I arrived home from school to find my dad sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop. Being an average dad, he hasn't got a clue about modern technology so his laptop is really my laptop. He usually needs me to help him turn it on and then point to the browser or email shortcuts and guide him through whatever he wants to use it for... so seeing him using it without assistance was something of a surprise. I asked him what he was doing and he replied, “Oh just doing a bit of surfing.”
I had a mooch over and peered over his shoulder. He was looking at the BBC news website. “You managed to turn it on then?” I sarcastically stated.
“No.” he replied, “It was already turned on so thought I'd have a play.”
“Well I'm sorry to spoil your fun Dad but... I'll need it for my homework in a bit.” I told him. Dad was oblivious to the fact that I spent most of my time online just surfing a variety of websites, blogs and video streaming services. I pretend that I use it primarily for study and Dad is none the wiser.
“No worries.” Dad replied. I set off to my room to change out of my school clothes. “Oh before you go David... can you just explain something to me.” Dad said. I hovered behind him as he flicked through the various tabs on the browser before he found the one he was looking for. “What's all this?” he asked.
I lent forward, gulped and began thinking of excuses. “Dunno.” I said. “Looks like a load of anonymous comments to me.”
“They're not your comments then?” he asked.
Trying to be convincing, I scan read a few of them, shook my head and said “No.... dunno who's they are.”
“Fair enough.” dad replied. “It's just this one says the name's Dave.” he said, tapping on the screen.
I shrugged and chuckled and told him that there's a lot of Dave's in the internet, before pointing out to him that they're all posted as 'anonymous', so there's no way a knowing who's comments they really are.
“True, true.” Dad said. “It's just...” he tapped on the screen again, “...this little round thing here is an 'edit' button.” he told me. “Which, as far I know, means these comments must have been posted from this laptop.”
“It doesn't quite work like that.” I said, hoping I'd be able to use his ignorance of the internet to pull the wool over his eyes. I mumbled a chunk of technical mumbo jumbo and told him that the 'edit' buttons are always there, even when looking at someone else's profile page.
“Ah right!” Dad said, sounding suddenly enlightened. “I thought they'd only show when you're logged in to your Spoogle account and are on your own profile page.”
“Nah.” I replied. “They always show.” I reiterated.
“Hmm.” Dad said, sounding perplexed. “Because I logged out of your account and they disappeared, and when I logged back into it they reappeared.” he informed me.
“Shit!” I thought. “What are you doing logging into my Spoogle account?!” I defensively asked.
“Like I said David... the laptop was already turned on and your account was already logged into... I stumbled on this by accident, and wanted to ask you about it.”
“Well... like I said... I don't know anything about it.” I claimed. “I don't know what you stumbled on but it's got nothing to do with me.”
“Oh come on David.... I wasn't born yesterday.” Dad told me. “I didn't deliberately go snooping into your personal stuff and I'm sorry I found this, but I'm deeply concerned about these homophobic and misogynistic comments of yours.”
I didn't know what to say, so I simply repeated myself. “They're not mine!”
“They're on your account... they must be yours.” Dad insisted as he turned back to his laptop. “Clearly you've tried to cover your tracks by posting anonymously, but then you state your name... twice.” he said. “Why you're denying it I've no idea... in fact I do have a good idea why you're denying it.” he added. “You seem to have read quite a lot of these petticoating stories.” he said as he clicked on the time & date of one of the comments, which took him directly to the blog post on which I'd commented. I gulped as he scrolled up to the top of the post and began skim reading the story titled On the first day of Christmas, my auntie gave to me. “Why exactly do you assume that single women are man-hating lesbians?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Coz they are.” I bluntly replied.
“Well in that case David, you've clearly got a lot to learn about women.” Dad replied.
After a couple of minutes of watching him reading, I said that I'd need the laptop to do my homework. Dad said I could use it when he's finished. I began to protest. Dad turned to me and said, “Don't worry... PJ hasn't posted any new stories since your last visit so you're not missing anything.”
“I don't read them!” I insisted. “Well, not properly.”
“Really?” Dad replied. “Because you've left ten comments on eight stories, and looking at your cache...” he said, opening the browser's cache and ordering the pages alphabetically, “...it appears that you've read most of the others.” he added.
I felt my eyes grow to the size of saucers. How the hell does my technophobic Dad know what a cache is? He stacks shelves in a hardware store for f*cks sake! “Oh god!” I thought as he clicked on various posts from PJ's blog. I cursed myself for not even thinking to delete the cache, for forgetting to log out of my Spoogle account, and for leaving the sodding laptop switched on! I wanted to die as he returned to the list of cached pages, scrolled down beyond forcedfeminisationstories.blogspot and clicked on another cashed page, seemingly at random.
