’t bear it if you’ve been thinking. Ugh.”

“Oh, mother-unit, grace me with your innermost cog-workings. Guide me, oh mother-unit.”

“I’ll give you ‘mother-unit’, appallingly intelligent child. You’re eleven and I am of the belief that you are little experienced in the opposite gender, and not precocious as regards sexual interests or actual activity. That means you are perhaps ready for guidance. You are nearly at the age of discovering that girls are different from boys in amazing and remarkable ways. It may be that doing things with Fiona while you’re in costume might give you knowledge about girls that you’d never get any other way; that is, if she begins to treat you more as a girl than a boy. That’s certainly what I read into her invitation. Clearly, she enjoyed being with you when you were wearing that dress. Girls on their own talk about things and boys in a different way from boys do when they are on their own and different again from how both talk together. It could be very revealing to you – yet another learning experience. Perhaps if your sister was here…. But she’s at University now and about to start a job in Yorkshire. I’m not sure how often we’ll be seeing her.”

Mum and Dad both were over-keen on making things into ‘learning experiences’. Sometimes they were fun, sometimes they were dull, dull, dull. But learning about girls – that could be worthwhile. I knew very little about them as a species. As I say I had my three friends but we were so close that I wasn’t sure I was learning much about the difference between boys and girls from being with them. But perhaps doing things just with Fiona might be different.

“Let’s give it a go, then.”

“Where is the dress you wore that day?”

“I gave it back of course.”

“How bold are you feeling about this. You can either ring Fiona and say you’ll need to borrow that dress when you arrive, or she might lend you something else; or we can buy you something on the way over, something you would have chosen for yourself.”

“What, no way.”

“It actually gives you more control over the situation if you make the choice. You haven’t a clue what Fiona might offer you. She almost certainly wouldn’t let you wear the sundress again. Girls just don’t wear the same thing twice in a row. If you’re going to learn from this experience, then you need to do it properly. You can’t be half a boy, half a girl. As you said yourself, you can’t be a boy in a dress. It’s up to you. Ready to go shopping?”

“Something feels very skew here. But okay. But I’m not spending hours like girls apparently do.”

“That’s fair, provided we can find something good enough quite quickly. The main reason for girls to spend so much time shopping and window-shopping too is that they are looking for the exactly right outfit for some identified occasion. We don’t need that here for this. Okay, you’re wearing shirt, jeans and shoes, that’s enough. I reckon that we can get whatever you need pretty quickly. Let’s go.”

“Umph.”

“Well, that wasn’t ladylike!” Mum smirked.

“Huh, I’m not a lady am I.”

“No, but you’ll be more nearly a bit girl in a while over there with Fiona. And I will pick you up on any mistakes. Let’s not give Fiona any reasons not to give you the thorough girl experience, eh?”

I decided to push a bit. “But, Mummy, what if I can’t find a thing to wear?”

“Then it’s just a matter of being a typical girl and borrowing from your friends, sorted. And I caught the change to ‘Mummy’, little girl.”

“Oh, but, Mummy, what if I can’t find anything pretty?”

“You do know that you’re putting yourself into considerable danger. I might take you up on getting something really pretty and girly!”

There was silence for a moment.

“Perhaps I was pushing a bit, Sorry, Mummy.”

“So, let’s go and see what there is. I’ll listen to what you say you want but I would prefer it if you do at least make some effort to choose something you’d like to wear! I do say it’s all up to you – but I think I’d like you to get properly involved. Because I hadn’t remembered until now, but I think that Sandy also said something that perhaps meant she wanted Elle to come for a visit too. I’m really not sure if that was what she meant. If this goes nicely with Fiona, and you enjoy it, then perhaps we’ll follow up by talking with Sandy. Although I guess that Fiona will get there faster than I will.”

So, it was never a deliberate intention by me. It was never part of my mum’s plan – because I’ve asked her. And actually neither Fiona nor Sandy ever meant for me to spend a lot of time in dresses over that summer. But gradually I found myself at their houses more and more often, and more and more often I was wearing pretty clothes.

And, surprise, surprise, I grew to like it. Part of it was the so-different feeling of being treated as one of the girls instead of as a boy with a group of girls. By this time, we didn’t know the reasons why, Ted was away for the whole of the summer and we didn’t see much of him until Christmas. So there was Fiona, Sandy, Gina and two new friends – a pair of twin sisters, Lizzie & Lucy. I was outnumbered 5 to 1 if I had been interested enough to notice. But for that summer, it really was just us 6 girls.

Needless to say, I was Elle whenever I was with the girls rather than Len. And Mum was quite happy with me being Elle at home. There were side-effects. Because I was ‘being a girl’ so she began to treat me much more as a daughter. I began to be taught the duties and tasks that girls get as part of their indoctrination. I helped with the washing, ironing, washing-up, drying, cleaning and so much more than I had done as a boy. But in return, I got to know my mum so much better than before. Instead of being merely fed, watered, washed, cleaned and so on as most boys begin to expect – I started to see how much work is needed to keep a house and a household in good order. As a boy, I might have learnt if I had wanted to – but expectation can make things happen as well as not happen.

And I learnt as much but very differently from my girlfriends.

I’m really not sure if it was that summer that made me decide that I was a girl on the inside. Obviously spending day after day as a girl began to make an immense difference to how I saw the world. But, I think it was later that I began to think about changing or rather realising that I had changed.

Over the autumn, back at school, there wasn’t much opportunity to be Elle. There were evenings and weekends I suppose, but it didn’t seem to happen quite so much. Then it came to the Christmas holidays. We were over at Gina’s house and she was showing us her new party dress. It was so pretty. We all oohed and aahed over it. Fiona asked if she could try it on. Gina wasn’t very willing because Fiona was noticeably larger in the chest than Gina and Sandy was just a bigger girl all over. Fiona tried it on but admitted defeat quite quickly. But Gina said, ‘Elle can try it on. D’you want to.”

I was just as excited as the others so I instantly said, “Yes please,” and began to change right there and then.

Fiona stopped me almost at once. “Elle, you’re not going to put that dress on over your boy undies are you?”

So, very quickly, I was stripped almost naked and given a set of Gina’s undies. Her family was better off than mine so her underwear had more satin, silk and lace than I usually wore. They felt lovely and I said so. “Oh, these are so pretty. So smooth. And I love the dress.”

“Elle, you’ve been out of school for barely 2 hours, and you’ve gone to being even girlier than you were all summer. Why have you been hiding since then?”

“Don’t know really. It just didn’t seem to fit to be Elle for the last couple of months. But, seeing this dress, I just had to ask to wear it and then you suggested it. It IS so pretty. And it feels even nicer to be wearing it. The lining just feels so gorgeous combined with the weight of the cloth. Where did you get it, ‘cos I want one like it. Then we can be sisters for Christmas, that’d be so neat.”

Fiona burst out with “Golly, Ellie, you have gone right back to being all girl, haven’t you. I like it as well. I did love being with Elle so much in the summer and I’ve missed you too for the last months. But I didn’t want to pressure you. My Mum told me not to and, one time, your mum said to wait and see as well.”

“'Vot is zis, an conspirrrazee?' But if it was I was very willing to be the victim.”

“I guess being so instantly girl when I saw that dress was a sign. Then I pestered mum until we got to the shop and bought a matching dress for me. Pretty much from that point I began to spend every evening and every weekend back in dresses and pretty clothes of every sort. My Elle wardrobe soon got far bigger than what I had accumulated on all my years as Len.

That was when your Mum found all my stuff when she came in to tidy my room. I know she was doing it as a favour to our mum, but it was a b disaster. She didn’t just go off the handle, she took the handle and door with her in the explosion. It was revolting, wrong, very wrong, incredibly wrong and vile and very vile and horrid as well. She lost it rather. Then when she realized that Grandad and Nan knew and weren’t as appalled as her – she went really over-the-top. She didn’t speak to them for a couple of years and didn’t speak to me for far longer, a horrid lot of years actually. ‘Cos I missed my sister. It might have been part of the reaction that she took a job in Australia for some years until she met your dad in India. Both on the same holiday, her from Melbourne, him from Twickenham. And as we all know, love blossomed when his chair collapsed one night in the middle of dinner and he poured his wine all over her skirt.”

“Back to my story, we moved house when I was thirteen. Only about twenty miles but I had to change schools. Fortunately it wasn’t quite enough to break the relationship I had built up with my girls. But the new school offered weekday boarding as an option and I was quite keen on the idea. In addition, mum had been negotiating with the school about me and whether I could attend as Elle rather than as Len. To our amazement, they already had two girls attending. We were told that one had been a relatively simple intersex diagnosis while the other had been showing signs of being a girl before a major road accident which had killed her mother and damaged her groin. The option to change had been quite simple. The headmistress explained that I would be the only one still with an actual genital discrepancy but they were confident that this was an avoidable problem.”

“I did ask mum if we had moved so that I could go to this school, and she said that was not why we’d moved. Dad had been getting fed up with the traffic and the access to school and job – when his uncle died there was a legacy direct to him and this had prompted the move. In addition, two of mum’s old friends lived in the village and she had lost touch with them a bit. I loved the new school, the new house, the new friends and I was so happy that most of the old friends didn’t drop away.”

“But gradually at home as well, I began to do more and more things as a girl. It really was gradual. Eventually, I did get a bit brazen – I began to wear panties all the time, then blouses rather than shirts. And quite a lot of people could see the button-difference. Whether I liked it or not, a lot of people aren’t actually incompetent with their mark-one eyeball nor with the space between their ears. Fortunately, by this time, not many people really cared what I did out of school. As I say, school was a controlled environment and I was totally Elle when I was there. Then I started buying girl jeans and girl shorts. I kept away from skirts and dresses for a long time. Perhaps because I could wear them at school and that was sort of enough.”

“Ted still came round. It had taken time to rebuild the team after he had been away for that autumn. Gradually, it became clear what had happened. With him being seen in a dress, his dad had thrown a major wobbly. ‘He wasn’t having his son in a dress, becoming gay, infecting and affecting everyone around him etc etc’. Major wobble. After some efforts at counselling for Ted, his Dad and his whole family, he’d been sent off to deepest East Anglia to ‘work out what he wanted to do’.

“Amazingly, he pretty much wanted to do the same as I had at the beginning wanted to. That is, to wear pretty clothes if I felt like it. Clearly I had gone further by then but Ted was on the same track. But the big difference was that he had accepted and his Dad had accepted that ‘dressing-up’ now and again wasn’t a big deal. I couldn’t believe that we both had such wonderful families.”

“By the time I was at University, I was a full-time girl. Your Mum knew by now and did not like it. Most thoroughly did she not like it – as we know. And it hurt me, made me really sad. And I think it hurt her too, now that we’ve talked about it. I really hope we’ve got past that. I love my sis. I’ve missed her so much.” And Elle caught a tear in her hankie. “Have I said enough, mmmm?”

“Reckon so. Maybe even more than I needed right now, but if I can remember what you’ve said I might learn something when I’ve filed it all in my skull.”

“That’s a good way to end this, thanks Georgie.”

Amazingly, just as I got upstairs, Mum returned with her last minute shopping. She called down to ask for help with dinner. Elle and I arrived at the same moment. “What needs doing” we both said together.

Elle grinned at me and said “I think that shows that I’m fitting in pretty well for the first evening. Good timing, boyo.”

Mum smiled and said, “There’s only one spare apron, so tonight that’s for you, Elle, while you do the slicing and chopping and prep. George – you can set up the big table. Do it nice and I’ll glance at it in a few minutes. Then I’ll have some other jobs to make the evening sort of special. I’m realizing that I’ve never had my sister come for dinner before. Probably because I wasn’t being properly nice to her then.” And she looked at Elle with a big smile.

“Time moves on, Sis. That was then, this looks like a much better now. Thanks,” replied Elle.

And I think we all smiled.

Dad was back about half an hour later. He checked that he could have a half-hour slowdown before dinner and mum said, you can have a bit more than that – but changing into smart comfortable might be nice too. We’re all moving along nicely.”

Dinner was good. Everyone was relaxed and both Dad and Mum were finding out that Elle had done quite a lot of things in the couple of years while they had been communicating less.

------------------------

By the time it was Monday Elle had been updated on the Bianca-Panty scandal. I think she picked up Mum on the ‘tonight you wear the apron’ and dug a bit to find out what the story was.

“You heard my story last Friday, young George. Apparently you have been pushed towards having your turn on the magic roundabout.”

“Er, Elle, I think you’re jumping to conclusions. I tried on a pair of panties. They were very different and I didn’t answer as to whether they were nice or not. I still haven’t. I’m not into anything like that. Or if I am, I haven’t told anyone not even myself. So, leave it for the moment. So, not yet, maybe never. My nether garments shall remain my responsibility to choose as I see fit.”

“Okay, boyo. But if you want to borrow a nightie or have me buy you some panties that fit nicer, just flash a bit of leg and I’ll …. Sorry, that was very wrong of me to tease you like that. Let’s say, I’m always ready to listen on any subject under the sun including religion, politics, Taylor Swift or anything you like. Okay.”

We grinned at each other.

It wasn’t Bianca who made things more complicated. It was Francesca.

“Georgio, (she’d picked this up from Bianca). Bianca’s been teasing me saying that she knows some boys who she persuaded to wear her panties. I know she lies so often, but is it true? And if it is true, then it surely must be you or Paolo or even both of you?”

Blushing as much as I do makes it difficult to lie.

