The New Kid in Town
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The New Kid in Town
Note: the protagonist of this story is biologically male but looks anatomically female.
1.
I suppose it must have come as something of a shock for The Boy Next Door. He and his family had moved in only a few weeks before, and when his mother sent him over to borrow a cup of sugar, the last thing he expected to see was a pair of firm, young bottom-cheeks staring him dead in the face.
You see, I was dancing the cancan.
Yeah, I know that sounds crazy, but I've always thought the cancan was an incredibly sexy dance. The idea of whirling across a stage with my skirt raised to my chin made my heart race every time it crossed my mind.
It had taken me a while to assemble the costume, starting with a garish satin dress I found at a Red Shield store out in Chamberlain. It looked practically brand-new when I took it down from the rack. The shop-lady told me it was an authentic chorus-girl outfit, a hand-me-down from one of the local dance schools. I managed to talk her down to ten dollars for the dress and a pair of black stiletto heels I'd seen in the window. Everything fit perfectly; I literally couldn't believe my luck.
The layered petticoats were a little more difficult to locate (not to mention expensive) but I eventually came across a dancewear supplier on the net specializing in music-hall accessories. I used my mother's credit card to buy them online and had them mailed to a post-box number at Chamberlain Mail Centre. I paid her back with interest, although I never told her what the transaction was for.
I picked up the lingerie at a Valentine's sale out of town, pooling my allowance for weeks in advance. The sales assistant wasn't sure whether I was a girl or a boy, but she was helpful enough once she saw the color of my money. So helpful, in fact, that I bought four of everything; bras, panties, bustiers and waist-cinchers. Variety being the spice of life, I settled for matching sets of white, pink, red and black.
As for the garter-belts and suspender stockings... well, that's a story in itself, which I'll get round to telling in due course.
The outfit looked absolutely fantastic once I added a cincher-belt and a pair of shoulder-length lycra gloves. I couldn't wait to try it out in the rumpus room (which my imagination transformed into a 19th century Soho music hall). Unfortunately, it had been weeks since I last found myself alone in the house. My bedroom was a little too small to dance in and I didn't want to run the risk of Mom walking in on my performance unannounced. Truth be told, we kept very few secrets from each other, but like any other kid my age, there were certain things I just preferred doing in private.
Anyhow, by the time summer rolled 'round and Momma went to spend the weekend at Grandma's place, I was almost climbing the walls. If you've survived puberty, you'll know how desperate the situation becomes when you're struggling in the grip of raging hormone levels.
Finally having the house to myself, I pulled the ensemble out of its hiding place in the wardrobe and carried it down to the rumpus room. It was large and well-lit, with plenty of space for twirling and kicking. There was a cheval mirror set up to one side of the television. Walking over to the sofa, I laid the garments out in careful order, preparing for the afternoon's festivities.
Peeling off my t-shirt, jeans and hipsters, I stood before the mirror, ready for my transformation. I paused a few moments, allowing the excitement to surge through my system like waves of moist heat. I'd been waiting months for this moment, feeling the exhilaration building up inside me like a slow-burning fever.
Shivering with anticipation, I reached for the lacy, black garter-belt.
It was the sort with adjustable suspenders and a hook-and-eye arrangement at the back. Just looking at the thing made me delirious with embarrassment. Clipping the flimsy piece of lingerie around my slim waist, I picked up a pair of seamed midnight stockings and stepped carefully into them, cautious not to tear the sheer fabric. Adjusting the suspenders to mid-thigh, I turned to pose in the mirror, enjoying the touch of nylon against my bare flesh. My legs looked long and tapering in their ebony sheaths.
Next, I pulled on a pair of pristine white panties, slipping them over the garters with a whisper of liquid satin. Delicate and nebulous, they shimmered like platinum in the lazy afternoon light. The garter-belt was plainly visible through the gossamer material. The hips were decorated with a delicious floral trim. I was blushing at the thought of exhibiting them to my imaginary audience.
I put on a matching white underwire brassiere, adjusting the shoulder straps with vaguely tremulous fingers. My tummy was fluttering with anticipation; the girl in the mirror was tall and slim and quite beautiful. Shining blond hair tied back in a long ponytail, she looked maybe fourteen years old; her large blue eyes and tiny mouth giving her an innocent, child-like appearance.