“Oh.” was his only comment as a school wear supplier's website opened, but not on the home page. Instead the girl's category opened, displaying all sorts of different school skirts, pinafores and gingham dresses. He closed the page, returned to the cache, scrolled down a bit more and clicked on another listing... PrissyBoy.com's login page... with my email address ready and waiting in the log-in box, beneath which is a row of eight black spots which represent my saved password.
“Please don't Dad.” I murmured as he clicked on the 'log in' button.
“Welcome back David...” Dad read from the page, “...It's been 15 hours and 32 minutes since your last visit.” I hung my head as Dad looked up at me. Then he checked his wristwatch and told me that I'd been surfing the internet when I should have been in bed.
“I was in bed.” I muttered.
Dad said nothing but raised an eyebrow. He closed the PrissyBoy page and closed the browser cache, then turned in his chair and looked up at me. “I suppose I should bar you from using my laptop... but since you need it to study, I can't really do that.” he said. I gulped. “But you're no longer to use it in your room, and you're no longer to use when I'm out.” he told me. “I'm not going to dictate which websites you visit, but all age restricted websites are out of bounds. I want to know which websites you do visit... and I especially want to know if you're posting vile comments.”
Dad told me to go and change, then I could get on with my homework. The moment I was in my room I began cursing myself. “Shit! Fuck! Bollocks! Oh Christ!” I said under my breath as I recalled the PrissyBoy page, Pjs captioned images and the school wear supplier's website. I bet he's going through the rest of 'em at this very moment! I figured as I slumped on my bed. As I removed my school uniform, I couldn't help but think of all the boys in PJ's stories who have to change into a girl's uniform when they return home from school. “He better not read all those fucking stories!” I moaned to myself as I pulled on my sweatshirt.
I felt as sheepish as hell as I returned. Dad's laptop is on the kitchen table. Dad is sat in the sitting room reading his paper. “Am I OK to use this now?” I sheepishly asked.
“Of course.” Dad replied. “So long as you use it where I can see you.”
I sat down and got my textbooks out of my school bag, but before starting my homework, I had a cache to clear and comments to delete. “Oh fuck!” I said under my breath as a pop-up window appeared: You do not have permission to complete this task. Please seek assistance from your system administrator. “Shit! Shit shit shit!” I thought.
“Everything OK son?” Dad asked as he lowered his newspaper and looked over.
“Yeah I'm just...” I said, before making up some lame excuse about one of my assignments.
“Oh OK.” Dad replied. “I set myself up as the administrator so if you want anything deleting, you'll have to ask me to do it.” he casually added.
“How the fuck does he know how to do that?” I thought. I was only a couple of days ago that I had to tell him how to send an attachment with an email! It's not as if he works with computers or anything... he's a shelf stacker!
As if reading my thoughts, Dad said, “It's amazing what you can find out by simply asking Spoogle... and there seems to be a NewTube video for everything!”
I said nothing and just got on with my homework, intermittently trying to find a way around his new 'administrator' settings so I could at least clear the cache and remove all the incriminating pages I'd looked at. I couldn't even delete or edit my comments on that PJ's blog because he'd somehow put a parental lock on aspects of my Spoogle account. I could see the blog itself so he hadn't put a block on that. I checked to see if the weirdo who writes all those sick stories had replied to my last comment.
Glad you enjoyed it... although i'm not sure if his Mum is a lesbian, or a man hater for that matter. I hope to get my next story published in the near future and I'm sure you'll find it just as exciting as this one... if not more so!
“Freak!” I thought. I was tempted to reply but in light of today's events I decided I'd best not. “They're all lesbian man-haters and the boys are all queer!” I silently spat as I closed the tab. “Shit!” I said a little too loud. Dad asked if everything was OK and I claimed I was simply struggling with my homework. In reality I realised that the browser's cache will also record this visit to PJ's blog and that Dad will most likely check.
Nothing more was mentioned about it that night, nor the following day or the day after that. Just as I started to think it'd been forgotten about, Dad gave me a handful of booklets he'd picked up. “What are these?” I asked.
“Just a bit of reading material.” he said.
One is called 'Understanding Gender', the next is 'Woman's Work: A look at women today', another is titled 'Society and the Single Mum', and lastly, 'Spotlight on LGBT Issues'. “What's LGBT?” I ignorantly asked.
“Lesbian, Gay, Bi-sexual and Transgendered.” Dad replied. “Hopefully they'll help you to stop using words like 'queer' and 'homo' as an insult, and might help you realise that single mother's aren't necessarily man-haters or lesbians.” he explained.
Throughout the next week, Dad asked a few times if I'd read the booklets he'd given me. I lied and said I had, but when quizzed further, it was clear that I'd done little more than flick through them. Begrudgingly, I read them and maybe I had been giving single mother's a hard time, and maybe I shouldn't use words like 'queer' and 'homo' as an insult... but as far as those stories are concerned, I reckon all those single mothers are man-hating lesbians, otherwise they wouldn't be turning boys into girls, and any boy who allows himself to be dressed as a girl must be queer. I even told that freak PJ as much when I posted an anonymous comment through a proxy which Dad wouldn't be able to trace.