Her eyes were wide open. “Oooooh. I didn’t want to believe it but your face tells its own truth. Georgia, I shall never tell but you need to find an excuse for why you blush so if someone asks about panties again. Perhaps you can say ‘you were teased that you did wear them – but everyone knows it was a lie and a tease by Bianca.’ Too many of us know about Bianca and the exaggerations she invents.”

I could feel my face regaining its proper colour. Francesca slid along the bench toward me, her thigh pressed against mine. I’d not often been that close to a girl.

“Georgio, tell me true. Did you like the feeling? I too have done the same. I put on a pair of my brother’s pants ….. and they were very horrid. I wore them for nearly ten minutes and they were so rough and heavy and thick and just dreadful. I put on my own panties and wondered how any boy or any man could possibly wear such ugly things when panties like mine were available. Soft, slidy, just so much lighter and nicer. Can you explain this to me, my Georgio.”

Now that was new! I had never had Francesca call me ‘my Georgio’ before. What was this all about?

The facial bonfire was lit again. “Not now. I just don’t want to think about it. Not right now. But soon. Maybe tomorrow.” And, despite the potential joy of being ‘my Georgia’, I ran.

Then it was tomorrow. Francesca had saved a space at the table in the library beside her. So we couldn’t talk and perhaps I wouldn’t catch fire. But she could and did pass me notes. It was almost worse.

….. G – have you got an answer?
…. No
…. I would really like an answer!
…. I’m still at maximum embarrassment even thinking about it. And I’m cross with B too.
…. B never actually told me it was you and Paolo. It was a guess.
…. In this place!!!! It’s quite an obvious guess for anybody who’s seen the group together.
…. Can we talk later – after school – in coffeeshop 3.
…. K

Coffeeshop 3 was used when we wanted to talk quietly. It was further away, the coffee was only adequate but, best, very few of the school went there.

In the coffeeshop, Francesca was suddenly red with embarrassment herself. “I’ve been thinking and I’ve got an idea.” She passed me a paper bag with not much inside it.

“What’s in the bag.” I really should have guessed.

“Um, er, it’s a silly idea but I guessed that Bianca’s were the first panties you’d, er, tried. And I’ve had another go with my brother’s pants and it was just as, ugh, uggghy as before. So I’m lending you a pair I bought for you. I want to know if they still feel the way the first ones did. I really want to get some idea of the difference between boys and girls. If these feel so different then it’s not just emotions and feelings and the way we communicate that makes boys different from girls. If I can get some idea of more differences, then I might understand ME better.”

“Are you bonkers, Fran? Or just as demented as Bianca? Or …. I’m lost for what to say next.”

“Will you take the panties, try them on and tell me?”

I realized I was still holding the bag. I nearly flung it back so the recoil would get me out of the shop as fast as possible. Boy brain spoke, “Uh.”

It’s difficult to believe but the exact same scenario took place. Bag into school-bag. Bag into room. Mum checks room. Mum trips on bag. Bag explodes a bit. Paper bag revealed. Panties identified – still with their sale tag on!!

Panties dangling from hand ‘So. Again. And perhaps a more complicated explanation?”

“Fran bought them for me.”

Eyebrow raising toward hairline.

“I mean, she wanted to do an experiment!”

Eyebrows could lift no higher – nose, lips and teeth began to reject gravity. “Experiment?!” [Her voice made it clear this was both a startlement and a question].

“She found out about Bianca and asked me to do it again to answer how really different panties felt compared with boy pants. She’s tried on her brother’s undies for an hour and thought they were beyond dreadful – so as a boy, what could I tell her about girl panties when worn by myself.”

“Fascinating. I can truly admit that my girlfriends never did anything quite so eccentric. So. Are you going to try?” [This time without the tone of exclamation].

“I don’t want to. I really don’t want to. But Fran seemed to make it so important that she got some sort of answer. I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Huh, ME. My brain is bewildered by the remarkable activities of my boy and his friends. You won’t get much of an answer from me. I don’t even know if Elle would give you much help."

Elle had been staying often with us in the previous two months. I talked to her that night on the back porch where I was pretty sure we were out of earshot what with the telly being on so loud.

“It seems you’re thinking about clothes a lot – girl’s clothes I’ve heard. At some stage soon, you need to get your mind straight on what you want. And that’s going to be quite tricky, I think. I think you’re quite mixed up as to what you want. But I’m always here to listen if you need me. I’ve probably had more experience in this area than your mother – certainly different. But don’t ignore what your mum says either. And there may be others to talk to as well.”

“At some stage, identify what do you think would be the best or optimum outcome, the worst outcome, the most likely outcome and the best satisfactory one you think you can work towards. By the way, that’s my own mum’s way of analysing things - she called it OWLS. I don’t know if your mum has shared it with you or taught it to you. It’s quite a good technique – it makes you think a bit more widely about problems and solutions. I’d guess since this is all pretty new to you that you’re not at the OWLS stage with regard to the wearing of panties at the request of Francesca. It’s not got to be significant yet – but it might grow. If I were not a lady, I might make a crude and vulgar joke – but I am so I wont’.”

“That’s a lot to take on board. But I like your Best-Worst-Likely-Satisfactory suggestion. I need a large piece of paper and to do bit of thinking.”

“Darling, this might point the way your whole life might go – it’s going to need, over a period of time, a lot more than just ‘a bit of thinking’. But if you need to ask questions – then some you can ask me. Some you can ask your mum, some you can ask your dad. I do promise, the only real mistake will be not asking for advice and help when it’s available for free. If anyone hates what you want to do – then it can be a problem for you, it’s definitely a problem for them and it can be a horrid indicator of what ‘them out there’ might say or do. If you take on any part of the girl-life then some of the reactions will be ugly. But it’s a choice. There are options and alternatives. I’d guess, just a guess, that you’ll be one of the ones, the majority, who are happy just once in a while to wear something pretty. That’s just a guess, mind you.”

Somehow I also knew that this was actually an attempt to divert me from the new-girl route but actually I wasn’t really interested at all in that. I was pretty confident that I wasn’t interested. For crying out loud, when do you stop guessing and over-thinking and under-thinking what the heck is going on in your conscious brain let alone the larger and chaotic unconscious mush.

Just to reassure Elle, I said, “I think you’re right about that. I certainly enjoy having my penis. My very own penis that I can play with and enjoy like normal boys do. I also really enjoy the occasional chance to put on a frock and a frill and it’s even better that I’ve got friends who accept and are willing to help and join in. It would be grim to be alone and have that as a need. But as a bit of play, as acting a role – I can work with that. That fits who I am. And that’s a guess too. But thanks Elle. And when I feel the need, I will call you Auntie as well.”

“What I think I’d like to do is go to the shops and have a proper look at what’s available for girls. I can’t do it by guesswork. If I want any pretty clothes then I’ll need to choose them for myself. It wouldn’t feel right any other way.”

“No, no, grasshopper. We shall instead go to the shops and sit in one or more coffee bars. We shall watch all the butterflies go past in their dazzling girly costumes. We shall watch and take notes. We shall be cool and crool by judging what we like and what we really think is not suitable. We shall, over a period of time, assess your taste in clothing. We can even widen your wardrobe selectively by checking what is worn that you think looks good on the boys too.”

“I’m not checking out boys!” I squeaked.

“Don’t overreact, silly. We’re going to see what you think looks good. If we spend any length of time then you’ll see some stuff you like on boys just as much as on girls. After all, you’ve had a lot more practice wearing boy’s clothes. Even if you’re doing it with me because, I think, there’s part of you that’s quite keen on the idea of a dress of your own.”

My blush could have lit a bonfire.

“Georgie, you can be absolutely certain. I don’t care what you wear. I shall never care what you wear. I shall always support you whatever you do - unless you call me Uncle. Yukk. But wanting to sometimes wear panties or a dress – that’s just fine by me. And, actually, your mum would be able to cope too. She might not be keen – but she wants a happy son rather than an unhappy one. I’ve had to tell her too many stories about it all going wrong and she does not want YOU getting it so wrong that you hurt yourself. ‘Me getting hurt is what happens to mums’, she said.”

“So, I will not take you shopping. Not for a while yet anyway. But we will go girl-watching and maybe window-shopping. Saturday, yes?”

I took a deep breath. “Okay.”

How was my life going to alter? Would wearing panties for just the second time make anything weird happen?

..... Not sure if this is going onward; I might link it significantly into the BigSister series. AP

Fridays are Good Days now!

My story is pretty typical – even if the beginning wasn't so neat. But nowadays, I often feel FABULOUS and sleek and wonderful just like my undies. And, as you'll learn, most importantly, Fridays are Good Days.

---

My story is pretty typical – even if the beginning wasn't so neat. I must have been about 11 when I first noticed my big sister’s panties and so on in the bathroom laundry basket. What can I say. They were brighter colours. Softer materials. Decorated. Frilled. Interesting.

And after looking at them and sometimes touching them quite often for at least a month – then I took a pair of panties out of the basket and wondered what they would feel like. And they were nice. Different. Stretchier. Huggier. And, if you think about it, because girls change their panties every day, they were pretty clean. I didn’t like the monthly yukky ones. A step far too far. No thanks. But I was beginning to enjoy sister’s panties.

Jillian was three years older and the panties didn’t really fit. But to my good fortune, a few weeks later, she said she was going to send a bundle of ‘old things that are too small for me’ to the charity shops or to the church for Africa. I offered to look through my things and do the same. ‘What a generous boy,’ they said. ‘How kind and thoughtful for those poor orphans and so on’. I wasn’t being kind to anybody except myself. I would check through her bundle and collect a few items for myself.

And that’s what I did. Four pairs of panties, a skirt, a sundress I think it was called, and even a bra. And I began wearing the panties more often.

I got used to wearing panties as a regular thing. But this had side-effects. Calamity and Panic – what was I to do when they got dirty? Did I wash them myself and try to dry them in my room – y’know – the room that mum or Jillian sometimes walk into unannounced. Do I ask one of my girl-friends to wash them for me? I think not. And what girl-friend anyway. I didn’t even have any friends that were girls. Do I put them in the wash as normal, what! And hope they get returned to me without Mum noticing. As if. On the horns of a trilemma !!!

I was getting comfortable with my panties – and careless. Even so, it was more than a year later before I was actually caught.

One evening, a few weeks after my thirteenth birthday, Jillian caught me on the landing upstairs and hauled me into her room. “Y’re a dirty little pervert aren’t ye. Ye’ve bin stealin panties and y’re wearin a pair of mine right now, eh. Nasty little bugger. I suspected somethin’ like that a few weeks ago but I wasn’t sure.”

I do not know where it came from. Instead of grovelling as usual, cowering before my rough tough taller stronger beautiful sister, I replied with a calm that amazed me. “Actually, they’re my panties and I like wearing them. You’ll recognise them because you were throwing them out. But I wanted them and kept them. I like wearing panties.”

She managed to not quite scream. “My panties, ooh that’s so much worse for you.”

I persevered. “You had thrown them away. I kept them for me. I like them. They’re pretty and soft and I like them.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Nope.”

“What d’y mean, ‘nope’.”

“I mean you are not going to scream the house down. You are not going to drag me in front of mum and dad so you can have me labelled by them as a pervert, molester or whatever.”

“What’s stopping me?”

“You are. Because you don’t want the condoms and the vibrator in your top drawer to be known about.”

“Have you been going through my drawers?”

“Only the once, I was looking for where you keep your lipstick.”

“Oh gawd, y’re doing the lipstick too. An’ wit else?” At times of stress my sister reverted to a rural Irish accent. Nobody knew how she picked it up. She was only about three when the family left Fermanagh in the west.

“Like I said, just the once. And I’m not going to drop you in it unless you do it first. You’re my sister. The rules say it’s always going to be us on the side of the rebels and the parental units for authority.”

“Y’ might be roit at dat. Alright, f’ now. But no more stealin’ of my stuff.”

“Can I ask for your old things, maybe.”

“Now askin’, mebbe I could cope w’ dat.”

“Can we go to the beach, and can I wear your old blue swimsuit and the blue-green sundress?”

“By golly, y’ move fast. I’ll be thinkin’ about dat. I need coffee for this awfy shock.”

But we did go to the beach for a few hours in the early evening. And I did wear the swimsuit and the sundress. It felt wonderful. And better still, Jillian saw how relaxed I was when I dressed up.

And in the next few weeks, Jillian and I got on much better. We even went to the shops a few times, and sat, and had a drink – while I watched the girls and learnt as much as I could.

-------------

It was a month or so later when my mum caught me out. Yes, I was wearing panties again. I bent over to pick something off the floor. I heard a gasp. Then the accusation.

“Why are you wearing panties, boy?”

Brain-stop. Options – a truth – ‘I like them’. A lie - ‘it was a bet’. Or ‘I didn’t realize’. Or ‘Does it matter’. Or ‘Sorry, I should have asked’. What came out was “Er.”

“Take them off. It’s not as if they’re yours, are they?”

Brain-oops – but once more I decided to be up front and bold about it - “They are mine actually.”

“What. Explain yourself. What a stupid thing to say. They can’t be”

“I bought them last week. I like the feel of them compared to my ordinary gear.”

“Hmmm. Are you a pervert then? A homosexual? A bum-boy? Or whatever the modern words might be … gay maybe, yuk, what a misuse of a once-pretty word.”

“No. None of those. Quite simply, I’ve discovered that it’s really unfair that you women, and girls, have so much more fun with your clothes. And, to be blunt, I can’t see anything wrong with that. And I really do like the feel of these panties.”