Turning around, I looked back over my shoulder, enjoying the curve of my figure; the lush, full shape of my bottom. The panties were a little high-cut at the back, exposing a generous amount of cheek on either side. I wriggled my fanny impishly, smiling back at myself. Raising one hand, I slapped myself, very hard, on the right buttock, leaving an angry red mark. My smile broadened in pleasure. I needed a good, hard spanking; I was an extremely naughty little girl, after all.
Returning to the business at hand, I pulled on the petticoats, their flouncing bulk accentuating the luscious swell of my hips. Two layers of alabaster frills, an absolute pre-requisite to dancing the cancan. Waved above the waistline, the crinolines formed a kind of backdrop for the underwear, a curtain raised to exhibit the panties and stockings.
However, the costume wasn't quite complete.
I drew the satin hemline over my head, allowing the dress to drop into place over the massed petticoats. It was beautifully designed, with a halter top and a full-circle skirt that swept down to just below the knee. The frock was ornate and rather gaudy, red and black stripes ran the length of the skirt. Lace traceries embellished the bustline. I finished my preparations by drawing on the long, crimson gloves and fastening the cincher around my waist. And then I was ready.
I posed in the mirror, stepping forward on one foot and lifting the petticoats to reveal a saucy black garter. My heart was racing in my chest, my eyes twinkled with mischief. Was this how it felt, waiting backstage while the band warmed up its horns and strings? I could almost hear the murmur of the crowd, the popping of corks and the clinking of glasses. In a very few moments, I'd have to run onto the stage with my panties on full display. My entire body was trembling with expectation. Gazing into the mirror, I saw a rich, pink glow suffusing my features.
Snatching up two handfuls of flocked white lace, I conjured up a packed Victorian nightclub on the south side of London. For one second, I could almost see the chandeliers flickering overhead, the coils of smoke rising to the rafters, the dim shape of the audience beyond the footlights. The band had started up with a clashing of drums: I was being summoned out before the crowd. It was time to reveal my gauzy white underwear to the world!
Grinning my most brilliant smile, I raced onto the stage in an avalanche of gossamer frills. I launched into my routine with a series of classic high-kicks, straining my garter-belt to the breaking point as my feet swept towards the ceiling. A vast star of joy seemed to explode in my belly. Heart pounding in ecstasy, I spun into a long, wheeling pirouette, skirts flying out in a perfect circle. I orbited around the room, exposing my panties all the way up to my belly button. Stockinged thighs flashed in the mirror as I swirled past, my hair flailing about my shoulders.
Every nerve in my body seemed to tingle with electric fire. Drawing a deep breath, I pitched forward into a cartwheel, scissoring my legs in mid-air to allow the crinolines to fall away. I paused at the height of my arc; suspended upside-down with my petticoats cascading over my head. Cool air whisked between my thighs as I went over, almost shrieking in rapture. It was wonderful, better than I'd ever imagined.
Landing gracefully on my feet, I whipped the dress back up to my throat and kicked my heels over my head, laughing like a child as I leapt from foot to foot. The audience roared its approval, their deafening shouts echoing about the ceiling. I rushed forward, waving my skirt as high as it could go. I felt sweet, feminine and unbelievably naughty. Tight black garters snapped against my haunches, virginal white panties glared in the mirror.
The performance lasted about ten minutes. Pulse thudding in my temples, I careened through a succession of kicks, handstands and flip-flops, taxing my gymnastic abilities to the limit. My stockings crept imperceptively down my thighs, exhibiting more bare flesh until the suspenders were as taut as violin strings. Wild exhilaration filled my veins; I spun ever faster, giggling and screaming as my petticoats rose and fell.
I finished up with by bending double and tossing my skirts over my back, baring my ripe, pantied bottom to the entire room. Breathless with excitement, I stood with my heels together and my dress hanging over my head. I clenched my bottom-cheeks impulsively, listening to the crowd cheering; thundering for more. I smiled to myself in pure, innocent delight, prepared to stand up and give them the encore they deserved.
Just at that second, someone cleared their throat behind me.
The New Kid in Town Part 2
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The New Kid in Town (2)
Note: the protagonist of this story is biologically male but looks anatomically female.
2.
My eyes widened in surprise.
Lips parting in a silent gasp, I peeked out from below the frothy curtain of my petticoats, still doubled over with my bottom thrust out in rude display.