In fact the proxy website enabled me to use the internet as I used to do... almost. I wasn't allowed the laptop in my bedroom but so long as I minimised the window the quick enough, Dad had no idea. I did keep well away from PrissyBoy though, just in case. PJ's latest story is epic. It's the usual single mother who coerces her son into dressing like a girl, and the boy just does as he's told. It took me four nights to read it all, then I had to re-read the first part, just to check for any inconsistencies. I couldn't help but leave a comment pointing out a few glaring errors. The proxy allows me to post without my Spoogle account logging my activity and keeps it out of the browser's cache. But to be doubly safe, I left out any telling phrases just in case Dad checks the blog for new comments. Whilst he was out, I took the opportunity to check some of the shopping sites, and the moment I saw his car headlights hit the house, I shut the proxy window and continued with my homework.
The following morning over breakfast, my dad tells me that I've been posting derogatory comments on PJ's blog again, and I flat deny it. “Oh David.” Dad sighs. “I thought we'd been though this.”
“I haven't!” I insisted, before reminding Dad about his administrator settings, parental blocks on my Spoogle account and the browser cache. “Any evidence would be in those.” I told him.
Dad calmly informed me that in addition to the administrator settings on the laptop, the parental controls on my Spoogle account, and the browser cache... he'd also installed a keyboard reader. “Which means I can see everything that's been typed into the keyboard... so all of your Spoogle searches, all your emails, FaceBank posts and blog comments are recorded... I even know that it took you at least five attempts to spell 'proxy' when you were trying to find a proxy website to surf through.” he informed me.
I recalled typing in proksi, procsi, procsy, proksy, procksy, proxi and finally proxy a few days ago and kicked myself. Not for my spelling, but for believing a lad at school who told that 'any' proxy website would cover my tracks. Dad went on to tell me that not only had I left another derogatory comment on the blog, but I'd also downloaded a handful of images from the pictures page and hid them on my pen-drive. My instincts told me to deny this, so I did.
“David, even when you use a proxy, everything you type is logged.” Dad told me. “...and every time you put your pen-drive in, an image is saved into a back-up folder” he added as he demonstrated with his own pen-drive. He plugged it in for a few seconds, them pulled it out. He logged out of my user account, logged into his own administrator account and showed me the folder in which a copy of his pen-drive's files were held. Then he showed me the copy of my pendrive, and hidden deep in a warren of folders, he showed me the pictures I'd downloaded from PJ's blog and various other websites. “What I don't understand is why you spend so much time reading the stories and downloading the images, this suggests you're into this sort of thing...” He paused as I began to shake my head, “...then post negative comments.”
“I'm not into it!” I insisted. “I think it's sick!”
Dad told me that if I'd read a couple of stories and left a couple of comments, he'd believe me. “By the looks of it you've read all thirty-six stories, and some more than once.” he told me. When did Dad become a super-sleuth? I wondered. Dad told me that it's OK to be 'into' this kind of thing. I insisted it wasn't. Dad pulled out a chair and sat opposite me. “You know Colette who I work with?” he asked.
“I don't know her but you've mentioned her.” I replied.
“Well... she was called Colin when she was a man, and now she's a woman she's called Colette.” he told me. “There's nothing wrong with it. Some people are born into the wrong body and need to cross-dress, and some people are born into the right body simply like cross-dressing.” he explained. “Now maybe you just like reading the stories and that's all there is to it... but if it's more than that, I'll support you... and it's nothing to be ashamed of.”
“It is though.” I moaned.
“And does posting homophobic comments alleviate that sense of shame?”
“Kind of.” I replied.
Dad sighed and sat back in his chair. “I'm going to have to talk to your mother about this.”
“What?” No! Please don't Dad.” I gulped. I went on to promise I'd not post anymore comments, not read anymore stories or look at anymore websites other than those needed for my homework, and Dad seemed to accept that.
Nothing more was mentioned and I kept my promise, although whether or not he'd spoken to my mother or not, I have no idea. I spend every second weekend with my mum and she mentioned nothing about it when we spoke on the phone, so I figured I was in the clear.
The following Weekend I spent at Mum's house; from tea-time on Friday until Sunday afternoon/evening. I was very tempted to have a quick surf through the websites I love to hate, but I wasn't going to take any chances. For all I know, my dad might have talked to my mother about them and the comments I'd left, and maybe even informed her how to keep a track of my online activity.
I decided to avoid Mum's computer altogether and instead watched a film. As usual, Mum took herself off to bed at around 11pm and advised me not to stay up too late. I took myself to bed soon after midnight when the movie finished and as usual, I drifted off to sleep wearing my birthday suit.