“Show me!”

Not easy to refuse a command that determined. I dropped my trousers enough for her to see. Fortunately, I was wearing a plain pair of pale pink nylon panties. No lace, no frills, no bows or embroidery.

“Well, they’re not like anything your sister would wear, that’s for sure. So I have to believe you. And you say you like them and prefer them to the proper sort of boy-type pants.”

“I’m not doing anything actually wrong.”

“Huh. There’s many who would disagree with you there. They’d shout and scream at you and some of them would even quote bible verses at you. But most of them would just go on saying ‘its’ wrong’. And they’d add to it by accusing you of every variety of what they call sinful behaviour. Right up to having improper feelings about dogs, sheep, rabbits, baby rabbits, hamsters or whatever.” There might have been a glimmer of a smile.

“Yuk. No. Never with baby rabbits.” I thought I could try to put things onto a lighter footing.

That got the look it deserved. I tried again.

“I really don’t think there’s anything wrong with these.”

“Well boy. You might not think there’s anything wrong with it. But as I said there’s enough out there who would disagree. And beat you senseless for it. And, like it or not, my job as parent and your dad’s job as being in charge in this house is to stop you being hurt. We only have you for a few years before you leave for the big wide world – and out there, there’s much less we can do to protect you. We can support and encourage – but protect, that’s going to be tricky at a distance. You’ll be too far away and wanting too much independence. Are you listening for once, boy? Can you hear how much we care about you? If you can hear me, then you’re becoming an adult. If you’re blotting my words out with ‘I want’ and ‘I want now’ then you’ve got some growing up to do.”

There was a pause before she spoke again, “So, as this proto-adult as you might be, give me some suggestions about what we do with you and for you about this interest in wearing panties. Should you be punished? And if so, what punishment would have any meaning? When do you tell your father? What do you wear to school? At weekends? Do you want more than panties? Have you bought or got anything else already? Get to your room and think about what questions we should all be thinking about and what options and what are the best and worst answers. One hour from now – we’ll talk before your father gets home.”

This was worse than I could possibly have expected. I was being treated as a sensible, responsible semi-adult and it was only a couple of months ago I became a teenager. Oh dear. I got to my room. I rang Jillian.

“Sis. I’ve been busted by Mum. She found me wearing panties. And I’ve got to present her with what I want for the future. You know how she works. Suggestions, Options, Choices, Expectations, Best-Worst, all the jargon. What should I say, hmmm?”

“Kid, we’ve talked it over. What’s in the heart of you. Boy or Girl? What sort of life do you want to lead? One of being different or being apparently ordinary? They’re big choices. And the time has come. Or it seems likely that some actual decisions are coming into range. Be solid, kid.”

By the time the hour was up, I had some of my ideas lined up.

Rather than sitting in the comfy chairs (no, no, not the Spanish Inquisition – sorry) we sat at the table so that my computer screen was easier to see.

“Mum, I put this together in the last few weeks. I was never expecting to talk this through as a sort of public performance but it helped get my head organised. To make it clear – I’m not a girl on the inside looking for the whole surgery and stuff. I’m a boy and I like a lot of being a boy.”

I continued, “There’s a really big difference between being confused about gender and being confused or different about sex. There’s all the letters but LGB, you know Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, means the significant minority who do not prefer heterosexual relationships. There’s more letters like TIQ for those who have difficulty with accepting that the physical equipment between their legs is a complete and final identifier for their gender. But it really important to know that the percentage of LGB is vaguely between 3% and 8% of the population – and by golly don’t the figures alter depending on who is presenting them – however, this 3 – 8 % is approximately the same for the TIQ group. But if the LGB is a minority then the TIQ is an even less known and less accepted minority.”

“And there’s an amazing number of subgroups too. Facebook, if you can believe it, has some 50 different labels for people to identify as non-heterosexual. And you won’t believe some of the descriptions. The overall label for the whole T variety is ‘transgender’. But within the T or trans group are transsexuals who want to physically change their gender, yeah, the dangly bits, to match what they think their brain tells them about themselves. There’s the transgender who want to dress up and be treated as women when they are so dressed. The wider label of the two is transgender as it usually includes the transsexuals, as well as people whose gender identity is the opposite of their assigned sex as per aforementioned dangly bits or their absence; as well as those who feel they are not exclusively masculine or feminine (people who are genderqueer/non-binary, e.g. bigender, pangender, genderfluid, or agender); another definition of transgender includes people who belong to a third gender or having two-spirits and so on. Infrequently the trans label widens to include transvestites – who are mostly only interested in the dressing up but often there’s a fetish label attached to them and they really have less or no interest in altering their gender identity. Oh, and almost everyone who writes about this has different definitions and makes different arguments for and against. I’ve tried to put together a sort of middle of the road mixture.”

“But to be blunt, the LGB is about sexual orientation, and the TIQ is about gender identification. The two are barely connected and there is no statistical correlation between the two groups. And, weirdly, for a group which is a minor minority there are an enormous number of descriptions and self-defining categories.”

“Oh, there was one neat quote about the whole gender-changing options which said there’s three key conditions to reaching that stage – Desire, Diagnosis and Dollars. Clearly an American article although over here we could say Dosh instead to get the three Ds.

“But that bit about the three sorts, three MAIN sorts of trans person was a sort of technical bit which I mostly stole from Wikipedia. As I said, I’m a boy. I like being a boy. I am not homosexual. I like girls as people and when I think about sex, and even though I’m only just a teenager so that’s quite often, I think of it as me with a girl. The idea of another boy kissing me and so on – no thanks. Not my idea of pleasure or even entertainment. And the idea of trying it as an experiment – again, no thanks. So, forget any ideas you have about me being gay or a faggot or a bumboy. Not going to happen. To be blunt, until you asked if I was a homo, the idea had never really crossed my mind. I think my best answer now you have asked is ‘yuk’.”

“Another thing I read is about the idea of a spectrum, shading from one colour to the next. There’s really very few people who are 100% masculine or 100% feminine. Mind you, there’s not many men who are less than 50% masculine but probably the gays, bisexuals and transvestites are at that borderline while the transsexuals and transgenders are beyond it – because they believe they are significantly female. But, for me, the spectrum idea is a whole lot more valuable and accessible than the stark black-white that most people see.”

“And there’s so many of these spectrums. The most common one these days is the Autism spectrum. I’d guess that any pattern with a range of options where black-white is too simplistic would be best described as a spectrum. From another angle, the normal curve that is everywhere in statistics, that’s a sort of a view of a spectrum but with a predominance for the middle to be the most common result. In terms of feminine and masculine, the graph would have two high points.” I chortled. “It would probably look like the curve of two breasts. Maybe I’d better not use that description in front of a bunch of schoolkids. The boys wouldn’t listen for the next few minutes and the girls might be embarrassed.”

“Sorry, went a bit off message there. I told you – I just enjoy the feel of the clothes you get to wear. And I’m going to find ways to enjoy them. I’m not going to be a drag-queen. That’s just dressing silly and, usually, being gay too. Two things that are not going to happen. And the clothes aren’t a fetish. I don’t get or want a sexual thrill out of wearing them. I don’t wank with my panties, nor with Jillian’s - nor your’s for that matter. The idea is just yuk. So not a fetish. I’m only thirteen anyway. Just because some thirteen year olds are sexually active doesn’t mean that I am.”

“I think what I want is to wear pretty clothes some of the time. Just dressing at home would be enough but, I think, eventually I would want to be able to go out now and again as an ordinary girl. Just ordinary.” I took a deep breath as I realized that I had barely been able to breathe while I was talking. Nervous, no, not much!!

Again with the pause. Mum sighed and then “I hear what you say. And I hear some of the words in the gaps too. I’m glad you’re not a homo or whatever the current word is. And, by the way, I really do apologise for some of those words I used at you. But I had to push to find out something about the why of you doing it. I am thankful that you were upfront about it and told me the truth – or as much of it as you felt you could get away with, eh. I never suspected you of being homosexual or of being a pervert, so relax, eh? And I’m glad it’s not all about sex either. But the most worrying part of this is ‘you want to be different’. You want to be different in public. That’s a choice full of risk. And that’s the bit I’m not happy about. I’ve got questions now. Have you ever worn anything outside the house? …….. Well, that blush says ‘yes’. What, where, when, how often? I need to know.”

More truth, even from my unwilling lips. “I’ve worn panties to school – on days when I didn’t have PE or anything. And I went to the mall with Jillian twice. And I have bought a very few things too, mostly at the charity shops. Two dresses, a skirt and another blouse – and a pair of shoes.”

“Jillian’s involved?”

“Er, yes.”

“How, when? Tell me the details.”

“She noticed me wearing panties and then I took some of her old things from the charity bags.”

“Not just panties then, eh?”

“A couple of skirts, a sundress she called it, and two blouses and two vests that she called camis.”

“Is that all? Did she help you?”

“Well, she ….no not really. She talked to me about colours and colour matching. And we looked at a lot of her fashion magazines. And stuff like that.”

“…..stuff like what, exactly.”

“when we went to the shops, we sat in a coffee bar and people watched. I had to say what I liked and what I didn’t like. It was fun.”

“And what did you like?”

“Sleek was a word I used often. And layered, and pretty. And Gillian taught me about colours and materials.”

“And when have you worn these things? Anything more than panties at school for example?”

“I wore a cami once, under a thick jersey. Only the once.

“I’m glad you were able to exercise some restraint. I’m not happy, y’know.”

“Yeh, I get that Mum – and I’m really sorry. Ultra sorry.” [The family had a series of levels for being sorry. ‘Ultra’ was near the top.]

“And what were you wearing when you went out with your sister and did this people watching?”

“Erm, just plain clothes, y’know.”

“Exactly so – I do NOT know any more. Details. Now.”

“I wore a shirt and jeans as usual. Sis did let me wear panties though.”

“And?”

Was this woman psychic? Or was it just Mum-power? “And she fiddled with my hair to make it look sort of halfway neither boy nor girl. It was when my hair was quite long.”

There was a pause. “So, more of this research, please. You say you’re not transsexual and I guess actually that you’re not transsexual – as far as you can possibly know at thirteen without professional assessment. You’re not homosexual. You say it’s not about getting a sexual thrill out of it. Sounds as if you come close to the box labelled ‘cross-dresser’. Not that I know much about that particular slice of life. But I have looked before, y’know. And we need to know a lot more, eh?”

“Why on earth have you ever gone on the web looking for stuff on trannies?”

“Because a friend of mine was into that sort of thing.”

“What like me. I mean, if he’s like me than perhaps I could talk to him.”

“Nope. Almost exactly the opposite of you. For her, and pretty soon it was obvious my friend was a her, by then we knew how things were likely to turn out. Her parents were ardent church folk. Deeply religious, believing everything that any priest told them, reading the bible every day, using snippets from the bible or any church-related magazine to ‘guide their lives’. In effect, they killed her. She had been brought up to be truthful and up front with any issue. So she told them – and they shunned her, denied her, threw her out of their house and their lives. They moved away because of the possible shame she might have brought on them. They told everybody round here, her friends, their families, the school, any nearby school. She killed herself a few weeks later. But they had killed her first.”

Mum was looking fierce, angry, determined. “I may dislike what you’re doing; I certainly don’t understand what you’re doing. But my son will live even with his determination to be different. I didn’t raise my child to fail – at anything. If you want to dress up then you will do it well. You will do it with confidence, certainty and pride. And despite what I feel, I must help you and I will help you.”

“On the other hand, I’m not sure how your Dad is going to cope with this. But he knows the story of my friend Phoebe and he’s certainly going to prefer a live even if unusual child rather than a dead one.”

Her eyes glittered with tears – but she ignored them as well as the heartache memories while she was so concerned for me.

“I love you, Mum” and I rushed to hug her. “I’ve probably been a bit stupid to try and hide things. I do know that you’re there to protect me and with this, er, thing, I’m going to need advice and guidance. And you’re most likely to give me the best advice – provided you didn’t disown me for being weird.”

“Mmmm. I won’t deny that some parents can’t cope with a child who goes against everything they believe in and everything that makes their particular version of the word go round.” She snarled “like Phoebe’s parents. They never knew what a beautiful child they had.” She took a deep breath. “But I’m glad that you now realize and accept that we do have your best interests at heart and that you can trust us.”

I let go the hug at last.

“You know I’m going to make you do a presentation at school on ‘being different’. I will suggest that if I make you do the same at church that you borrow some large chunks from Corinthians 13. Y’know the one about Love fails not, Love is kind, Love is etc. Sometimes those church folks need a bit of reminding that it’s not all about Do not or you’ll be stoned to death and given leprosy.”

“Golly, mum, which sin gets you stoned to death and THEN given leprosy?”

“Arrgh, don’t twist m’words, y’ungrateful varmint,” and she raised her arm.

“Ooops, sorry. Don’t hit me” And I pretended to cower away from the pretend-threatened beating.

“Well then, let’s get started on this whole new thing. Let’s go to your room and see what you’ve got tucked away. Then we’ll discuss what you ought to have if you’re going to get anything at all, of course. Then we’ll see how to re-arrange your room so there’s room for your clothes as well as – what d’y call yourself when you’re dressed up?

“Ellen.”

“Oh, that’s a pretty name. How did you choose it.”

“Come on, who is dad’s favourite film character – and what do you call a pseudo-human who chooses to be different?

“Ooh, you didn’t – not Ellen from Alien?”

“Yep. That’s me. Ellen the Alien – the boy who wants to be really different.”

