So, it turns out that our transgendered friend Holly has just turned eighteen, meaning it's time to break out the champagne and trip the light fantastique. Holly has been waiting for this moment her entire life, and so to celebrate her coming of age, she's agreed to model her lingerie for everyone on this site. Don't worry, no need to be embarrassed; she's been planning this show for a long time, and it's not every day that a pretty young transgirl makes her public debut...

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Feathertouch

Tracy Lane, 2017/2021.
Released into the Public Domain.

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Note: the protagonist of this story is biologically male but looks anatomically female.

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My Mother started dressing me in girls' clothing from a very young age, long before I entered elementary school. The exact details are rather hazy, but I recall modeling some frilly little outfits she made on her Singer sewing machine. That was her job; Mommy ran a small dressmaking business out of her home, specializing in childrens' wear. She often used me as a mannequin due to my slender proportions and somewhat feminine appearance, so you might say we engaged in a family business.

Her designs proved popular enough to pay the bills throughout my early childhood, by the time I turned five we had our own home a few blocks from the center of town. She converted one of the larger rooms into a studio-workshop where she could complete her orders, and kept me close at hand whenever she needed to check some measurements.

I should mention that pinaforing was still quite common in our part of the country. Lainsbury was something of an anachronism; the last gasp of an era when strict gender roles weren't applied to prepubescent children, meaning it wasn't unusual to see young boys decked out in frocks and flounces. It was sometimes practiced as a form of discipline (both in home and school), but in most cases it was simply the fashion of the day.

After a while, Mommy allowed me to grow my hair out, resulting in long, wavy blond tresses cascading down to my shoulders. Paradoxically, this was considered rather revolutionary by polite society – hair length being one of the few ways to distinguish a beribboned girl from a pinafored boy – but for my Mother, it was a matter of financial expediency. Not long after my sixth birthday, I'd started modeling for our wealthier patrons, most of whom wanted custom attire for their daughters. As I later discovered, there was a growing demand for girlswear, and Mom had managed to corner the market in our district. With dresses outselling pants by nearly ten to one, it made sense to capitalize on my more androgynous features. The illusion was virtually perfect: most of our newer clients never suspect I was actually a boy.

Mommy took it one step further, correcting my posture and training me to walk with grace and confidence about the showroom. Over time, I grew accustomed to my new position within the "company," climbing into a sun frock and mary-janes whenever a prospective customer wanted to see the latest outfit. It turned out to be one of the most lucrative strategies Mom had so far come up with. By the end of that year, she was literally swamped with orders and was negotiating a deal with the Feathertouch Corporation.

Up to that point, I'd had very few objections to my intermittent cross-dressing sessions; after all, it was in the privacy of our own home and I'd been wearing miniskirts for years. Nothing out of the ordinary, from my perspective, and I'd always been well rewarded for my efforts (normally with mouth-watering "bribes" of cake and candy).

All that changed the day Mommy signed her contract with Feathertouch. She was now poised to market a line of designer underwear.

I have extremely vivid memories of the afternoon Mommy called me to her studio to see what she'd been working on. The business had expanded considerably over the past two years; Mom had added two extensions to the original workroom and hired two assistants, both sharp faced, professional women in their late thirties. They were huddled around one of the display tables when I walked in, talking together in conspiratorial tones. Momma glanced in my direction, alerted by my soft-tapping footsteps.

"Allie!" she said crisply, beckoning me closer with her left hand, "come over here, I want you to try something on."

The assistants stood aside while I approached, allowing me to see what was laid out on the table. For a moment, I paused in mid-step, not quite sure what I was looking at. For a moment, I almost drew back in surprise, literally doubting my own senses. I stared up at my Mother in open-mouthed confusion, breath catching at the back of my throat. She wanted me to wear – those?

"Momma?" I asked in growing apprehension, silently praying that she wasn't serious, knowing already that she was.

She ushered me forward for a closer look, a hint of amusement touching her lips. I sidled hesitantly up to the table, staring down at the lacy, delicate things fanned out on the polished surface. A single glimpse confirmed my worst fears. It was underwear. Girl's underwear.

"Well?" Mommy asked, eyebrows raised inquiringly, "What do you think?"

"Momma, I can't wear these!" I gasped, feeling the blood rushing to my cheeks.

"Why ever not?" she demanded in feigned amazement, "you wear skirts and dresses all the time."

"But this is different!" I exclaimed, covering my mouth with both hands, "they're – I'm – Momma, it's not the same!!"