Sensing the presence of someone in close proximity, I awoke and peeled my eyes open. “Good morning sleepy head.” Mum's voice softly said.
“What time is it?” I groaned before emitting a yawn.
“Almost seven.” Mum replied, before telling me that there's no need to get up if I don't want to. “I just wanted to get a wash on.” she added as she collected my previous days clothes.
Since I still felt very sleepy, and since I don't like getting out of bed before 9.00am on a weekend, I stayed in bed and soon drifted off to sleep again. My radio alarm clock burst into life at 9.00 am and pulled me abruptly from my slumber. I dozed for a good fifteen minutes, listening to the dulcet tones of the weekend breakfast DJ and his selection of up-tempo 'wake-up' tunes. Mum knocked on the door and asked (through the closed door) if I was going to stay in bed all day, I replied saying I'd be up in a minute.
Mum opened the door and poked her around it. “I've run you a bath... come on, otherwise it'll get cold.” she said.
“I had a shower yesterday.” I whined.
“Yes but that was yesterday... come on.”
“Can't I have some breakfast first?” I moaned.
“It'll only take ten minutes.” Mum said. “Come on! Bath, then breakfast.” she added before closing my door and leaving me alone.
I tore myself out of bed and donned my bathrobe before going to the bathroom. Mum had indeed filled the bath and added plenty of bubble bath. I immersed myself in its warmth and felt I could go back to sleep there and then. I can't recall the last time I'd had a proper bath as I tend to shower every few days. I threw some water at my face and began to feel more awake. I squeezed some of Mum's bath & shower gel onto my sponge and lathered my arms, shoulders and chest. I would have used my own but that was in the shower cubicle and it was too much faff drying myself off to fetch it. Soap's soap I guess, regardless of whether it comes out of a pink or blue container. After washing myself, I relaxed again in the hot soapy water. I'd forgotten how nice and relaxing a proper bath felt, but they lack the convenience of a shower. This became all too apparent after I'd pulled the plug out and began rinsing the soapy scum from the rim. After drying myself off, I donned my bathrobe and opened the bathroom door. The smell of sizzling bacon drew me directly down stairs.
“Better?” mum asked when I entered the kitchen/diner.
“Much.” I replied. “It's years since I've had a proper bath.” I added as mum poured me a cup of tea from the pot. Mum said something about baths being much nicer than showers and that one can't have a proper pamper in the shower. I said something about it being much easier to rinse out a shower than it is to clean a bath tub, but agreed that the bath is nice and relaxing.
“So... what would you like to do this weekend?” she asked as she passed me a plate containing a bacon and fried egg butty.
“I dunno.” I replied before sinking my teeth into the soft white bread. “Maybe wonder in to town this aft.”
“Are you meeting friends?” she asked.
“Nah... just thinking of summit to do.” I shrugged.
“Well I was thinking about maybe having a drive out to Melchester for a change.” Mum suggested as I took a second bite of my sandwich.
“Cool.” I said with my mouth full, adding, “The Corn Exchange is always worth a look... if it's still open.” once my mouth was empty.
“Well when you're dressed we'll go.” Mum said. “I don't know if you notice or not... but I put some clean clothes out for you.” she added.
I didn't give this comment a second thought, but maybe I should have done. Mum never puts clothes 'out' for me... or not since I was about nine anyway. I should have gotten suspicious when I climbed the stairs and Mum followed me, but I didn't. Even when I opened my bedroom door and glanced at the clothes she'd put on my bed, I didn't think anything was out of the ordinary. A pair of jeans and a folded cream jumper laid alongside what I guessed would be a T shirt. I pulled open my underwear drawer to grab some pants and socks, only to hear my mother's voice say, “There's clean knickers on your bed.”
I froze. Being a woman, my mum calls my underpants 'knickers' as often as she calls them 'underpants', 'undies' or just 'pants'... but bearing in mind recent events at home (my dad's house), the way she said 'knickers' felt loaded... very loaded. I gulped as my mother perched on the edge of my bed and unfolded what I thought was a plain white T shirt, only to discover that it's a girl's white vest and a pair of big white knickers. My jaw dropped but no words came out.
“Your dad told me what he'd discovered on his laptop, and we both agree that it's better to encourage rather than to discourage you.” Mum said as she laid the pair of knickers flat on her lap. “I know they're not the nicest knickers, but I figured a pair of control knickers would be better with jeans.” she said, passing them to me.
“I'm not wearing those.” I snapped. “No way.”
“Who's going to know?” Mum asked.
“I'll know!” I retorted. “And you. And Dad!” I added, staring nervously at the pair of big white panties that dangled from her hand.
“Your Dad and I already know David... he's read those petticoating stories. I've read some too, and we all know that you've not only been reading them, but returning to them time and time again.”