“Now wanting to be so different as to be treated as an alien – that IS wanting to be different.”

“Perhaps I’ll be one of the lucky ones, y’know, the first alien the other humans don’t want to kill before there’s any risk the aliens might turn out to be kind or helpful. I mean, doesn’t every story have the wicked, nasty, vile aliens threatening obliteration and being zapped in return by some gallant maverick.”

“You’ve got me thinking, Ellen. How about you think of any aliens who are a good thing, popular and stuff. And if none come to mind, then track some down – it might be a useful angle to try on some people.”

“There’s ET, I suppose. And there’s the policeman in Alien Nation – and I’m sure there’s others. But, yeah, not many nice ones. I guess all the films are just expressions of how frightened the average human is of ‘things that are different’. At least some of the ones in books are nicer.”

“Ellen, I think you’re going to find that being different can be a really ugly place to be. I’ll try to protect you – but there’s some really ugly people out there who will hate you, sneer, despise, be rude, intolerant, unkind, and just plain nasty. How will you cope?”

To my surprise, the answer seemed to bubble up from inside, almost as if was ready and waiting to erupt. “There’s only one way to do it really. To give thanks for those who are kind and to try my best to set aside any unkindness. I did read somewhere that a whole lot depends on how confident I can be and actually how confident I can remain when it gets nasty. There’s an awful lot of us who get thrown out of home and family when we do come out. And the suicide rate and injury rate is just awful. Another article said it was because we were the only group that actually made public our willingness to be different.”

I paused, “I mean, all the other groups what are hated are either doing it behind closed doors or it is their unalterable appearance which triggers the hate. Black, Yellow, Brown, White, skin colour is pretty obvious. Tall, short, thin, fat – again obvious. Beardies, gingers and so on. The whole LGB group can, if it wishes, be what they are without being obviously public about it. But anyone on the trans spectrum – it’s part of your out and about daily life. If you need to wear skirts and dresses which ‘they’ deem to be inappropriate, well, you CAN restrict yourself to only doing it indoors but that’s not much of a life is it. So you have to go out into the world where the haters live. Just got to be brave about it, yeah.”

Mum raised an eyebrow. “That’s about it for your overview, yes?”

“Yesssss, Yes. I could make it better with notes and bullet-points and pictures – but for today’s draft – that’s it. Yes.”

There was another pause – it’s a family habit that dad’s dad had begun. If you want to speak then pause for a whole breath; if you want to interrupt then take two breaths; if you MUST interrupt preferably make a note or hold your hand up!!!

“Well, then kiddo, or perhaps is should call you kiddette when you’re dressed up - it does sound like you’ve been doing some thinking about this alarming and dangerous lifestyle you want to adopt. And it sounds like some of your ideas are sensible and worth discussing. And I did notice the use of ‘us’ a few moments back. But I have some rules too. I’ll develop them during the day – but here’s a few to be going on with.”

“One – you will not be going out dressed up unless I have seen and approved your clothing and presentation and you will not be going out unaccompanied. Two – for the time being, I will be approving any purchases and I will be with you when you go into relevant shops. Yes?”

I nodded – not too surprised at the conditions but well aware there were more to come.

“Looking good and confident is not just a matter of clothing. So, first thing, we’ll review your presumably tired and tatty collection of clothes and decide what must be replaced. Then we will go and buy some of what is needed. Then, the important step, we watch and you learn.”

“Does this mean you don’t mind me doing this?”

“Mind? Of course I bloody well mind! [My mother using a swearword – WOW – she was upset]. My son wants to take up a dangerous behaviour, a dangerous display in public where an enormous amount of people are likely to disapprove and be very blunt in their outrage and intolerance. Of course I mind. But am I going to be able to stop you? I could stop you for a while. I could indoctrinate you with fear and trembling into such a state that you would be traumatised at the idea of wearing a dress. But that would be me being as cruel to you on purpose whereas the nasties out there, ‘Them’, would be cruel to you by prejudice and by their hatred of ‘people who are different’. I can’t do that. You’re my son – and even in a dress, you’ll still be my son. I can cope with my son wearing panties and all the rest, if that is what he, you, wants to do. I won’t like it. I won’t approve. But my job is to protect you even when you don’t see the risk coming towards you. It’s called being a proper parent. Learning this lesson is part of becoming an adult. Parenthood is for life.”

Mum was not polite about the clothes I had stashed away. She was even more impolite about how I had looked after them – or rather, how I had failed to look after them.

“These are crumpled and crushed into a corner. I’m not sure they’re really clean, either.” She sniffed the armpit of one blouse. “And if this one fits, then that one doesn’t – or vice versa. What a mess. Let’s assume the whole lot needs washing and then we’ll get you a minimum amount of wearable clothing. And first off, I’ll teach you how to read a washing label so that you treat each item properly. Not of course that we’ll ever be doing an item by item wash – that’s just silly. But I’ll show you which items need to be washed by hand – and how you do it. You’re going to have to learn some girl jobs if you’re wearing girl clothes. Yes.”

“Of course. But up to now, it would have been a bit of a giveaway if I had asked for advice on washing my panties or getting a stain off my skirt.”

“True enough, darling. Now, let’s get moving.”

There’s our own town about four miles away where the school is, but there’s a much bigger town eight miles in the opposite direction. More shops, more variety, more, er, cosmopolitan [or as they say in New York ‘sophisticated’ – thanks, Tom Lehrer]. It was a pretty obvious choice to go to Barcester rather than to Willington.

As we entered the main shopping area, I took mum into one of the charity shops where I had seen a really nice looking dress a few days before. To my amazement, it was still there. Mum was quite startled at being taken into one of those shops as it was definitely not her usual zone. I explained. “There’s a whole new world in these shops, mum. Sometimes it is total trash. For me anyway, but lots of other people are buying stuff. But sometimes, there’s some really good finds.” I pulled her towards the rack where the dress was.

“Look, wouldn’t that be super for Ellen. We could buy it and try it. They don’t mind as they know a lot of people take time to be sure. It’s just you have to bring it back within a couple of days or so.” My face must have made it clear that I did really want this dress. And for a charity shop it was expensive at £10.

One eyebrow was delicately raised, “For Ellen, you think. It’s not expensive and if it fits, she’d look very pretty in it. Let’s put it to one side until we come back in an hour or so. Mmm?”

“Okay.” My expression must have been an open message.

Mum dropped her voice. “You really want this don’t you?”

I nodded – and blushed.

“Alright then. We’ll take it – and there’s a small chance that Ellen can try it on soon.”

Just a guess – but my expression must have shown how happy this made me.

“Oh, dearie me. Darling you do have a bad attack of ‘the girls’.” And I could hear the careful emphasis. Clearly mum was going to be using the phrase ‘attack of the girls’ as a way of saying that she could see my need to dress up as an expression of my feminine side.

Mum interrupted my thoughts. “It feels like a long time ago, but this morning you did say ‘you would want to go out as an ordinary girl’. I need to understand a bit more exactly what you want. Surely if you’re wanting to go out ‘as this ordinary girl’ then you’re wanting to be girly? No? Yes?”

“Nuances, mother, subtleties of meaning. I can’t give you a better answer while I’m walking around. I’m a mere male unable to multitask, Urggh, grrr, crunch, dribble, mu brane is melting. Need seat. Need drink. Need stop.”

Fortunately this was an occasionally practiced scene and mum was already laughing. “Okay, okay. Sit and drink, or perhaps as a mere male, you need to drip and stink. Yuk. As always.”

By the time I’d sat down bringing Mum’s coffee and my orange, I’d had some moments to think.

“I think, or at least I believe, that ‘wanting to go out as an ordinary girl’ was a sort of an, er, attempt to show that I was aware of the risk of being detected as a boy-in-a-dress and that I didn’t want that. I still feel that my preference is to remain a boy but sometimes to dress pretty. I really have very little evidence apart from vague anecdote and rather implausible data from uncheckable sources but I think there is a major level increase from the very few trans folk who actually take the step to have surgery and all to get their body aligned with their head – I’ll put this bit into a verbal bracket and there’s stuff coming out now that does rather prove that a few of these have their heads so disconnected from their bodies that even that isn’t the complete and perfect solution they need, and that is really sad – back to the main line. But I think there’s a lot more who want to feel female and be treated as female and some of these even aim at a 24/7 life as females.”

“And I also think, although there is almost less evidence for this because the first two get so much media attention, I think there’s even more transvestites, that is, people who like wearing panties and dresses and so on. One old and not very reliable survey calculated that there were lots of people who had worn panties or stockings; but there was mostly about ‘had worn once’ rather than ‘wore regularly’. As Mr Brown says in maths ‘If you don’t ask the right question then you won’t get the right answer’.

“What numbers did you find?”

“Ludicrous numbers like one survey said ‘It has been determined that at least 75% of men have tried on panties at some time and data shows that 25 to 30% of men wear panties every day.’ Another said ‘Statistically, 2% of all men wear panties.’ One in the middle of their nothing data said ‘25% of men wear panties occasionally if only for a good stroking session, but it's such a personal thing and there are many different scenarios.’ Another said ‘ 5 to 10% wear panties all the time.’ How is one supposed to make sense of that. I got all those just by typing into Google ‘How many men wear panties’. Joke.

Mum looked quite thoughtful after that. After a while she said, “Let’s not waste time working on points for a presentation. We’re supposed to be looking at girls and how they present so that you can do better in how you present.”

We spent nearly an hour just watching, and making comments and taking notes. I had done this a lot more casually with Gillian. This was a much more thorough effort. I was now being somewhat accepted by my mum and needing to learn as much as possible so that I could go out and look like a girl.

By the time we’d trawled through the shops I knew more about clothes and individual items of clothing than I had ever guessed at. Later I did find some really useful web-pages about every aspect of a woman’s costume. Neckline, sleeves, cuffs, shapes, …. everything. I was really getting into the idea of learning about costume. And at the same time I was doing a lot of practice about presenting as a girl. Looking back, I was even then still determined to emphasise that I was not ‘being a girl’ I was merely and only presenting as a girl.

And almost more importantly, I was putting together my report on Trans Life for the school. I began being determined to show that the need for some people to question their gender had some genuine logic and really worthwhile argument and that the opponents often used ludicrous and vile irrelevancies against us. But my dad warned me on a previous project to make sure that I pointed out that often enough BOTH sides were appallingly willing and able to push misleading ideas and manipulated statistics. Not every day but quite often I was trawling the web looking for both the sensible comments for and against trans and also looking at the most bizarre and misleading articles in both directions.

For example, I found an article somewhere on the web and it gave me a really useful argument about the enormous difference in acceptability in the current western world (in my head and voice I underlined that bit) of the Male-presenting-as-Female and the Female-presenting-as-Male. I saved it once and then edited it to add my own understanding of what was meant.

For most biological males if they want to present as other than a regular man, it takes a fair amount of effort. If they choose to make their outside appearance match their internal identity they must seek medical help, wear makeup, etc… All of that makes their situation increasingly public, and the general public knows they are trans whether or not they announce it to the world. Even beginning with the family and then moving on to college or work and then the big bad world – they have to start with dressing differently in order to prove they mean what they say about ‘being or feeling female’. Some time later as part of their Real-Life-Test they have to start to dress differently in public; then there is the drastic and expensive choice to undergo a choice of mutilations and surgical corrections. Overall, such folk are likely to have either the big and confident “Ta-Da!” debut or, much more likely, the ‘Ugh, Yuk’ public humiliation.

On the other hand, any woman who wishes to present as a man or as a macho woman has an enormous flexibility of choice as regards clothing and enormous acceptability in whatever way she presents. And I know I’m getting some of the he-she pronouns wrong – mea culpa. Certainly it requires effort to dress or not dress in a certain way – but there is barely any attachment of guilt, disapproval or prejudice to how they present. A woman who is straight, gay or transitioning merely needs to wear clothing that is not immediately categorized as feminine and Bob is indeed your Auntie. Probably the strongest prejudice is against those who make the most effort to present as male while clearly female – the short-haired yet lipstick-wearing ‘dyke’ is the label attached by those over 60! At least, I hope it’s only the oldies whose brain patterns are locked in so deep.

I began to build my work into a final package. But I had been taught that the key to a good presentation was a real hook in the first or second sentence, a memorable final sentence and enough in the bulk of the package to make the listeners believe the subject actually mattered to them.

My first effort was on the lines of : “But it comes down to ‘we all die and in those last moments do you want to look back and say ‘I wish I had done that’ or the equally tepid ‘I’m glad I conformed to what society wanted from me’ or do you want to look back and say ‘I was ME and I took life in big bites and I’ll be glad if people say I was a kind and decent person’ Life is about choices, and I would really like to take some time wearing the clothes I want to wear.”

Mum rather demolished this by asking “Does that mean this is, or rather might be, a potential or probable choice of lifestyle rather than a sure and certain one? And anyway, it’s much too wordy to be a memorable hook.”

“Come on, mum. I’m only thirteen – who knows how and why and what will change in me over the next few years. Do you really want the Mark Twain quote?”

“Oh, no, not again.” [Reminder, Twain said “When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”]

….. for some other favourite and relevant Twain quotes, here are : - #2 Get your facts first, and then you can distort them as much as you please.

#3 Of all the creatures that were made, man is the most detestable. Of the entire brood he is the only one--the solitary one--that possesses malice. That is the basest of all instincts, passions, vices--the most hateful. He is the only creature that has pain for sport, knowing it to be pain. Also--in all the list he is the only creature that has a nasty mind.