There was someone standing at the door of the rumpus room. Someone I'd never seen before. A boy about my age, maybe a year older. Tall; taller than me, and much wider across the shoulders. He was wearing a Chamberlain High School jacket and holding something in his right hand, although neither fact registered with me at the time. He was staring at me (or rather at my derriere) slack-jawed and speechless, astonishment stamped all over his face in capital letters.
"Ohmygod!!" I cried, remembering how high-cut my underpants were at the back, how much of my creamy white bottom-flesh they exposed. I swung around and straightened up, flipping my skirt over to a more modest position. I stared back wordlessly, my face darkening with embarrassment.
How long had he been standing there?
How much had he seen?
What was he doing here?!
His eyes seemed to refocus, as if he'd just come out of a trance, then he cleared his throat again.
"Hi ..." he said, raising his hand in unconscious greeting, "I ... I'm from next door ... I've ... I just came over to ..." That was as far as he got before he remembered he was holding a coffee mug in his right hand. A rather large one with a Starbucks logo on the side.
"How did you get in here?" I demanded, feeling more than a little scared. He was far bigger than me - built like a linebacker on steroids, in fact. I stepped away from him, feeling small and weak and vulnerable. He was blocking my sole exit from the room. I looked anxiously around, wondering how I'd get past him if it came to trouble.
"Uh ... I'm sorry, the front door was open," he replied red-faced, gesturing over his shoulder with the Starbucks mug, "I knocked for about two minutes, but no one answered, so I ..." his voice trailed off and I saw that he was nearly as embarrassed as me. Two bright spots stood out on his cheeks. Despite his size, he looked like a very small boy caught with his hand down the cookie jar. He offered me an apologetic grin, his eyes roaming over my costume - particularly the bustier.
"What do you want?!" I exclaimed, covering my tiny cleavage with both hands. It was a reflex action: He was a stranger, I was standing here in a low-cut dress. I wanted to cover up, hide myself from this lumbering monstrocity. How could I have been so stupid as to leave the front door open? Now my secret was out: he'd seen me capering around the rumpus room with my skirt over my head.
"Nothing ..." he replied uncomfortably, "I mean, my mother sent me over for a cup of sugar ... she's making a cake, and we only moved in two weeks ago ..."
"A cup of sugar?" I asked in a slightly incredulous tone. He obviously wasn't going to hurt me. He now seemed less of a threat than when I'd first seen him bulking out the doorway. Now that the initial shock had passed, I was able to take a closer look at him. He had a surprisingly open expression, almost devoid of thoughtless, adolescent cruelty. He was big, but he wasn't mean.
"Yeah," he said, and rubbed the back of his neck with his huge left paw, having exhausted his vocabulary for the time being. I searched his features carefully, uncertain how to proceed. Could I trust him? Would he keep what he'd seen to himself? I lowered my hands to my sides, realizing I didn't have much choice now that the cat was out of the bag.
Unless, of course, I could come up with a convincing enough lie.
"You're probably wondering what I was doing", I said, sweeping a gloved hand around the room.
"Well ... no, I didn't ..." he started, looking more uncomfortable than ever.
"I was rehearsing for the Winter Eisteddfod," I explained, blushing to the edge of my hairline, "we're doing a Moulin Rouge number on Christmas Eve". It wasn't a complete lie: my dance class was training for the yuletide arts festival, and the cancan had always been a popular number. I guess it sounded plausible enough, even if I'd been dancing without any music whatsoever. I watched him closely for any sign of disbelief. His reaction startled me:
"Really? Well, it looked pretty good from where I was standing."
"What?" I demanded in near disbelief.
"Sorry, I just meant -"
"How much did you see?"
"Just about everything," he replied without thinking, then realized how his words might have been interpreted, "I mean, just the last couple of seconds, that thing where you bend over and ..." he closed his mouth, evidently deciding it would be better to quit while he was still behind.
"So...you came over for a cup of sugar?" I asked once more, feeling my spine relax somewhat. He posed no threat to me whatsoever, I'd come to understood that much, at least. As a matter of fact he seemed...well, kind of nice.
"Yeah, if that'd be all right," he answered, holding up the mug with an almost comically self-depricating look. Aw, shucks ma'am, I'm so sorry about all this. Just gimme my cup a' sugar and I'll be on my way.