I felt myself begin to physically tremble. I sat on the edge of my bed and anxiously fumbled my fingers. I claimed it was a misunderstanding and that Dad had simply got the wrong end of the stick. I insisted that I don't like those petticoating stories, in fact I detest them, hence the comments dad had found.
Mum smiled at me. She gently took hold of one of my hands and ran her thumb over my fingers. She was clearly choosing her words with great care. “Assuming I believe you David...” she said after a few moments. “...then I'm appalled at the sexist and homophobic comments you made.” I hung my head but said nothing. “You may not live with me full time, but I'm still a single mother.” she stated. “Does that make me a man hating lesbian?”
“No.” I peeped. Mum asked me if it meant that she must be just a man hater, or maybe just a lesbian, being a single mother. Again I peeped “No.”
“But you stated that very thing numerous times in your comments on that blog.” she reminded me. I said nothing. “Another thing I'm not happy about is that you repeatedly lied to your father when he asked you about it.”
“Sorry.” I muttered.
“Now for the record...” Mum began. “...I don't believe that you're a misogynistic homophobe. I think you're a pleasant and considerate young man who's recently discovered a more feminine side.”
“No!” I insisted in a whiny voice. “I haven't.”
“In that case, you're the misogynistic homophobe that I'd hoped you wasn't.” Mum bluntly replied. “You're exactly the sort of young man who'd benefit from a dose of petticoating.” she added.
“No... I'm not.” I said, gulping. “Please mum... don't do this.” I pleaded, nervously glancing at the knickers in her hand.
Mum initially replied with one of those monosyllabic sarcastic laughs sent through a pair of pursed lips, then she told me that I was in a tricky situation. “You see... I've removed all your clothes from your drawers and your wardrobe, although you haven't actually noticed.” she said in a frightening matter of fact tone. “And one call from me, and your father will start emptying your drawers and wardrobe at home too.” she added. I couldn't talk but I could gulp, so I did just that. “All you need to do is be completely honest with me.” she said. “Do you think you can do that?”
I gulped and looked her. She smiled a reassuring smile. I gulped again and nodded the slightest of nods. She asked me directly and calmly if I was misogynistic or homophobic, and therefore needed to be petticoated. “No.” I replied in an honest yet whimpering voice. Then she asked, just as concisely, if deep down, I had some feminine urges. I gulped and nodded, before breathing deeper and deeper. God this is hard.
Mum put her arms around me and held me close. She assured me that everything is OK and said that she understands why I'm so nervous. Then she ended the embrace, looked me in the eye and said that was glad that she doesn't have to petticoat me after all. Her words slowly sunk in I breathed a sigh of relief. “It's much nicer that you're doing this willingly.” she added as she placed the pair of knickers in my hands.
“But... I... I thought...” I stammered. “Do I have to wear these?” I sheepishly asked.
“If you don't want to wear them, then yes, you have to wear them.” Mum replied. “And like I say, it's so much nicer that you want to wear them.”
“I don't understand.” I whined.
Mum explained that I can either explore my feminine urges at my own pace, or be petticoated. “Being petticoated means you'll wear what you're told whether you like it or not, or you can explore your feminine side to find out whether you like it or not.” she said. “If you do like it, that's absolutely fine. If you don't, that's fine too. But this weekend, like it or not, you're going to find out one way or the other.”
I grimaced, I gulped and I said “OK.” in such a meek voice it was barely audible. I looked at the knickers, scrunched in my hand and bit the bullet before unscrunching them. Mum said she'd leave me alone to put my clothes on and I forced a smile and said “Thanks.”
“I'll warn you though...” Mum said as she stood up, “...those control knickers won't be very comfortable, but they will make you look much flatter if you tuck yourself in properly.”
Mum left me alone and I cursed myself for what I'd got myself into. The knickers looked quite big until I started to pull them up my legs and over my knees. Then I realised just how small they really were. I guess I'd mistaken the high wast and low leg for 'big' and they didn't look quite so narrow when laid flat on my lap. I pulled them up then pulled them down. I tucked my bits under myself and pulled them up again. I couldn't believe what I was seeing as I pulled their high waistband into position. Lace trimmed waist and lace trimmed leg holes, a tiny little bow on the front of the tight elasticated sateen fabric... and I'm wearing them! What would people think? My boyish bulge was barely noticeable and I could most definitely feel why. Mum was right about them not being comfortable and in a way I'm glad she forewarned me. I recalled all the stories I'd read on PJs blog and felt the same thrilling sense of fear he describes when his protagonists are petticoated. I run my hands over the smooth slinky fabric and textured lace trim. I unwittingly inhale sharply and shudder at the very feel of it. The very thought of it. The very real reality of it. I can't do this. I tell myself as I tuck my thumbs into the waist band and prepare to remove the constricting control knickers once and for all.