#4 Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to reform (or pause and reflect).”

And finally ‘5 The worst loneliness is to not be comfortable with yourself.” ]

So I kept working on my presentation of me as a sometime-girl and my equally important presentation to the school of ‘what it’s like to want and choose to be different’.

My next attempt was much clearer “Are you a man or a mouse? Do you do what others do or make a choice to be different? If you ARE different do you hide or do you stand proud? I believe we are all different, all special and we should all be proud of being different. I am proud to be different!”

“It doesn’t really matter if you believe in a God who made you special or whether you believe that Nature and Nurture made you different. Everybody in this room, in this town, in this world is different in some wonderful way.”

“You’re all wondering – what has that pretty ordinary guy got to be special about? What’s he sounding off about? He’s not a complete geek, or a sporty, or any of the other top or bottom groups. So I’ll tell you. I’m not going to hide. I’m a boy who has decided that clothes are important to me. I’m going to take an interest in what I wear. I want colour and shape and so much more than the dull drab BORING clothes I have worn all of my life. I’ve found an alternative – and I love it. And all I need to do is start doing what so many of the girls already do. Some of them wear boys clothes like trousers and so on. Some of them wear skirts and dresses – I’m going to do the same. Next time you see me, I might be wearing jeans …… or I might be wearing a dress.”

That was the beginning of about my twenty-third draft. I would do about three or four ….. and then start all over again. Exhausting.

And like I say some of the time I was learning about dressing. That was exhausting too – and I can’t say which was harder.

I was beginning to dress up most evenings and part of the weekends too. My wardrobe was increasing and Mum was making me learn about each of the pieces of clothing and when and where each was suitable.

I did keep emphasising that I was still only wanting to be a boy-who-likes-dresses but she was emphatic that the risk to me of being revealed as such was too high and the likely result too horrid. Once I had the confidence to be out as a girl-lookalike then I’d be close to being able to go out as a boy-who-likes-dresses. She was adamant that while her job was to protect me and that even if the law said I was an adult at 16, 18, 20, 21 depending on the relevant law, a parent’s job went on forever. And wanting to be an Alien in a world full of people who determined what was acceptable to them – that was risky.

I didn’t want to agree but the occasional comment slipped through and made me realize how careful I needed to be. And as I read more about my new environment, so I learnt how many Ts did kill themselves or slide into the abyss – no family, no home, no job, no life.

For various reasons, I never did the full presentation to the school. But I had rehearsed my arguments enough that sometimes they just popped out in ordinary conversation. I became a bit of a champion for my views on tolerance and such. And it did gradually get known and accepted that I had a wider wardrobe than the typical bland bloke.

=====================================

One day when I was approaching my 15th birthday, Mum took me to one side. “I’ve been watching, darling. There’s decisions to be made. You know that you’re getting to be fully male now – hair, puberty and so on. I think you’re still aiming to continue wearing dresses and so on occasionally, if not even often – but you’re not going down the 24/7 be-a-woman or look-like-a-woman or pretend-to-be-a-woman routes. Do you agree?”

“If you’re asking – again – if I want surgery – then no. No one ain’t choppin’ no bits. If you’re asking about being sort of full-time then that’d be easier with implants and even hormones – and that ain’t happenin’ either. I just like pretty clothes. A difficulty is that most of the clothes are designed for women with a feminine figure rather than for a male. I suppose if we looked at the mid-price options for, erm, fake, er, breasts and sort of body padding that might give us some ideas.”

“Are you trying to persuade me that you haven’t got half a dozen sites on quick-search already?”

I grinned. “I was trying to display patience and a willingness to take my time. Am I really that obvious?”

“Sometimes, daughter of mine, just sometimes.”

I did my best girly pout and flicked my hair at her.

Just a few days after this, the Social Studies teacher came to me and said she had been watching Youtube and seen the following from a well-known speaker on Trans issues. I still don't really know how she knew that I was someone to speak to on the subject. I guess I must have made one or two comments about tolerance and the like.

She used her phone so that I could watch and listen. “It’s no secret that you are interested in T-spectrum issues. I need to give you an insight that I’ve had about the change in views on the subject. My background is as a teacher and as a lecturer too. I gave a course some while ago on gender issues and then moved away from that topic for about ten years. In was amazed when I returned to this country and was asked to give the same lecture to a new set of university students. I was expecting to surprise them with a new idea about how they should look at the world, with tolerance. But they were way ahead of me. My endorsement of gender as fluid, multidimensional, and non-categorical had been learnt as part of a history of theoretical engagement, theirs came from their everyday life: who they were, who their friends were, how they imagined the world was and should be. These new students were as likely to talk about each other in the plural ("like they said") or by name, as use referential pronouns that assume two genders corresponding to two sexes.”

She continued, “Of course, not all the students were equally adept, equally informed, equally concerned about terms of reference, not making assumptions about identity, or prepared to refer to cisgender and transgender persons – but to find a group who were so easily willing to take the steps which I had thought of as nigh-on impossible – wow did I feel good. You need to be aware that in some parts of some countries there is a willingness to accept a more relaxed view of gender. Each person on the T-spectrum will eventually learn the degree of acceptance in their immediate world. This can be kind or ugly. But my work tells me there has been a significant shift in the last years. You’re very lucky, you know.” And she trundled off in a flurry of tweed.
I don't think I've mentioned my Dad much. He'd made it quite obvious that he agreed with Mum - but he much preferred a child who was alive even if willing to take risks - than a hiding, hidden on the way to being damaged ex-boy.

The next thing was that Dad took me to one side one evening. “This thing you’re doing for school about ‘being different’ – what would you say if I asked you to do the same at the company where I work. I’ve a nasty suspicion that too many of our staff have no idea what is happening in the world they think they know.”

I had no idea where this particular extension of my mission would take me.

Mission Impossible?? More like - Mission incredibly unbelievable. I kept going with school and my slightly off-centre daily life of being a boy and a boy-in-a-dress.

And then suddenly, I was told that I would be presenting at the end of the month – in about three weeks. To my Dad’s bosses. And they wanted a handout for the staff. Eek, girly whimper.

Dad told me to send him just the bullet-points so that he could give me some feedback and hints as to how to tailor things. I tried to tell him that I was happy with what I had but he pushed a bit and I gave in.

• Types of Discrimination
• How Discrimination overlaps with Bullying and Abuse
• The views of the Bully-Abuser-Discriminator
• And of the Target
• How the law has changed recently
• How Laws often lag behind changes in Society
• Some of My personal experience

Dad came back saying that he’d like to hear me talk through the second and second-last pieces as he thought those were probably the most difficult. Again, I wasn’t very willing but at least he wasn’t wanting to tear the whole thing apart.

He said that a useful approach could be for one diagram for each segment; and two pages of well-spaced large-font text to read from. Each segment would then be about 2 minutes and the whole thing 15 to 20 minutes. Then he smiled and added ‘if you do what I did on my first such time, I spoke far too fast, skipped bits that I decided on the fly were too dull or suddenly no longer relevant – did the whole 20 minute piece in about 6 minutes. Not good value and not well received either. I am certain that you can do better.’

Getting my text into reasonable order was Stage One.

Then Stage Two was to talk with Mum. She decided that I would have to look business-like, professional and very confident. She introduced me to the pleasant idea that ultra-top quality undies were a key to feeling good and therefore to looking confident.

To say I felt apprehensive about going into the local shops looking for panties and bras was an understatement. Supermarkets, yes, I had done those. But these dead posh boutique things. I’d been pretty minimal in even going past the windows slowly so as to admire the contents. Going in – no way.

“Here we are!”

“Wha..”

“For your new undies, darling.”

“Bu…”

Yes, darling. Undies for YOU.”

And it got worse. “Can I help you?” said the gorgeous, but tiny, redhead assistant. And I couldn’t help admiring her – her hair, her skin, her cleavage, what was visible of her breasts. And noticing her badge ‘Petra’. Nice name, I thought.

“Yes, please, we need to look at some underwear and probably have a fitting to ensure that it’s all proper”

There was more to admire. It was hard not to focus on her lovely bottom as it swivelled away from us, and her legs, her pretty pretty shoes. Lovely. All lovely.

“Darling, stop being so male. It’s not the right look – and I mean you are LOOKing.”

Petra stopped at the lingerie department. My eyes, as always, were dazzled by the colours, frills,ribbons and the whole wonderfulness of sheer excellence. “Here we are then. Is this for a special occasion or just some self-pampering?”

Mum answered. “A bit of each really. Self-pampering is good, but it’s more for the presentation that my son here is going to have to do to the directors at Bright & Sons.”

The redhead’s eyes widened and she managed to stifle a little gasp. “Oh, er, right. Then you’ll be definitely wanting to make sure everything fits well. And we can certainly help. We do, when necessary, specialise in this sort of thing. Did you know already about us?”

“Not exactly, dear. But a little research shows that there’s plenty of men indulging in the hobby and where else would they go for the best than to a proper shop selling proper underwear. Yes?”

Petra spoke to me, “Could you get yourself down to your underwear – in the changing room, of course.”

Shortly I was standing, leaning on a chair in my bra and panties. Mum and Petra entered.

Petra cooed. “Oh, that set is so pretty but I can tell it doesn’t quite fit. We can do something about that.”

Time passed. Ten minutes, Twenty minutes. I tried on a number of bras until we were all happy with the choice. Then Petra came back with a selection of matching panties. And garter-belts, and slips, and half-slips.

Eventually, I was persuaded – ha, persuaded, to allow mum to buy me two complete sets and some extra bras and panties.

Then we went looking for a business-suit so that I would look the part when I did my presentation.

By golly did I feel a different person when I looked in the mirror at my new outfit. I could feel the slidy sleek softness of my bra, panties and slip beneath the cling of the fitted skirt, blouse and jacket. I felt determined and confident – exactly as I wanted and needed.

Mum smiled at me and said, “You feel so much more in control now, yes?”

My big grin in return gave the message, loud and clear.

“Right, now we’ll go and talk with a friend of mine. It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“Saying that just makes me worry. What’s going to happen?”

“I’ve got your first page and last page and your headings – you’re going to do a run-through to two of my friends so that you know what it might be like when you do it for your dad.”

My eyes bulged in horror. “I can’t.”

“Darling, you can and will. The first page and last page may be all that your audience hears. They’ll hear some of the words in the middle – but by no means all of them. In addition, it’ll help you trim your piece down to a more listenable 8 or 9 minutes leaving more time for questions and feedback. Your dad must have done a heck of a good piece of selling to get them to offer you a 15 minute slot. You mustn’t waste any of it. Which means you mustn’t talk for the whole time. Trust me, darling. I’ve done enough of these presentations to give you some valuable advice. Trust me.”

“Trust you when you’ve bounced me into a dry run with no notice! If it goes well and I feel ok at the end, then maybe. But …… shriek, whimper.”

“Go and stand at that mirror. Go on, go. Look at yourself and say ‘I can do this, I will do this, I am confident and determined’. Go on, say it. Out loud, please.”

Rather unwillingly, I did as I was told. And it made a difference. Each suggestion – Stand up straight, Look in the eyes, Enjoy your underwear and the pleasure of feeling professional. Each one made me feel more and more certain I could do this.

Then a secretary arrived and took us into a conference room.

There was my headmistress and my Dad’s previous boss. !!!!

I nearly stopped in the door. Then I saw the screen set up with the first of my diagrams and the headline ‘Abuse, Bullying & Discrimination – Understanding and Preventing’.

I took a deep breath and introduced myself. They didn’t recognise me. Then I thought to myself, why would they? I relaxed – fractionally.

“My name is Ellen. I’ve adopted the name because of Ellen Ripley in Alien. I have decided to be different from other boys and girls of my age – Ellen Ripley was certainly different from the others in the crew. And I do this in the certain knowledge that this will, not might, but will attract unkindness, intolerance, abuse and all the other words that occur when someone is seen and labelled as ‘different’ – and that’s what happens to most aliens.” I smiled, “But I don’t mean to imply that being different at my level is anything like as vile or revolting or scary as that Alien. For now, I’m not going to tell you in what way I have decided to be different. But I promise you, my decision to become a target is not a choice but a realization that I must do this or reject something at the core of my being.”

I then went on with chunks of my text. I had my first page and conclusion plus the headings. I thought I was able to cover the essential points. And mum was right, the words did flow quite well and I was able to cut, or more accurately forget, chunks without it feeling I was losing my thread.

I talked briefly about physical differences and how easily and how often such people attracted unkindness. I talked about Abuse and all the different sub-types – physical, sexual, emotional, financial, social, medical and so on and how all abuse was more about power and control. I talked about the invisible differences too.

I reminded them that the whole western world was based on at least 2,000 years of judeo-christian teachings which were often summarised as ‘Do as you would be Done by’.

Obviously I talked about sexual labels and the discrimination that went on. I admitted to a complete failure to understand how the small minority of LGB had managed enormous alterations in the views and public acceptability by the majority; while other larger minorities had failed to do so. And, of course, I talked about gender and emphasised how different gender was from sexual orientation.

I wound up soon after that. I wondered just before I got there whether to read direct from my page or to do it on the fly. At the last moment, I decided to begin from the text and to try and remember the rest. I was looking alternately at the two people and trying to note their reactions. I realised that reading would prevent me watching. ……….