"How?"

I stared wildly around the studio, uncertain how to proceed. I was only eight years old, it was too complicated to explain in even the simplest of terms. I'd started school the previous summer; in the ten months since, I'd endured almost incessant teasing from my classmates. As the moving target of every schoolyard bully in the district, I'd become hypersensitive to the cries of "sissy-boy" and "nancy" that plagued me from pillar to post. Whatever Mommy had in mind was certain to make things a thousand times worse!

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Back in the days before girls wore bikepants under their skirts, panty-flashing was an occupational hazard in school. Most women from my generation have at least a hundred stories on that particular subject. In my case, of course, it seemed completely unavoidable.

My older sister and I studied gymnastics at Ridgewick Youth Center. In the space of only a few brief years, we'd become quite adept in the more sophisticated exercises, having qualified for the district finals.

During the week, we practiced our moves in the school playground. Whenever we learnt a new trick at gym class, we'd demonstrate it to our friends over the lunch break. Our repertoire included a dazzling array of cartwheels, handstands, step-overs and flip-flops – all in perfect synchronization - and all with our full-cut panties on clear display.

Lydia was slightly more advanced than I: she could go up into a flawlessly controlled handstand, scissor her legs apart, and walk around in a circle for close on a minute. Her skirt used to hang over her head, revealing her lacy floral prints to everyone in the vicinity.

I'd sometimes follow up with a triple step-over, displaying my pastel-colored underwear at the height of each turn. The sight of all those uncovered knickers never failed to bring a round of applause from our audience. Sometimes our friends would join in, though we'd usually end up in jumbled heap of arms and legs after the first try.

When we weren't turning somersaults on the school green, my classmates and I used to hang out on the jungle gym, where advanced acrobatic skills were optional. Most days you could see us dangling by ours knees, skirts flipped halfway over our heads. It was even worse if one of us wore a dress, because the longer you stayed topsy-turvy, the further your frock would creep down.

I remember one time my dress was turned completely inside out, dangling by a thread from my shoulders. One of my friends actually pulled it off for a joke; I had to chase her half way across the playground in nothing but my silky white girlie-pants. It was so embarrassing, I was relentlessly teased about it for about six weeks running.

Naturally, it didn't take us long to notice that there were always a few guys lurking about in the background, hiding in the bushes and hoping the rumors they'd heard turned out to be true. Evidently, they were running a bet to see who could 'score' the most points whenever we turned handsprings or clambered over the bars.

They should have known better than to match wits with us. Girls are genetically endowed with telepathic insights unknown to modern science - even tranzies like myself. Lydia was particularly adept at sensing the Male Gaze, and at the first sign of trouble, we'd both flip right-side up, smoothing down our tunics and frustrating their efforts at the last possible moment.

After a while, it developed into a vaguely obsessive game where the boys would try to sneak up and catch us with our panties on show. The lengths they went through just to gain a peek up our skirts were amazing. We saw them scaling walls, shuffling over ledges and even swinging across rooftops at one point. It's hard to say whether it was adolescent curiosity or sheer insanity, but after a while, both Lydia and I decided to play on their weaknesses.

Our initial target was a sullen mob of fifth year boys hanging around beneath the peppercorn trees. A permanent fixture on the edge of The Girl Zone, they loitered about day after day, almost praying for the barest hint of panty. They'd become utterly obsessed with what lay beneath my hemline, and I began to tease them every chance I got.

First, I'd wait until most of them were looking the other way, then flip my skirt up at the back, revealing my white cotton panties for a fraction of a second. They'd all suddenly turn to look, but by then it was too late, and I'd pretend nothing happened. It used to drive them crazy - they'd spend the entire lunch hour trying to catch a peek, but I was simply too fast for them.

Lydia was even more brazen, practically daring them to grab an eyeful. Her favorite trick was to walk past with a group of her friends, then casually turn a slow-motion cartwheel, placing her shiny nylon panties on open exhibition.

A minor scuffle would erupt within the boys' camp as they stumbled over one another, not quite sure what they'd just seen. Some of them would call out in frankly astounded voices, begging us to do it again. We never did, of course.

Not until they were looking elsewhere, anyway :)

I guess most girls aren't particularly self-conscious during their formative years, particularly when they have no reason to cover up during hot weather. My sisters and I were used to playing under the sprinklers in the front yard, putting on quite the show for the neighborhood. Lydia was old enough to wear a two-piece bikini, but Tanya and just I ran around in nothing but our white cotton underpants. We were, of course, barely out of kindergarten, so we didn't see anything unusual in it at the time. Neither did anyone else, so far as I could tell.