I checked my drawers and did in deed find them completely empty. I checked the wardrobe assuming that would be empty too, but inside hangs a single garment... a ghastly yellow gingham prairie dress with far too many white lacy frills. I've read the literary depictions of such dresses numerous times before, but have never seen one in real life before. I shudder went through me as I imagined how dreadful it must be to actually wear such a dress... even a girl my age would feel like a complete dork wearing such a prissy monstrosity.
“You must be dressed by...” Mum's very proximate voice said. “Oh... sorry... I thought.” she added in quick succession. Meanwhile, I yelped, covered my groin and froze. With nothing to hide behind and nowhere to go, I have no option but to do nothing. “You found your dress I see.” Mum said.
I glanced toward the wardrobe and gulped. “It's horrendous.” I gulped again.
“I know.” Mum said with a wry smile as she stepped past me and closed the wardrobe doors. She turned around and leaned against them, looking me up and down. “That's the dress you'd be wearing if I'd petticoated you.” she told me. “But given the choice, I figured you'd prefer something not quite so girlie.” she smiled. I remained frozen to the spot with my cupped hands covering as much of my knickers as possible. Mum looked at them and smiled. “Let's have a look then.” she asked. I slowly moved my hands. “Oh they look OK.” she said. “How do they feel?”
“Tight.” I replied.
“Try your jeans on.” Mum suggested. I hesitated. “Unless you'd rather try...?” she pointed her thumb in the direction of my wardrobe and the only item within it.
“Er.. no.” I hastily replied. Mum grinned as I trotted to my bed and took hold of the denim jeans. “Are these skinny jeans?” I asked, clearly not too impressed as I always wear straight legs or baggies. Mum nodded and smiled. I pushed my feet into the legs and eventually pulled them up. Although high waisted, they weren't as high as my knickers which left the broad lacy waistband in full view. They fit my more snugly than anything I'd ever worn before, especially around the groin. Mum said they looked 'really nice' before picking up the white vest. She drew my attention to an elasticated band inside it, before holding it in such a way that me to slip my arms through it. U pulled it over my head and onto my body. I untwisted the brad lacy shoulder straps on mum's instruction before she turned me around and adjusted their length. She faffed with the elasticated band which sat like a bra around my chest before asking me how it felt. “OK.” I meekly replied.
“It looks nice.” Mum said as she turned me to face her. Next came the jumper, which I needed no assistance with. It has a broad slash neck which I try to arrange so it covers both of my vest straps. Mum rearranges it so both are revealed. “It's got a wide neck for a reason.” she said with a smile.
I looked down at myself and wasn't too offended by what I saw. Apart from the style of my jumper's neck and the lacy straps of my vest, I don't look that girlie... or do I? Plenty of lads wear skinny jeans but not like these. Not a style that's quite so skinny at the top. The ever present yet unseen constricting control knickers are clearly doing their job by concealing my boyish bulge. Mum said something but I was so lost in myself that it sounded more like a mumble. “What? Sorry.” I said like a startled thing.
“I said your baseball shoes might look OK.” Mum reiterated. “I didn't buy you any girl's shoes because the sizes are all staggered.” she explained.
Although the sizes thing made little sense to me, I'm not going to argue with wearing my trusty old baseball shoes, and I think they will look OK. “Have I got some socks?” I asked.
Mum scanned the duvet and momentarily appeared perplexed. The she glowed with an aura of enlightenment before turning back a fold in the fabric and revealing them. “Well I guess something had to be.” I said to no one but myself as my eyes widened. Something had to be pink and flowery, and I guess I'm lucky it's just the socks. They're baby pink with white daisies the size of twenty pence pieces on them. “You won't tell anyone will you?” I requested as I pushed my trembling toes into one.
“Well your Dad has to know.” Mum said diplomatically. “And you have to be honest with him.” she assertively added. “He gave up his career to look after you when we divorced... at very least you owe him your honesty.”
I hung my head shamefully. Although I feel justified in lying to him, I do feel guilty for doing so. The fact of the matter is, I'd never had a reason to lie to him before that day. And even if I could do it all again, I reckon I'd do the same thing and tell the same lie... only I'd convince him and nothing would have ever come of it. I pulled on the second sock and planted my feet on the carpet. Skinny jeans and pink flowery socks. It could be worse, I figured as I visualised the dress in the wardrobe... my dress in my wardrobe. In comparison to PJs petticoated boys I guess I'm not doing so bad. I cant think of a single one of those who've embarked on a petticoated adventure wearing a pair of jeans. With that thought, a question appeared. “Are we still going to Melchester?” I asked.
Mum looked at my face, my clothes and my hair. “I think so... but you still need some work.” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
It was a rhetorical question and Mum knew it. She grinned and said she'd need to do something with my hair, and that I needed some 'shape'... “and maybe a little bit of lippy.”she grinned.