“Most people believe that they are kind, tolerant, nice and reasonable. They believe it is other people who do all the unkind, nasty things. The truth is that everyone is capable of ugly behaviour and that there is an enormous amount of it happening. The truth which is ignored is that it is the Victims who feel it is happening while too often the Perpetrators are fantastically ignorant or uncaring of what they are doing.” Here I had to go off at a semi-prepared tangent. “To give a particular example – I know that you are both of above-average intelligence …… and it is very likely that you will make a judgement about a person’s CV if their grammar or spelling are poor – even before they have walked through the door, or opened their mouth. If the person arrives and is 6 foot 4” with a red bushy beard and says ‘call me Jake’ with an Australian accent – yet more judgements based on little evidence will have been made. Have you ever done this and then thought back and gone ‘perhaps I was wrong’ ……. How do you think Jake would have felt receiving all your vibes?”

I paused. “I was watching you when I made those last statements – and there was for both of you an ‘Oh No’ moment when I saw that you had had such a moment. Is what I’m saying a wake-up call?”

I finished with “Abuse happens. Intolerance happens. Unkindness happens. The only way forward is to watch, to teach, to support and to prevent. Thank you for your time. If you have any questions, then I’ll do my best to answer them.”

I then tried to relax. Without falling into a pile of evaporated bones and slush.

“That was a brief yet thorough presentation. Impressive,” said Mr Grieves. “I thought the example at the end was thought-provoking. I’ll need to think more about my own activities. A quiet word with some of the people I know I don’t like, perhaps.”

I could feel my eyebrows lift. And I butted in with “It’s not so much about the past as, perhaps, doing better next time.”

I saw the change in his expression, then the pause. “Yes, that’s a truth. I may have to start listening to pretty young girls giving me lessons on how to think and behave.”

I smiled, “And would you care to comment on the possibility that ‘pretty young girls’ implies a number of mildly improper views as to how much you listen to not-pretty or not-young or not-girls. But I’m truly glad you heard some of what I said and I do hope you’ll take some of my ideas back to work.”

“ ‘Oh no not again’ is what that makes me think,” he gave a sort of half smile. “Actually, Ellen, if I can, I’ll try to take these ideas to work, to home and to the golf club, which may be the place that most needs these lessons.”

Mrs Olivett raised her hand. “I completely agree with James. And I’m very pleased you came to speak to us. I hope I have learned something and I strongly believe that you will do an excellent job when you present to Bright & Sons. I would very much like you to write a lesson plan for my school to implement. I know we have bullying. I know some pupils, some parents and even some teachers have their issues with difference and tolerance. I want to break the cycle. And I think you can help. Will you do this for me, please? For us, please?”

I was speechless. Then they both came round and shook my hand.

I no longer wondered if I could do this. I knew I could.

On the way home, I realised that neither of them had asked what it was – the difference that I had decided I had to accept. And then I decided that them not asking was a proof that they had listened. They didn’t need to wonder about me being ‘different’ or even ‘too different’.

And I began to hope. To hope so strongly that I had at last found a truly alien environment where aliens and those who were different were treated equally.

======================

After not following through with the school presentation a year or more before, I had been asked to try again. And I had agreed. As I had intended, being different and being willing to be openly and overtly different had made me strong and confident. I even had a girlfriend now. Geena was in my year but we only shared English class. She did Science while I did Languages. But we had been together for nearly a year and we clicked. We had done some heavy breathing and heavy entangling but almost nothing below the waist. But we were getting closer and she liked me just as much when I was in a dress as she did otherwise. And I don’t mean ‘out of a dress’ either – rude reader.

My next offering began ‘You may have learnt in the last year or so that I’ve chosen to be different. I have volunteered to be different and unusual. I can hear the intake of breath from many of you. What does he mean? What’s he going to do? It’s simple. I’ve discovered after considerable investigation that I don’t like several things about boy’s clothes and what we are forced to wear ever since mid-Victorian times. Black, grey, brown, dark colours. Hard-wearing, tough, rough material. And I began to ask why are we so restricted. I began to look at the history of costume. And I learnt that MEN used to be the ones with bright colours and attractive plumage. And I want to be more like that.”

I took off my long overcoat and revealed my new costume. I had spent considerable time over the choice.
I was wearing a white shirt (a blouse actually but I had deliberately had the buttons and buttonholes swapped) – the more unusual bit was that it was in a sheer satin with short puffed sleeves. I had a dark pink scarf at the neck, and when I stepped out from behind the lectern everyone could see I was wearing a pair of vivid red wide-legged calf-length trousers – well, culottes actually for the girl-type description and it looked awfully, wrong word, gorgeously like a split skirt. Although the bracelet might have been a little more feminine than was ever typical for men.
The sheer stockings and low-heels might have surprised a few more.

There were several expressions of surprise. And shock, and dismay. And, of course, disgust.

“But” I continued, “Please note that EVERYTHING that I am wearing is part of a male costume from previous centuries. I am wearing NOTHING that at some time or another top-class and fashionable men have worn. Are you shocked at the heels – men wore them first. At the stockings, well, pop-socks actually - men were the only ones who could afford them. At the quality of the shirt – cost again, only men could afford the best. In past times, men spent the money on themselves before decorating their wives. And when they did so, it was, sadly, more to flaunt their wealth than to honour their women. The trousers – again, men wore these first. (This I was actually less certain of – but I wasn’t going to offer a weakness in my presentation.)

“But you’re looking all girly.” Came a shout from the audience. (Thanks Sandy, good timing).”

“I repeat. I am wearing nothing that in the past has been claimed first and frequently by men as their personal adornment. I do agree, that in these current times, much of what I wear is predominantly worn by girls or women. But look around you – there’s far more women here wearing clothes that until recently were the prerogative of men.” I smiled. “Even you headmistress, with your very stylish trouser-suit ……. need I say more?”

“I’m going to show you a series of prints, pictures, photographs and so on to prove that I am wearing a costume that is completely and definitely male. Then I’ll try to answer any questions. But, before you label me with any ugly or improper rumours, I’d like to ask my friend, my girl-friend, to join me on stage and answer anyone who asks if I’m homosexual or heterosexual. And I’m confident she’ll give you some specific guidance.” I smiled as Geena joined me.

Another person shouted, “He looks more girly than you.” Like I said, I had thought hard – and consulted with Geena – as to what I should wear – and what she should wear. Of course, I was looking girlier than she was. Duh.
Then another, “And what’s with the hair.” It was so helpful having a few friends who would ask the necessary questions.

I held up my hand “Enough. If you just shout you won’t hear anything. The hair is straight from a Georgian painting of not even two hundred years ago. I could show you a dozen like it. If it was a couple of inches longer than I could have shown you pictures from the Royal Collection with quite astonishingly styled hair. And it was always the men who were the peacocks, on parade to attract their olden days drab and plain partners. Times change. I refuse to be locked into the plumage, or lack of it, decreed by society. For me, this is my way of being different. Sometimes, you’ll see me in plumage, sometimes not. Like all of you – we have choices as to how we live and how well we live. For those of you who are Christians ‘Love one another is the Greatest Commandment’ for those of you who don’t know or actually reject religion, ‘Do and Behave as you want others to do and behave to You.”

“With the permission of the governors and the head, Fridays will now be relaxed as to uniform provided that all clothing is stylish, seemly and suitable. There will be those who will push the limits and those limits will gradually become clear and reasonable. Thank you for listening. For those who want to know more, my new email is on the screen and I will have leaflets with some answers and I will give links to others or where possible talk with some people.”

The head then stood up with the senior governor and said ‘Thanks Ellen. I stand beside you and say ‘we must all learn tolerance because the alternative is hate’. And I will not be a teacher or a guide or mentor if I allow any of my pupils to leave here unable or unwilling to be kind and considerate. The new Friday policy will change and grow in the next few weeks. Thank you and enjoy next Friday.”

And to quote-adapt Arlo Guthrie ‘ so friends, once 50 people a day start doing this then they may think it’s a movement – and all you gotta do to join in is do it with feeling ….

Yesterday was Friday so Geena, Susie, James, Angela, Joan, her twin Angus, - and me - all dressed identically in yellow front-knotted blouses, cream pleated skirts, yellow sandals and cream hairbands.

Fridays are good days now.

Girl 101 - I want a dress, please, mum.

I liked girl's clothes - and I was going to learn about them - that was all too clear. Both mum and my friend Gemma and now the headmaster said so. Girl 101 for Boys .... what was going on?
And now .... everything was changing.

---

I was sitting in the bus to school with Gemma, my long-time friend from Primary school. We were now both fifteen and we had been friends, probably even each other’s best friends for nearly 8 years. It had been a hard day at school, mock exams in practice for the real thing in a few months; lots of times that a question had been too difficult or an answer hadn’t felt right, or worse, my mind had gone blank. I was relaxed sitting next to Gemma who was wearing the school summer uniform of a cotton dress although without the optional jersey.

Suddenly, Gemma said, “You know, you’re doing it again.”

I jerked and looked at her with alarm. What was she talking about ‘doing it’ let alone ‘again’.

“Whhhh, what d’you mean?”

“Don’t worry, it’s just that I’ve noticed that sometimes, especially after a hard day, when we sit together, you touch my clothes. You do it in a very small, restrained way, but you stroke my skirt or my dress, you, I guess the word is, caress it, even fondle it. It’s certainly deliberate …. even if almost unconscious. What’s up, pup?” She did her occasional rhyming game with what she called me.

“I’ve never done it on purpose. I mean, er, ….” and my attempt at a reply faded into silence.

“I never said anything about it being on purpose. It doesn’t happen often and, really I don’t mind. But once in a while, I do wonder exactly why you are doing it and what it means about you, blue.”

Pause

“If I ask you to think about why you do it – would that upset you?”

“N…No. But I’ve just said that I’ve never done it on purpose, in fact, I’m not really sure what you’re talking about.”

“Eric, don’t flannel about. You can be up front with me – I’m your best friend and I have been for years. What’s up with you and this interest, considerable interest in my clothes, eh?”

“It’s nothing – really, it’s nothing. It’s just that I like the feel of the clothes, the cloth, the material ….. it, erm, interests me somehow.”

“Well, that’s more personal information than I‘ve gotten out of you in years. You may be, well, you are my best friend but there’s whole chunks of what makes you you that I don’t really have a clue about. But this sudden admission that there’s something special about the clothes that I wear – well, let’s investigate this a little, shall we, my blushing little sweetie.”

There was a fact I always tried to ignore. Gemma was actually pretty much the same size as me – but she always wore heels – only a couple of inches – but quite enough to be able to look down at me. And she had a figure – with waistline, breasts, real curves. She wasn’t a 10, 9 or even an 8 – but she was a pretty girl with a smile that could light up a room. And she was my best friend. We both had other friends – but what we had was clearly a bit special.

“It’s kind of embarrassing. I’ve obviously kept it pretty well concealed if you’ve never noticed until now. I like the variety – I like the fact that girls can wear such soft and silky and pretty clothes – while us boys have to wear rough, drab, dull materials with boring, uninteresting colours.”

“You goose. Why did you never say this. If you want to dress up then I’ll help you whenever you ask. I can teach you about make-up and all the best bits about being a girl. I can, …..”

I help my hand up to interrupt. “Hold it right there. I have never, absolutely never wanted to be anything other than a boy. I enjoy having a penis – even if I haven’t got to share it with anyone yet. I ain’t never even thought about being a girl, I don’t want to be a girl, I don’t want to do or be anything. I just want …..” and my flapping mouth fortunately came to a halt.

But perhaps too late.

Gemma smiled at me, quite a nice, gentle smile in the circumstances. “I said ‘goose’ and I meant it. I have never thought of you as anything but a guy – even if you’re my best friend and I can talk to you about anything. I get insights into why boys do and say some of the things they do and say – and why some of that is so unbelievably, unbearably, overwhelmingly coarse, crass, stupid and grubby – and then you are equally good at helping me realize why once in a while they do something sweet, lovely and wonderful without even realizing they’ve done it. There is no way that you’re a girl ….. don’t worry about that. But this interest in non-boy clothes – that does interest me – considerably.” She paused. “Tell me more ….. and I will consider how to assist my friend who is definitely a boy but with an interesting interest in pretty clothes and so on.”

“It’s not easy to say it all in one go – out loud like this – when I’ve never really worked it out for myself.“

“For a start, I can’t go much further than what I said – I am so jealous of the wonderful variety of things that a girl can wear that the average bloke will never have the opportunity to enjoy, well actually not even sample so as to decide if there is potential for enjoyment. I’ve made lists of all the options that girls have that a boy just can’t get close to.

"Been making lists, have we, mmmmm.”

“Well, you know me – I like to be thorough.”

“So, what else do you do – if I’ve never noticed before – what do you do to keep this interest subdued but sufficient and comfortable.”

“I suppose I do a lot of watching. I love girls so much but I love what they wear even more. You know how much I enjoy being with you when you’re shopping or even window-shopping. It gives me lots of opportunities to … er, watch and enjoy.”

“And all the time your interest is just in the clothes – not in the girls or in being a girl.”

“Oh, come on Gemma, I’ve been pretty clear about this – clothes yes, wanting girls – but when I’m older and I find one to have a relationship with – then I’ll want a girl as a lover – but wanting to be a girl – I’ve made that clear, haven’t I. No. Quite definitely, No.”

“Ooookay, then here’s my offer. You will always be my best friend – but if you’d like to try on any of my clothes then you’re very welcome.”

“Gemma, my friend, I do hear what you say – but for a while yet, I’ll hold back on trying on any of your clothes. I do like the idea of going beyond just being interested in what you girls wear and actually getting the opportunity sometime in the future to be a little more daring. I’ll be thinking about it – quite often actually – until I’m ready. So thank you very very much for being so understanding. And continuing to be my best friend.”