"OK," I said, a genuine smile touching my lips, "you want to come out to the kitchen?" I stepped towards him, hearing my stilettos clocking on the floorboards. Nylon frills brushed against my thighs, raising static along the stockings. My sense of touch seemed to have been amplified a hundredfold, I was almost painfully conscious of everything touching my skin. Flimsy white panties, clinging to my hips; wispy black garter-belt; nestled snugly around my waist. Long, tight suspenders, stretching along my legs.
"Sure," he nodded, and stepped aside, allowing me to pass into the main corridor. My skirt rustled gently as I pushed by, giving him a shy sideways glance. So huge; I was frankly amazed that he'd fit through the front door, open or closed. He fell in behind me without comment, two hundred pounds of all-American beef squeezed into a Chamberlain jacket and a pair of faded blue levis. And carrying a Starbucks coffee mug in his right hand.
I could almost feel his eyes wandering over my bottom as we walked out to the kitchen.
The New Kid in Town Part 3
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The New Kid in Town (3)
Note: the protagonist of this story is biologically male but looks anatomically female.
3.
On reflection, it must've been the dumbest thing I'd ever done in my life up to that point. I had to live next door to this guy and his family; how could I have been crazy enough to think I'd get away with it? In a perfect world, I suppose I would have been 'straight' with him from the start; told him I was biologically male (even though my genetic condition gives me a highly feminized appearance) and that he'd simply caught me fooling around in a ten dollar dress I'd bought at the Salvation Army. He was a regular guy, he'd understand my position. Probably laugh at the mistake and invite me over to watch the Semi Finals on ESPN.
Well...maybe not. But who knows? As I later discovered, Pete Fuller had about the sweetest nature to be found on God's green earth, not a malicious bone in his entire body. I might have saved us both a hell of a lot of trouble by just coming clean.
The truth was, I didn't know the guy from Adam. In the course of events, he proved himself a stand-up dude and a better friend than I'd ever known, but at the time he was just some big lummox who'd wandered in off the street while my back was turned (and my prim young fanny bared, let's not forget that little detail). I had no idea what I was dealing with here; he could have been an escapee from a psych-ward for all I knew. I mean, he walked in holding a Starbucks mug, for chrissake.
It was too late to change my story, anyway. I'd started out with a little white fib, telling him that I'd been rehearsing for a school musical. And it wasn't a complete lie; Lainsbury Hall was putting on a Bastille Day review in July, which included a Moulin Rouge number in the grand finale. I'd been conscripted for the Montmartre sequence, along with four other volunteers from the tenth grade.
I've heard it said that no good relationship begins with a lie, and in light of what followed that first meeting, I can vouch for the accuracy of the statement (although things worked out fine in the end, at least for Pete and his folks). My sole defense throughout the whole fiasco was that I never acted out of malice, never willfully set out to hurt anyone. I know that's no real excuse, but at the end of the day, my behavior was prompted by circumstance rather than spite.
Still ...
"I haven't seen you around," The Boy From Next Door said as we walked into the kitchen, "you go to Chamberlain High?" I wasn't aware of it at the time, but I had already decided – subconsciously at least – to break the cycle of deception before it gained too much momentum. I stepped over to the pantry, throwing him a backwards glance. He'd halted by the kitchen table, hands sunk into the pockets of his jacket.
"No, I don't," I replied to his question, folding open the louvered doors, "I go to Lainsbury Hall over on Bridgeport Street." No need lie there, he was probably unfamiliar with the general territory anyway. I reached into the pantry, mind racing ahead of my mouth as I tried to anticipate his next question.
"Oh, yeah, Lainsbury Hall ..." he repeated, scanning his memory for any references to a Bridgeport Street, "that's the private school, isn't it? The one out by St Andrews."
"The same," I nodded, turning to face him, sugar bag in hand, "sounds like you know Chamberlain pretty well." I was a little surprised by his knowledge of the local geography. He'd only moved in a couple of days ago, from what he'd told me.
"Yeah, I do. Been here my whole life. My folks and I used to live in the Westside before we bought the place next door." He was standing in the window, his brown hair tinted gold by the deepening afternoon sun. Square-jawed and blue-eyed, he must have had at least a dozen girls hanging off his arm come Friday night. Cheerleaders most probably.