“You mean make-up!” I gulped.
“Well... yes.” Mum replied. “Unless you want to look like a boy.” she said. “And it's fine if you do... I just figured you'd rather try to pass as a girl.”
“I'm not sure if I want to go anywhere now.”
“No one's going to know you in Melchester.” Mum said. “And if I do something sassy with your hair, apply a little make up... no one's going to think that you're anything but a girl.” she said in her most convincing tone. “If I don't think you'll pass...” she suggested. “...then we won't go anywhere.”
“OK.” I meekly said.
We went down stairs and Mum made us both a cup of tea. She made the usual small talk as we flicked between the usual Saturday morning TV shows and she made no reference to the proverbial elephant in the room. I suppose the proverbial elephant isn't that big since I'm wearing jeans and a jumper instead of a prissy sissy dress. I was worried about going outside dressed as I am, but could help but think about how I'd feel having to go out wearing the dress in the wardrobe. After a good while, Mum left the sitting room only to quickly return with a vanity case. “What's that?” I nervously asked as she opened its latch whilst glaring at me with an expectant smile. I knew exactly what it was and felt a little embarrassed for even asking.
I felt myself blush hen mum replied, “It's my make-up case.” She smiled at me as she lifted out its tiered shelf system. “Whether you like it or not...” she said as she rummaged in the lowest and largest compartment, “...I think it'd be best if you try to pass as a girl.” she added as she twisted the lid off a compact.
I wanted to fight and wished I could. But instead I sat silent and still with my eyes closed as my mother applied a light dusting of powder to my face. I visualised the phrase on PJs blog as my mother applied my make up... It's amazing how obedient they are when all other options are gone. With only the clothes I'm wearing or the prissy dress in the wardrobe, I'm fully aware that my only option is to comply, so that's exactly what I do. After five or ten minutes, mum's finished with my face and squeezes a splodge of goo into the palm of her hand. This she smears into my hair with both hands before taking to it with a brush and comb. After another five minutes she exclaims that she thinks I'm ready and hands me a vanity mirror. It was only when my jaw dropped that I ceased to look like a girl. I gorped at myself for moment before I had the good sense to close my mouth. “Mum I look like a...” I tailed off.
“You do.” Mum grinned. “I had a feeling you would.” she added. “How does it feel?” she asked.
“I don't know... weird I guess.” I replied as I stared at myself. “It looks like me but... it's so not me.”
“Maybe it's the sister you never had.” Mum said.
“Or the daughter you never had.” I added.
Mum smiled and frowned at the same time. “No... you'll always be my son, even if you're dressed as girl you're my boy.” she said. “But saying that... I guess we'd best use a girl's name in Melchester.”
I bit my lip and said that I'd begun to hope that we wouldn't be going anywhere. “I don't think I can actually leave the house looking like this.” I said. “What would people think?”
“They'd think you're a very attractive young woman.”
“Or they'd think... of look, there's Dave Mason wearing make-up... what a fag!”
“You know I don't like words like that.” Mum sternly reminded me.
“Sorry... but you know what I mean.” I said with a frown.
“I understand that that's what you're afraid of.... and I imagine there's an outside chance of that happening.” my mother told me. “But what's most likely is we go to Melchester, where barely anyone knows us, and not a single person will give us a second glance.” Mum looked me up and down. “Dressed as you are you'll blend right in.” she said.
“You think?” I frowned, looking at my attire.
“Of course.” Mum insisted. “It's not as if you're wearing a yellow gingham dress or something.” she casually added.
I visualised each outfit on a busy shopping street. “Yeah I guess.” I hesitantly replied, looking down at myself once more. “Do you really think I'll pass as a girl?” I asked.
“I think so... but you're not quite ready yet.” she added.
“Aren't I?” I asked, ticking boxes on an imaginary form; clothes, hair, make-up... Mum was looking at me, but not so much my face. “Oh!” I said, realising that it was my chest that she mostly looked at... my very flat chest. “You mean?” asked in an almost fearful tone
“Well if you want people to think you're a teenage girl, then you need to look like one.” she told me.”I was in two minds whether or not to get you a proper bra...” she smiled, “...but I figured a vest with some support would be a bit less...” she waggled her hands is that would help her think of the correct words.
“...a bit less like a proper bra.” I dryly suggested.
“Yeah.” Mum said. “Was that OK?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I shyly replied. “I guess.”
“I think a couple of pairs of tights might do it.” Mum said.
“In your vest.”