“Don’t take too long. I’m kinda interested in the idea of helping you and teaching you and giving you the opportunity to actually DO something about this interest of yours. But can you help me a bit with some guidance – how long have you been aware of this? Have you done anything about it before? I can’t believe that you’re keeping all this long-term and deep interest under control with an occasional furtive fondle of your best friend’s dress as we travel home on the bus. Eh?”

“Errr, what am I supposed to say?”

“A bit more of the truth perhaps. Let’s wait until we’re home. We can sit quietly in my room and get comfy. Then – it’ll be time to get to grips with this thing of yours.”

I couldn’t prevent the grin that flickered across my face.

“And don’t think smutty thoughts. It’s ugly and unnecessary. Even if it confirms that you are really a boy – because of course we girls never think smutty thoughts. No, of course that’s not true – but I think girls being smutty is probably rather different from how boys are smutty. For a start, all girls know that boys minds are always thinking about girls and sex and everything in between. You blushed, That proves how your mind works. But boys don’t have a clue whether girls think about them in the same way. They know we talk about boys – but they and you don’t have a clue what we talk about. It’ll just be the two of us finding out about this interest you have and what we can do about it.”

“Ssso, Doctor Finkelsteinervitz, you think you can cure me.”

Gemma joined in with our long-standing joke, “Nnno, no, no, I neffer make zee promises – I cannot cure you but I remembers my oath and I shall not harm you – not enough to notice.”

I giggled. And it was a giggle rather than a chuckle.

“And that’s another thing you do, not often, but now and again, you giggle – and somehow actually I like it. It wouldn’t be right for most boys – well not for any others that I can think of – but when you do it – it’s okay.”

I could tell that I was blushing even more – my cheeks felt hot.

“So my Frankenmissy, you want to wear ze pretty soft delicate girly clothes – but you don’t want to stop being a boy. Shall we see what I’ve got in my wardrobe that attracts you – heh?”

“Eerrrmmmmm …. yeah, I’ll go with that. What sort of stuff are we talking.”

“Now – that was just horrible. I’m not going to turn you into a girl because you said that was not what you wanted – but if you’re going to look like a girl then the least you can do is drop almost every syllable of what you’ve just said. No ‘yeah’, no ’stuff’, no slang, no more of the obvious boyness. It’s yucky. Well I mean, when you’re not in full boy-mode you need to adapt and camouflage. I guess you don’t want to be publicly labelled as a ‘boy-in-a-dress’.”

“No – that would be ghastly. I’m just a boy with a real interest in a wider choice of clothes. So you want me to look like a girl but you agree that I’m not going to be or become a girl.”

“Just so, Miss Dolittle.”

“But – thinking about it - why do I have to look like a girl. It’s not as if I’ll be going out or anything.”

“Now how’s that for negative thinking, sweetie. I’m not going to force you into anything – except a pair of panties perhaps. But I’m not going to force you to go outside or to go into town. If I can make you look good then you will be able to decide for yourself whether you’re able or willing or even eager to join the girls in town.”

“Once again I’ll revert to eerrrmm – but yes – if I feel comfortable and confident then I’ll think about that. I’m not making promises – but I won’t say no – yet.”

“That’s good enough. Now step forward, milady, and feast your eyes on the wonders of my wardrobe. Anything that takes your fancy, place on the bed. If you can find, say, five outfits to start with then that’s going to give us both an idea of what you’ll be looking for later.”

“Five – I can tell you three of the ones I want to try straightaway. There’s the green dress with the dark green and white trim that you wore last Sunday, the summer dress with the giant poppies, the dark red hot pants with the silky cream top, oh, and the cream and brown layered skirt and whatever top you recommend. Oh, and the green velvet waistcoat but I don’t know whether that’s with the pale green dress or the pale yellow trouser-suit. And …"

Beth held her hand up to interrupt me. “Enough, enough for now. You’ve been looking at my clothes much more carefully and thoroughly than I ever guessed. First off, we need to get you ready for trying on my clothes. So, get in the bathroom and shower but use my girly shampoo and soap. If you smell right then you’ll be getting into the mood more easily. And congratulations – just the amount you were able to tell me about the clothes proves to me that you are wanting exactly what you’ve already said. Some people would say that only a girl would be able to talk about clothes that way – but there’s lots of men in the fashion industry – and they work with clothes every day without becoming girlish. Well, except those who were that way inclined already – which just proves to me that every group of people is a spectrum. Too much talking and thinking – go and get ready for your first experience with your preferred style of clothing.”

“Okay.”

“And I’ll expect you to have shaved under your arms and anywhere else that needs it. And asking you to do this is NOT to make you more girly. If you’re wearing any of my clothes then it’s perfectly reasonable to want you to smell right, at the least. And as for the hair, you won’t get anything of the right feel from my nicely girly materials if you’re covered in fur. And actually I know that you’re not that hairy anyway so a little trim shouldn’t be a problem, eh?”

“Grrrrrhhh” I mumbled – just to show that I wasn’t doing everything she asked without argument.

Some while later, a nicely smelling fairly furless body emerged from shower. One towel wrapped around the waist and one around the head.

Gemma squeaked. “You do NOT walk around like that in my bedroom. Get that towel up where it should be, Miss Dolittle. Stop pretending to be such a boy.”

I suddenly realized what she was talking about, grabbed the towel and reset it around my chest a la girl. And I grinned with a sudden deep expression of happiness that perhaps I was going to be treated as my girl self for a little while. Girl time was coming! I giggled – and this time I knew why I was giggling.

But I still mostly felt like a boy who loved dresses rather than a boy who had a girl hidden away inside. It was just the first time that I had the chance to see if there was anything girly inside me - I had to find out.

-------------------

Oh we had such fun that afternoon. Gemma helped me put do so many things that were new to me.

What can a girl tell you about her first bra – well, it was wonderful. What can a boy-girl say? I loved the way it held me, the way it squeezed me around the chest, the way it made my small boy-breasts shape themselves into the cups. I loved the stretch of the straps over my shoulders. I loved it when Gemma showed me how to check that everything was fitting properly. The back-band – was it too tight or too loose? The cups – did they sag or squeeze? The sides – were they making red marks anywhere? The shoulder-straps – were they too tight, did they need adjusting? I was learning so much of the secret life of a girl. I suppose none of it was actually ’secret’ but it was certain that only the rarest boy would ever know that girls had so much to cope with in such an apparently simple thing as a – bra.

Then we moved on to the panties. Gemma and I both got a bit embarrassed with the necessity to actually look at and, for me, to touch my genitals. I had read about ‘tucking’ and knew that somehow or other my testicles could be .. er .. encouraged back into their cavities – but I didn’t know how to do it without using more force than seemed comfortable. And who was going to teach me. It wasn’t as if there were guidebooks or local shops which advertised their services to boy-girls. Although I did understand the need for things to look right – even while I did repeat that I wasn’t anything other than a boy who loved clothes.

But it was still wonderful putting on that first pair of panties. It was the wonderful way the material felt as it stretched just that little bit over by bum and round my front. It felt so good – and so much better than the thick, clumpy boy’s pants that I had always had before.

Gemma then pulled me towards her wardrobe – a glorious jumble of colour and material and dresses and blouses and all those lovely girl-words. I was lost for anything to say.

Gemma pulled out a skirt and blouse, “I think this might be best to start with. We can try some more things later.”

“Please ……”

“What, honey, do you want something else.”

“Could I try one of those longer dresses first. Somehow, I’d feel more …. I want to feel the swirl and swish of a dress around my legs. To see if it really is as wonderful as it looks.”

“Well, of course, you can. It would be silly not to give you something special on your first afternoon. But we do have plenty of time. ….. Is there anything else that you really want, that you really really want.” And we both giggled as she did the Spice Girls riff. “And I’ve put the outfits you mentioned to one side – when you’ve had a little practice and they will look right on you.”

“I’d like a little bit of make-up and, if you can, to do something with my horrid boy-type hair.”

“Your hair’s not so bad. There’s enough length that I can push it around a bit – I’d like to try anyway. But as for makeup – I’ve only learnt to do a bit of it for myself. Perhaps ….. No. I’ll wait and see about the perhaps.”

“What do you mean.”

“Well, Big Sis may be visiting this evening. From what she writes, well, emails, it’s quite clear that she knows some quite, er, colourful people at Uni – and she might be more willing and certainly more capable with the makeup for you.”

“No. No. No way. On the first afternoon of giving my inside-girl an actual outside – I’m not ready to have anyone else knowing or interfering or …. No.”

“Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t take any risks with my new girlfriend. Trust me."

“Well, when you push a bit quick, it gives me the worries. Let’s just be careful …. And slow. But, for now, puhlease, get me that lovely green dress you wore a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, that dress. I did notice you noticing me and all the time it was the dress rather than the contents. Oh, poo.” Gemma giggled.

In a few moments, Gemma had found the dress and was helping me to slide it over my shoulders in a cascade of slippery-lined chiffon. Not that I knew at that moment that it was chiffon, I was going to learn all the right words as soon as I could.

I wriggled with excitement as the lovely dress poured down and over my skin. I saw the difference in my frontage as my very small breasts stuck forward an inch or so. I loved it. I felt so real – for the first time in my life – I was more girl than the boy I had presented as for fifteen years. By hindsight, it was a transforming moment.

“Oh, that feels so wonderful. I love it.”

I swirled around and felt, for the first time, that wondrous swish and swoop as the frothy material billowed around my knees and calves. I told myself that it was such a girly sensation.

And it felt right. It felt better than anything I had ever worn. It was wonderful.

By the end of the afternoon, I had tried on lots of Gemma’s dresses, some skirts and some blouses. And we had both come to the conclusion that I was much happier as a girl than I had ever been as a pretend-boy. That’s how Gemma described me as she saw my behaviour during the day.

“You’re not pretending to be enjoying this are you – it’s for real. I did think for a moment or two that what you were saying was just a way to get into my bedroom – or something weird like that. But I can see so much more clearly now. What you’ve been doing is pretending to be a boy – it’s not now that’s wrong. ‘Cos you’re not pretending to be a girl as far as I can tell. Oh, this is so exciting.”

“And potentially so difficult. But even though this has been truly wonderful, I am still certain that I’m just a boy who loves pretty clothes.”

“Yeah, that’s for sure. – even though I think sometimes your girl-inside is pretty eager for more.”

“Who can we talk to that won’t go all creepy or shouty about it.”

“Do we know anybody a bit older than us who does any of the LGBT stuff – though we don’t need the L or the G or the B as far as I know. They’re all about sex and nothing to do with what I feel.”

“Could start with the internet – as long as we’re careful. No names, that’s for sure – and no details about age or location. We need sensible answers from some people who’ve been there before.”

“Aren’t we both being amazingly sensible. It feels good doesn’t it.”

We both looked at the clock at the same moment – “Better get out of these pretty things. We do not want your mother saying anything.”

“That’s for sure. And as soon as you’re ready, I’ll make sure there’s not a trace of make-up or anything like that. All mums can give lessons to Sherlock Holmes as soon as their antennae start twitching.”

“That’s for sure.”

It took time, but there were some minutes sitting downstairs before Mrs Cowan came home so that we could relax and be the two buddies that we often were – two bumps on the sofa reading our homework notes.

“Hello, kids, everything going alright. If the kettle’s hot – hint hint – I’ll make some tea for us all when I come downstairs.”

“You’re nearest, your turn.” Gemma gave me a massive nudge with her pointy elbow. I trundled off to put the kettle on and get the cups and everything ready. When I got back to the sofa, Gemma watched me closely. She whispered, “Now, if you weren’t pretending to be a boy, you wold have sat down more carefully, lowered yourself into the seat and swept your dress or skirt from under you so that it wouldn’t get creased. You’ll have to practise for when you’re being a girl.”

“What are you two whispering about, it’s not polite and you shouldn’t need to do it when it’s only the two of you. Do I calculate that it’s something you didn’t want me to hear. You’ll have to be more careful of Mrs Sherlock,” Gemma’s mum smirked.

All that evening, I was conscious that Gemma’s mum was watching me – very carefully. I was right. After I had left, she went to speak to Gemma.

“There’s something going on with you and Eric. And he smells different – less boyish. Strangely he smells of your shower lotion. What is going on? And don’t try to lie – I can always tell when you lie.”

“Wha – no you can’t, can you. No, don’t answer. I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing today with Eric. It’s none of the things you’re expecting or guessing at.”

“That does leave some leeway – even though you’re very young still.”

“Eewww, mum. Too much, too much already.”

“Get on with it.”

So Gemma told her mum about my interest in girl’s clothes. Mrs Cowan jumped to all the wrong conclusions, asked all the wrong questions.

Is he gay? …. No.

Does he think he’s a girl and wants to become a girl? No.

Am I going to have to stop you seeing each other? No.

Is Eric some sort of pervert? Don’t be silly mum.

Is Eric ?

“Oh Mum, get with it. It’s exactly as Eric said – he thinks it’s unfair that girls and women get to have all the fun with colours and materials and slinks and slither and sheer and shiny …. He just wants to be up front about it and enjoy himself. And I would rather I help him than anyone else gets involved in something so important to my best friend.”

“Does his mum know?”

“Um, not yet, but soon.”