Speaking for myself, I rarely bothered getting fully dressed at that time of year, because – let's be serious here – who in their right mind would? With daily temperatures reaching 32 degrees by nine in the morning, I was happy to simply lounge about in my full-cut knickers for the most part.

I recall some mornings walking down to the mailbox to pick up Dad's papers, oblivious to the exhibition I was putting on. There were always a few people up and about at that time of day, but nobody seemed to notice. It was a common enough sight back then; one which only the craziest of spinster aunts would possibly object to. Most girls were considered children until they entered middle school, and I hadn't even reached the fifth grade by that stage.

I didn't really develop a sense of modesty until much later. My folks never objected to my impromptu lingerie parades as they'd seen me half-naked my entire life; even if the neighbors came knocking it was no big deal. Sometimes, if Mom was busy in the kitchen, she'd tell me to answer the door, regardless of what I was wearing.

Our part of the country could get pretty sultry in late July, so whenever I was upstairs reading a magazine, I'd just lie on the bed in my undies with the radio playing, feet waving lazily in the air. Occasionally, my friends would call out to me from the street, and I'd go to the window to talk to them. The thought of covering up rarely crossed my mind, seeing as we'd all known each other since forever.

It made little difference if there happened to be boys around. So they saw us in our underwear, who cared? Wasn't much different to sunbathing in a two-piece swim suit, and some of us didn't even make that distinction.

I have very fond memories of the sleepy little suburb where I spent my childhood. There was a water fountain in the park downtown, one of those old Victorian deals surrounded by a ring of wrought iron benches. Lydia and I often went down to feed the pigeons and trade the usual gossip; it wasn't unusual to slip off our skirts or dresses if we decided to go wading in the pool. There were usually a few pensioners sitting around enjoying the sunshine, but again, no one seemed to mind; they'd seen it all before.

Those were such innocent days...

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Tracy Lane, 2000/2021.
Released into the Public Domain.

Invasive Procedures

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Note: the protagonist of this story is biologically male but looks anatomically female.

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1.

"Nikki. It's time."

Nikki Chambers froze at her desk, feeling the blood run cold in her veins. The moment she'd been dreading the whole week had finally arrived. She glanced fleetingly around the room, feeling a soft pink glow spreading across her cheeks. Heads were buried in books, no one seemed to have heard. She looked up at Ms Longridge, her slim, high-breasted supervisor, hoping for some kind of momentary reprieve.

"Now?" Nikki asked in a hesitant voice. Ms Longridge nodded.

"Yes, you're next on the list," the woman answered briskly, "Dr Wrenston's waiting for you down in his office. Come on, he can't wait forever".

"Yes ma'am," Nikki replied shyly, gathering up her books and holding them possessively against her chest. She was blushing all the way to her hairline. Her stilettos clicked on polished concrete as she walked towards the door. A dozen heads swiveled to follow her progress. Study was instantly forgotten; everyone was paying attention to her now.

Stepping out into the hallway, she closed the door carefully, then headed down towards the office. She flicked a lock of hair from her face, moistening her lips nervously. She wasn't looking forward to this. Full frontal examinations were an ordeal for most women; Nikki had always found them to be treadmills of humiliation, even before her transition.

She walked quickly down the hallway, a tall, slender girl with long brown hair and huge, soulful blue eyes. Her lean, coltish legs were sheathed in sheer black thigh-highs, the kind with a lace garter at the top. She'd taken to wearing them soon after she enrolled at Chamberlain College in an attempt to overcome her innate modesty. They were the reason she seemed to attract so much attention. That, and her skin-tight lycra minis.

She was wearing a stretchy black mini-skirt. Alarmingly brief, it barely covered the edges of her underpants and left about six inches of thigh exposed between hemline and stocking-top. Her waist was encircled by a black leather combat-belt from which hung a plethora of holsters, clip-ons and electronic devices. They were more than a fashion statement, like most girls her age, Nikki lived half her life in cyber-space. Magazines like Cosmo called it 'Millenium Chic.'