"The Westside?" I asked, putting the sugar on the table and extending my hand for the starbucks mug, "I thought it was mainly nightclubs and casinos out there."
"Yeah, it is", he agreed, passing me the mug without conscious thought, "my Dad owns the Windjammer Tavern down in Pitt Street. We used to live upstairs, over the main bar, but then we decided to move out here to the burbs."
I'd heard of the Windjammer. One of the Westside's more upmarket establishments, it was best known for its entertainment center, which included a gamesroom and a theatre restaurant. Live bands played there most weekends, and it was the venue of choice for a wedding receptions and civic functions, despite the Westside's sleaze-dive reputation.
"Your father owns the Windjammer?" I asked, pouring the sugar into the mug and spilling a little on the table, "you must be the most popular guy at Chamberlain High."
He contemplated this for a few moments, then smiled: a wide, easy smile, quite unlike the penitent grimace he'd given me previously. Like I said, at least a dozen girls come Friday night. They'd just about melt in their pants before that heart-stopping grin.
"Yeah, a quarterback with a singles bar; every senior's fantasy." He laughed as if he'd never considered it before (which, in fact he hadn't), and I caught myself laughing with him. I was struck again by how open his face was, how warm and free of teenaged cruelty. The fear and doubt I'd experienced earlier had dissipated entirely; so had my first impression of a blundering, witless lout. It was almost possible to forget I was wearing suspender stockings beneath my skirt.
We stood looking at each other across the room, a table full of sunlight between us. I guess that's where it started: that tiny burst of spontaneous laughter, followed by a long second of relaxed silence. I discovered that I liked him. Very much. Strange how a friendship can form in the quiet spaces between two sentences.
"So ... you play football?" I asked, apropos of nothing.
"Yeah, I run defense for the Chamberlain Rebels. Although I seem to spend more time on the benches than on the field lately"
"Hard to believe," I said, measuring the spread of his shoulders. He shrugged his response, then surprised me by changing the subject.
"What about you? You play any sports?" He sounded genuinely interested.
"Studied gymnastics since I was ten," I answered, telling him the complete truth for the first time that day. I was impressed: I'd never met a jock who didn't bulldoze straight over the conversation once they got started on the virtues of the game. The Boy From Next Door was a rare find indeed.
"Cool," he said, and a look of recognition seemed to pass over his features, "hey, didn't Lainsbury win the state gymnastics finals last year? You weren't on the team, were you?"
"No, I wasn't. I'm good, but not that good." Which was a pity, Lainsbury's gymnasts wore cute little pleated skirts with long white socks. I could almost see myself flipping over into a handspring during the introductory routine, exposing my flawless white briefs to like a million people. Cheerleaders and cancan girls. The thought brought the hint of a smile to my lips.
We laughed again, although he had no idea what I was giggling about. And for one perfect instant, reality seemed to peel back, replaced by the illusion I'd generated within myself. I was no longer just some freak tarted up in a garter-belt and a tawdry satin dress. I was a girl: a pretty, teenaged girl who been caught flaunting her undies when she thought no one was watching. Laughing it off in the kitchen with The Boy From Next Door.
I looked down at the Starbucks mug on the table, wondering what to say next. My uninvited guest was still standing on the other side of the table with his red-gold hair glinting in the sun. His errand was complete; we had no further business with each other. His mother was probably wondering what was taking him so long. But paradoxically, I didn't want him to leave. I was enjoying myself; enjoying the attention he was paying me, the thrill of discovery and exposure. I was excited, more excited than I'd ever felt before. It was magical, it was enchanting, and I didn't want it to stop.
"You ...wouldn't like some milk and cookies, would you?" I asked hesitantly, feeling like a bobby-soxer in a 1950s situation comedy. A vague premonition whispered through my mind, a soft warning echoed over some great distance: What are you doing? What in god's name are you doing? It was a small, insignificant voice, drowning in the flood of arousal rising through my system. I had no trouble dismissing it from my thoughts.
"Yeah, sure," he answered without a second thought, as if afternoon tea with the local hermaphrodite was the most natural thing in the world. He sat down at the table, hunching comfortably forward on his elbows. I walked back over to the pantry, petticoats skittering as I moved.
"Chocolate chip OK?"
"Nothing Better," he replied.
And so it began.