“It’s going to be within the next 48 hours, I think. Or I’m going to have to get involved. It’s not proper that Eric is doing this on his own – well, with just your help. And for what you’ve done, I’m proud of you. Not super proud because you should have been more up front to me – but still, proud.”

Gemma grinned. Compliments from her mum meant a lot.

So, next day, Gemma told me what was going to have to happen.

Strangely, I didn’t get stressed. I didn’t panic. I didn’t explode. I was amazed by myself. I just got through the day, possibly better than some other recent days. I let all the aggro drift past me, which disconcerted the aggro-ers. Bullies can’t cope when the victim successfully shows no effect at their efforts.

So – I got home and prepared for mum to come home. I didn’t do the cooking as such but I was perfectly capable of doing the prep-work, peeling potatoes and carrots, chopping onions and the like. Getting out the ingredients for whatever I wanted mum to make – or on this occasion for a dish that she had left instructions about. And tonight, it was chicken in a white sauce with chopped peppers, onions and green peppercorns plus peas and carrots on the side. Quite a lot of preparation. As I sometimes did, I wore an apron to ensure I didn’t splash my clothes. Why make a mess and have to wash an otherwise clean shirt.

When mum came in I had just about finished and was taking off the apron. “Honey, you can keep the apron on if you want to help with the cooking. It’s about time you started some simple lessons. You’ll be in deep doodoo if you get to college and expect all the work to be done by the staff and the girls. Not a good start to being a successful human.”

I smiled back. “Gee thanks, mum, I really really do want to be a successful human being so I can avoid the aliens when they come.”

“You geek, you.” She smiled back. “So, you’ve done the chopping – now it’s time for the hot oil, the frying and the sizzling. The burning of the fingers and the subtle smell of burnt skin.”

“Oooh, horrid. You’re going to make me run away screaming with pain and fear.”

“Now, that’s just being silly – if not girly. But then you are already wearing an apron.”

Somehow my brain decided that this was an opportunity …….

“So – are you suggesting that if I’m doing – carefully worded – ‘girly’ jobs then you want me to be wearing ‘girly’ clothes?”

“Oh no, you’re not going to catch me out with overt simplistic prejudice and stereotyping. You know my rules – you wear the correct clothes for whatever event. If you’re cooking – then you wear something to keep your clothes clean. In this case – use an apron.”

My mouth spoke all by itself – "but if I was doing a female job then you’d expect me to be wearing the right clothes?”

“Um, yes,” she hesitated with her answer.

The mouth continued “and if I was wearing boy clothes I’d be expected to do boy jobs and similarly in feminine clothes than I’d be expected to do feminine tasks?”

“Am I getting a little puzzled at this chain of thinking?”

“It’s just logic, mother dear”

Well, use your brain properly – I’m not falling for the ‘A cat has one more tail than no cat; No cat has four tails; therefore every cat has five tails’ - you did that one when you were only eight. But hold on a second ….. do I calculate that you're asking if you have to wear feminine clothes for feminine tasks – if I were to decide that certain tasks in the house were ‘feminine’ rather than just jobs to be done.”

“Well, are there any such tasks? As long as there aren’t then there will be no need for me to wear a dress. Phew”

“Hmmm, this needs some thinking about. Perhaps there are tasks that I never ask you to do because subconsciously I see them as mum-type tasks or even as unsuitable somehow for you to do ….. I see I may have been unattractively stereotyped in my actions and attitudes. Perhaps we need to investigate and experiment.”

My heart went pit-a-pat. “I’m not sure about this, mum. But if you’re going to insist I have to wear a dress for some jobs, at least let me have some involvement in the choice.”

“What, you sound almost like you want to wear a dress.”

“Half the world wears dresses, mum. Perhaps I ought to know something about how it all works. I’m well aware that I know almost nothing about girls – and perhaps I ought to take whatever opportunities there are.”

“Ohhh..kay, let me think about all this. But I am willing to promise that I won’t make you wear anything silly or sissy. If I decide you’re doing a girl task – then proper and sensible age-suitable clothing will be made available. And if eventually necessary, you will be allowed if not expected to help make informed choices. After all, at this moment you couldn’t make a list of more than about four varieties of the colour green. Any teenage girl with the faintest interest in fashion could give me two if not three times as many off the tip of her tongue. That’s the sort of thing that boys know nothing about. Simple tasks like cooking, cleaning and so on – any competent male should be able to keep his pit tidy, keep himself fed and watered.”

“Are you up for this, bhoy?” and she put on her real deep-south slave-boss voice.

I grinned back. “Yeah, I’m in. If you tell me it’s a girl-job then I’ll be willing to wear the right clothes.”

-----------------------

In the morning, mum said she was building a list of jobs that she never asked me to do – and she was deciding which of these were because I was a boy and which were because I was too young. She said she’d be thinking about it during the day at work.

I began to wonder exactly what I was letting myself in for – just so that I would get the chance to wear pretty clothes.

By the end of the week, we had designed our new way of life. We did both agree that this was going to be a short-term thing just so I had a bit more idea about life for the other 50%’.

I did tell Gemma and somehow the idea spread over the next month or so – until the head heard about it and asked for more information.

I didn’t have much contact with him so I hadn’t got an opinion about whether he was good or bad at his job. But he was clearly more switched on than I had expected.

“Thank you for coming in to my office – this should only take a few minutes. I’ve been hearing some odd but interesting comments about you two and how Eric is ‘sort of learning Girl-101’. Can you tell me a bit more. Because I’m interested and wondering how many of our pupils need to understand the other 50% a bit better. Rather than looking at the fun bits – which I do want to know about later – tell me what the bad bits are for each of you.”

Gemma said “but I’ve not been doing the opposite of Eric. There is no ‘Boy-101’ that I’m doing.”

“Well, think about it. Do you think there should be such an opportunity – and what do you think you might gain from it. Give me two or three pages about it in a few days time, eh, Miss Cowan. And you can do the same as regards a proper series of lessons in Girl-101, Mister Oldman.”

He continued, “Now that you have brought the ideas to my attention – I can see significant benefit from a deliberate effort to attack ignorance, prejudice and potential abuse. Yes, I can see some downside in giving the wrong ideas to the wrong people – and any such teaching would need to be carefully structured and presented. Give me some more insight into how you are doing this Girl-101. I know there are some who will benefit from a similar mind-altering experience.”

This was far beyond where I wanted to be.

“I have to be open about this sir. You may be having the wrong idea about all this. Yes, it’s true that my mum, Gemma and Gemma’s mum are giving me some help in what we exaggeratedly call ‘Girl-101’ but it’s not that big a thing really. And I’m not one of those ‘boys who knows inside that he’s a girl’. I’m a boy. I’m male. I’m quite proud of my penis – even though I’ve not used it for its official adult purpose yet and I have no intention of doing so with anyone other than Gemma. I’m a boy expecting to be a man – but, here’s the bit that’s off-centre, I was and am interested, if not jealous, of girls and the hugely much bigger choice they have with clothes. I just love the feel of their clothes, the colour, everything – and that’s really what I’m learning about. This ‘Girl-101’ seems to have just grown out of that.”

“It’s been about learning how important it is for some girls, well most really because of peer-pressure, that their clothes co-ordinate, that the colours don’t clash – that sort of thing.”

“I did wonder. But I watched you this last week –and when you’re not with Gemma you come across as a satisfactorily average boy doing boy things in boy-style with your peers. I really do want to think about a few boy-lessons for girls and a few girl-lessons for the boys. Any improvement in what half my school knows about the other half should be a worthwhile target. By the way, if it’s any incentive – I’ll be talking this over with my wife – to see what I should have learnt and haven’t.”

Gemma giggled, “And will you tell us what you need to learn. It would seem fair if we have to tell you what we’re having to learn.”

The head frowned, “Don’t be cheeky …” then he paused. “Actually, that’s a lesson right there. How can I ask you to be open if I’m not open back to you. Although I may edit some of my feedback. Oh dear me, this may be more complicated than I first thought. But I’m not going to back off yet – I just need more information before I consider whether this is a good approach.”

“That was all a bit interesting. I never planned that we’d be making a difference to anyone else.”

Gemma grunted back at me. “Me neither.”

“Needs a bit of thinking about.”

“What’s your first item about what is not-good about being a girl.”

“How much peer-pressure can hurt if you ‘get it wrong’. I don't want to think about how the boys would react if they found out. Ooooh, not nice.”

“Wow, that’s a bit too much insight.”

“The girls have their way of being unkind - and, wow, how unkind some girls can be – even to the point of suddenly dropping and cutting a good friend for no easily apparent reason.”

“And how so very few girls are actually proud and confident of their body and looks. Even the pretty ones.”

“Wow, you have been watching and learning. Good girl-watcher thou are,”

Shut up, Miss Yoda. Or I’ll ask you what you know about the equivalent for boys.”

On the Friday evening, mum and I sat down and discussed the list. It was both hard work and yet somehow easier than I had expected. I took time and at the end of it I took a deep breath and said.”Well,mum, looks like I’ll be needing a dress of my own for all this work. Do we go shopping tomorrow?”

“So, you’re up for this then? No last-minute bottling out?”

“Yes, no, not sure, wait-and-see, let’s give it a go- any other little gems you want me to offer, mum?”

“Alright then. Let’s get ready and go out. I did get you some panties of your own – and some of my skinny clothes will fit – even if they’re not really the right sort of style for you. But they’re not too awful and we can get you some good clothes during the morning.”

“Er, that’s a bit sudden, isn’t it, mum.”

“Well, yes. And also no. I’m not going to make you look like your wearing poorly fitting and well-used second-hand clothes as if from a sister or cast-offs from the charity shops.

“Mum, are you sure about this?”

“Yes, I am. It’s going to be really important to watch you learn some worthwhile facts about us – the ‘other 50%’. You may be doing it because you enjoy the clothes – but it may turn out that you’re setting an important example. I never meant you to grow up as anything other than an ordinary boy – but it turns out that you’re not ordinary. And I want to support you and encourage you in being different. I only want one thing from you right now – I want an upfront open request ‘Please mum will you buy a dress for me.”

“I can do that – but like I said before, I want to be involved in the choice. “

“Darling child, I wouldn’t have it any other way’.

“Please mum – will you buy a dress for me – and I want panties and all the trimmings too.”

I saw my mum take a deep breath ‘Let’s go.”

Later that morning, wearing a new skirt – pale grey with dark grey trimming on each panel and a lovely smooth satin primrose yellow blouse, Mum took me to be fitted for my first bra. It was so wonderful. Having Gemma put a bra on me for the first time was so enjoyable and amazing – but this was even more significant. I was out in public in girl-only-territory. I was wearing a skirt and blouse so that it would be easy to undress for the fitting. I did not expect mum to out me as a boy and I was pretty confident that the shop assistant would just do her job and fit a bra to the nearest available body.

As it was, mum slipped up. She and I tiptoed up to the counter and she said, “I’d like to arrange a fitting for my son, ooops sorry, my daughter Erica.”

The assistant calmed her down. “Now don’t worry. Our job is to fit bras to people, young and old. If your son, who does look very pretty, wants to wear a bra so that he can look even prettier – well my job is to sell him a selection of bras. I would never have guessed – well perhaps when he had his top off and I could see his real physique – but right here and now – I see a skinny girl with very small breasts. And, like I said, my job is to find a bra and ensure a proper fit.”

She was so kind, and so helpful. Even when I stood in front of her, naked to the waist, I wasn’t upset or stressed in any way.

She had a smooth, continuous series of comments and questions which taught me so much about the wearing of such an intimately feminine item. "Does it feel like the band rides up your back? If it does, your bra is either too large or needs to be tightened. If it's still too loose after you've adjusted the band, it's time to go down a band size (and possibly up a cup). And don’t forget that at certain times your breasts can change by as much as a cup-size."

"Since you don't have much breast tissue, you won't have to worry about your 'girls' spilling over or bulge under the cup? If they did, your bra cups are too small and you need to go up a cup size. You won't have to worry about that as we're going to add a bit of padding."

"You'll notice these cups don't pucker or gap. If they did, your bra would be too large. I'll make sure that doesn't happen.

"Do your straps slip and slide? This is like the biggest problem for us gals. If you've adjusted your straps and they still fall off, either the band is too big or your bra has lost its elasticity. If you have sloped shoulders, opt for a racer back bra or a style with convertible straps. I love racer back and sports bras myself. We can talk about them later if you're interested."

"Do your straps feel like they're digging into your shoulders? If so, I can try loosening them. You shouldn't have this problem unless you start wearing falsies and the size is too big for your bra. We shouldn't have to experience this until you're a little older."

"Many women wear a bra with an underwire. If the wire pokes and prods, you're wearing a cup size that's too small. But you won't have that problem because we're padding and I'm obviously not going to suggest you wear an underwire bra yet – that comes a lot later both in size and years. But maybe a special occasion or strapless bra might come your way!"

Bra-fitting ! - It was wonderful and I was learning so much. I knew that I knew so little. I might not have the inner feelings of being feminine as my interest was in being a boy who wore dresses– but my knowledge was zero – or even perhaps negative because of my years of male indoctrination.

Girl 101 – I was at least 100 lessons short of being ready for it.

And yet I was still determined that I was a boy, that I would not become a girly-boy. That I was in no way a ‘sissy’. I was going to marry Gemma if the future didn’t split us up. And I would be a normal boy – apart from a delight in wearing silks, satins and the like.

And there was the potential of Girl 101 and Boy 101 at school – who knew what surprises that might make happen. And what changes as the boys learnt about girls and the girls learnt about boys.