She turned a corner and clocked down a flight of stairs leading into A-Block. Her tummy was swarming with butterflies, she felt feverish with expectation. Every girl in first year was required to attend the mid-term physical. There were no exeptions, it was a condition of enrollment. Nikki had managed to avoid the medical most of the year, but her turn had finally come. There was no escape. As Phil Collins had said back in the 80s; you can run, but you can't hide.

Her pulse was racing like a trip-hammer. She hated submitting to this ritual striptease. It seemed invasive, exploitive, a gratuitious probing of her body. The fact that she would be undressing for a General Practitioner did little to relieve her anxieties. She was hyper-sensetive about her body. Most girls were. Even today, very few women wanted to stand naked and vulnerable before a complete stranger.

So much the worse for Nikki: she was a tranzie.

Nikki found these examinations degrading beyond words. She was a young woman, not a six year-old girl. No one had the right to see her this way; bare-thighed and naked, with only a tiny wisp of polyester nylon to cover her shame.

Of course, Nikki had no real choice in the matter. Every three months, she was required to report to the clinic and strip down to her bare essentials. Once she'd finished taking everything off, the nurse would take her through to the surgery in her virginal white underpants, her hands cupped over her high, pointed breasts. She endured this festival of humiliation like a nervous child, her face burning with embarrassment.

Sometimes she was made to stand with her hands clasped behind her head, shivering with embarrassment while he tracked his eyes over her creamy white flesh. It was an ordeal of disgrace virtually beyond description, made all the worse for the knowledge that it was completely unavoidable.

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Monica and Simone had been best friends since the first grade. They virtually lived in each other's pockets, doing practically everything together. Their Mothers were good friends too, so it wasn't unusual to see them going out together in a group.

Today, their Mommies were taking them downtown for lunch, something the girls always saw as a huge adventure. They all met up at Monica's place to get ready. The girls went straight upstairs to get changed.

It is a well-known fact that young girls love getting undressed together, and Monica and Simone were no exception. Today, their Mommies were taking them for lunch downtown, and the girls were upstairs getting ready for their big adventure.

Off came their plain cotton housefrocks, followed by their t-shirts, singlets and slips. Soon the girls were stripped all the way down to their silky little panties, happily chattering about the day ahead. Their new clothes had already been laid out on the bed, along with some petticoats, vests and hair ribbons.

Simone immediately climbed into her light nylon crinoline, adjusting the band around her waist. It was so sheer that her thighs and panties were clearly visible through the material. Monica dawdled about in her underpants, chortling away in fluent child-speak. Suddenly, she noticed some bangles around Simone's wrist.

"Gee, those are pretty," Monica said, leaning in for a better look, "are they new?"

"Yeah, my Mommy bought them for me last week. She says they're 'friendship' bracelets." Simone paused, working one carefully down her forearm, "I want you to have this one, because you're my best friend."

"Wow, thanks!" Monica cried delightedly, then slipped the bangle over her right hand, "now we'll be friends forever!" The girls hugged each other warmly, then planted several gigantic kisses on each other's cheeks.

Just at that moment, Mrs Langton – Monica's mother – appeared at the doorway, just in time to see the impromptu cuddle fest. A huge smile spread across her features; there are few things as heart-warming as the sight of two little girls snuggling in their underwear. She immediately called out to Mrs Duval, Simone's Mom.

"Annette! Look at those two – getting ready in their pretty little panties!"

"Oh, aren't they just adorable? Quick, get a snapshot of them, Mary!"

"Good idea. Girls – look over here! Mommy's going to take your picture."

The girls shrieked with pink-cheeked pleasure, knowing they were going to be photographed in their underwear. Monica was particularly embarrassed, because she was wearing nothing but her underpanties. At least Simone had her frilly little slip on!

"Mommy!" Monica trilled in outrage, "we're not ready yet!"

"That's OK sweetie," Mrs Langton replied with some amusement, "little girls are allowed to run around in their undies."

The girls looked at each other and burst into tiny giggles. Both felt unspeakably naughty, yet it was so much fun, anyway.

"OK, then," Mrs Langton told them, "big smiles!"

The girls beamed at the camera, eyes glittering with silvery laughter. The first shots focused on Monica's baby-blue girlie-pants, paying special attention to their flimsy ruffled frills. Monica squealed in mock exasperation, turning her back and running across the room.

"Mommy, nooo! I'm only in my panties!"

Simone didn't fare much better. To make sure everything was fair, she had to hold her petticoat up to her chin. Standing on her tippy-toes, she raised her slip to reveal her shiny nylon panties. The camera whisked off six shots while Simone practically danced with outrage.

"Mommy, this sooo embarrassing!" she wailed, but couldn't help smiling all the while. Despite her protests, she clearly enjoyed showing off her underwear this way.

Once the "photo-shoot" was over, the women helped the girls on with their clothes, ignoring their pleas that they were old enough to dress themselves. Huge, delicious hugs were had all round, and the four headed downtown for a long day's shopping. Every time Simone looked at Monica, they both burst out laughing. It had been so much fun, and neither could wait to see how the photos turned out.

It was the beginning of a perfect day.

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Hi. My name is Denise.

I have a lot to say, but this is my first attempt at writing, and I'm not quite sure how to put my story into words. It's really odd; my ideas seem crystal clear whenever I'm out shopping or taking a walk around the Domain, but every time I try to write it down, the words get jumbled up a big, meaningless heap. Guess I'm just not a writer. Anyway, please bear with me, I'll try to keep things as simple as possible and not ramble on too much.

Maybe I should start by explaining that I'm a pre-operative transsexual. I've been on hormones for about three years now, and managed to make the transition successfully. I'm studying art & fashion at technical college because I've always wanted to design my own clothes. I'm really enjoying the course. Most of the other students are girls my age and I get on pretty well with all of them. Well, most of them, anyway. A few of the older ones give me a hard time because I wasn't born with the proper equipment, but I suppose you can't please everybody.

Actually, none of that's important right now. I don't want to talk about tech college, as it's not really part of the story. I want to talk about my Uncle James.

I've been living with James Anderson since my parents discovered I was taking estrogen. That was three years ago, one of the blackest days of my life. Mom wept for hours on end, wailing over and over that she'd lost her only child (which I suppose was true, in a way). Dad hit the roof, shouting at the top of his lungs and threatening to dig out his old Winchester. Dad was your stereotypical ex-service man, spent his tour of duty waging an endless war against homosexuality. You think I spent three years in Nam so you could come home and tell me you're gay?!!

The fact that I wasn't actually gay didn't seem to make much difference to the old man. Gays, lesbians, transvestites and transsexuals were all the same as far as he was concerned. As they used to say back in the marines, if it ain't straight, shoot it.

Once Dad stopped cleaning the Winchester and more civilized discussion began, everyone agreed that I should vacate the premises as soon as possible. James Anderson's name came up as a possible alternative to spending my evenings sleeping on the street (which was my Father's original solution).

James wasn't actually my Uncle. As I was later to discover, he was one of Mom's more peripheral relatives, the kind of globe-trotting gypsy you read about in Ian Flemming novels. Having recently returned from a tour of Eastern Europe, he'd rented a place near Queens Domain, not too far from the art school.

For my part, I had no major objections to this plan; by all accounts the location seemed perfect. Admittedly, James Anderson had a dark reputation - 'born to hang' was how most people phrased it - but he'd always treated me well on the rare occasions I'd met him.

James and I got along famously for the first month or so. We worked out a private agreement where I'd do some light domestic chores in return for food and lodgings. He'd even throw in a bit of pocket money to help me out with my studies. This arrangement suited me just fine, as I'd become rather domesticated since my transition. In many ways, I was living out a fantasy I'd treasured for many years; the one where I was a spoilt little rich girl swanning around a spacious Victorian mansion.

Then I discovered precisely how 'dark' his reputation really was.

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Playing Doctor

Tracy Lane, 2013/2021.
Released into the Public Domain.

As discussed in an earlier narrative, I underwent a series of rather humiliating school physicals during my elementary years, each of which left a lasting impression on my personality. My two sisters experienced similar examinations, often comparing notes when we got home from school. From grades one to three, we were only required to strip down to our panties, but around the fourth grade, nude examinations were introduced following a well-documented "health scare" in our local district.

Like many kids our age, we started incorporating medical elements into our playtime, influenced by what we’d each undergone at the school clinic. At first, we played hospital fully clothed, alternating between doctor, nurse and patient. After a while, however, we settled down into more specific roles, in which I was usually the subject of the examination.

I should stress that the play-acting started out completely innocent; we were just three little girls dressing up in the rumpus room with a plastic medical kit. Sometimes we’d remove our t-shirts while the "doctor" checked our breathing, but that was about as far as it went for a while. All of that changed one Saturday afternoon when we decided to re-enact one of our recent school physicals.

As stated above, I almost always played the patient, and it was around this time the game began to take on exotic undertones for me. While I was only about nine years old and understood none of the emotions I felt, I gradually developed a deep sense of anticipation whenever we went downstairs to set up the "clinic." The "script" went though various permutations before we arrived at what we considered the perfect scenario.

Having established a basic routine, the game always started with me sitting in our makeshift classroom, pretending to read a book. Tanya, my younger sister, would walk into the room wearing an improvised nurse’s uniform, telling me it was time for my check up. At this point, my pulse would start to quicken, because I knew from long practice what to expect.

Feeling a vague flutter at the back of my tummy, I would stand up and walk obediently across the floorboards as Tanya ushered me into the "change room." There, she instructed me get ready for my physical:

"Take off your clothes and put them in that basket. The doctor will see you in a minute." Sometimes I'd ask her how much I had to take off, and she’d reply "everything except your panties."

I’m not sure how to describe what I felt at that point. The emotions were so complex, so raw and tangled that I've never quite found the words. It usually started with a warm tingling on the nape of my neck, which would suddenly cascade down through my shoulders, thighs and tummy. My hands frequently trembled as I started undoing my dress, sometimes fumbling the buttons. Gooseflesh quivered down my torso, especially around the belly button.

This was usually followed by a jarring sense of dissociation, as if I'd been separated from my own body and was viewing myself from the other side or the room. Everything was played out in high resolution; I could see myself standing by the downstairs window; a plump little girl with long blond pigtails, slowly undressing in a haze of sunlight. The strangest part was – I was fully aware that this was happening to me, not someone else. I was unfastening the bow at the front of my frock, I was sliding the straps lightly down my arms, I was stepping out of the dress to reveal my fresh white underwear.

Mind whirling with conflicting emotions, I dropped the frock into the basket and stood up in my vest and knickers. I knew my forced striptease was nowhere near complete, but I feigned innocence for a few seconds until Tanya ordered me out of my socks and singlet. This was one of most important aspects of the game: the patient could wear nothing but her underpants during the preliminary examination. No excuses, no exceptions.

Shivering with expectation, I removed the offending garments and crossed my palms over my white nylon panties. A mild scarlet tone tinged my features; although my siblings saw me half-undressed every day, I always found this final ritual embarrassing beyond words. It was as though I'd been transported back to the school auditorium, undergoing a naked physical before my entire class. Cheeks flushing cherry red, I dropped my eyes to the floor, waiting for Tanya’s next instructions.

Satisfied with my performance, Tanya took me by the hand and led me into the "examination room," where Lydia, my older sister was seated at a desk with a toy stethoscope around her neck.

"Katrina's here to see you, Doctor," Tanya announced, then stood attentively to one side. Adopting an authoritative tone, Lydia called me over to stand by her desk in my prim, white undies. Scanning me up and down with her sharp blue eyes, she asked my full name, marking it off on her non-existent list.

The check-up began with some idle small talk regarding my general health (Lydia did an amazingly good impression of our regular school physician), scribbling notes in an imaginary casebook. A few terse questions later, she would swivel her chair towards me, reaching for the medical kit as she moved. This was the official signal that my examination was about to begin.

The preliminary progressed in a brisk, professional manner as Lydia looked down my throat, listened to my breathing, tapped my chest and inspected my tummy-button. It's worth mentioning that I had to keep my hands by my sides during this phase, as covering myself up was strictly against the rules. I could only raise my arms if the doctor ordered me to, and even then, I had to keep them over my head until Lydia said otherwise. Any attempts to conceal my flimsy nylon knickers from view would result in a stern rebuke from Nurse Tanya (don’t be silly Katrina – the Doctor’s allowed to see your panties).

Lydia had developed an extremely "hands on" approach to our examinations, twisting and wringing my body out until I was literally gasping for breath. I think this was in caricature of our annual sports physicals; our gymnastics teachers tested our flexibility by bending our spines and stretching our limbs to the limit. Lydia could be every bit as rough, although I doubt she ever acted out of cruelty; it was simply how we'd come to play the game. Strangely enough, these personal violations only increased my excitement.

Concluding the preliminary, Lydia turned back to her desk, pretending to fill out her medical report. Breathing a carefully scripted sigh of relief, I stood passively by in my full briefs, praying that my ordeal was finally over. Needless to say, it had only just begun. We would always play this scene over and over again, with Tanya and Lydia trading places. For my part, I invariably played the patient.

It was, after all, the role I was most comfortable with.

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