“Oh, er, yeah I guess.” I felt myself blush. “They're not going to massive are they?” I asked as mum left the room. She just giggled as she trotted up the stairs. I took stock of the situation whilst she was out. I wanted to clutch my skull and scream but didn't. I knew I should do something instead of just going along with it... but what? I could refuse to leave the house, but then she might make me wear that yellow dress... and drag me out! “It's not so bad.” I said as I looked down at my skinny jeans and sloppy jumper. They're girl's clothes but not too girlie, I told myself before picking up the mirror. It's not like I'm wearing a dress with a boy's head sticking out of it, I figured.
“Admiring yourself I see?” Mum said when she returned, catching me staring at my make-up and gelled short 'sassy' hairstyle.
I put the mirror down as I'd seen enough for now. “I can hardly believe it's me.” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“Make-up has a habit of doing that.” Mum said. “Now you'll have to take your jumper off... and carefully so you don't ruin your hair.” she advised.
It was both thrilling and full of fear as my mother stuffed my vest with two pairs of bundled up tights. They were those thin natural coloured tights that only mum's wear, and gave me a small yet noticeable pair of boobs. She lumped and pressed them, routed inside my vest until she was happy. “How are they? Not too big?”
“Er.. no.” I nervously said as I looked down at my new and very unfamiliar chest. “I dunno.” I added after an uncomfortable few seconds sizing them up. “What do you think? Are they too big?”
Mum looked at my chest and said, “I don't think so. It looks about a B cup to me... which is acceptable for a girl your age I suppose.”
“I get nervous when you say things like that.” I told her.
“It's just first time nerves.” Mum told me. “Which I suppose is normal for a boy your age.”
“Is there going to be a second time?” I asked as she gently faffed with my hair.
“Well that's up to you.” Mum said. “You're trying something new and you might discover that it's not for you... or maybe you'll like it at first but the novelty might wear off.... who knows?”
“Yeah I guess.” I replied. After moment I said, “I know they're not real but do you have to keep looking at them.”
“Sorry.” Mum said. “I was just admiring my handy work... they do look very natural.” She looked at around and picked up my jumper, “Here, put this back on.” she said, “And mind your hair.”
I felt better with the jumper on. The bumps in my vest didn't stand out quite so much, although they were still very much there. I struggle to comprehend that I might actually go out in public dressed like this, and reluctantly wonder if maybe a simple pair of jeans and a jumper is enough. I recall that in almost all of the stories I'd read, a dress or a skirt & blouse with high heeled shoes are an essential part of being convincing. But thinking about it, very few of those stories are like that... they're mostly about boys being humiliated by wearing girl's clothes and everyone knows they're really a boy. “Mum?” I asked.
“Would really have made me wear that dress if I didn't want to wear this?” I asked. “You know like... proper petticoated me?”
“Well.. I wouldn't have been easy, but yes.” she replied. “Both your father and I believe that those nasty comments you wrote were most likely just a front... or the ignorant rantings of a confused young man trying to fend off a few feelings or urges.” she told me. “But if your comments were genuine and considered, then lessons would have needed to be learned.” she said
I gulped and nodded, but wasn't really sure why.
“I for one am very happy that this is the way it turned out.” she said, resting her hand on my shoulder and rubbing her thumb over my lacy shoulder strap. “I'd be just as mortified as you if I had to parade you around Melchester wearing that sissy dress.”
“You'd have done that?!” I said, almost shocked at the thought it, or more, the thought that she'd actually do that to me.
“Well that's what petticoating is.” Mum replied in a matter of fact tone. “Shaming badly behaved boys into seeing the error of their ways.” she said.
I hung my head and gulped. I suppose I should count my blessings as I get the feeling that Mum's going to take me outside whether I like it or not, and I suppose it's better like this than... I imagined wearing the yellow sissy dress and recalled all of the petticoated tales I'd read. Then a thought popped into my head; How come Mum seems to know all about petticoating? Surely it's just a fantasy? “Is petticoating real?” I asked.
“Of course it is.” Mum replied. “I've read quite a lot about since your father contacted me. From what I gather, it's rare these days but was quite common in the nineteenth century, particularly in the middle and upper classes.”
“I thought it was just part of those stories.”
“...and of course back then, the boys would have been put in corsets as well as dresses.” she told me. “And men too, sometimes.”
“Blimey! Grown men too?” I exclaimed. “Why?”
“Conscientious objection was a common reason.” Mum said, adding 'refusing to go to war' since I had no idea what she meant. “As was stealing, public disorder, drunken and bawdy behaviour.” she went on. “And for boys of school age, it was for teasing girls or bulling boys, answering back, telling lies, skipping school, stealing, fighting.. you name it.”
“Are you making this up Mum?” I asked.
“Of course not.” mum replied. “I've been reading all about it on the internet.”
“Yeah but... you do realise it's mostly fiction, right?” I asked. “They pretend it's real.. or was real... but it's really not.”
Mum thought for a moment before responding. “Maybe you should look at some websites other than the story sites.” she suggested. “There's some interesting facts about petticoating and plenty of advice for cross-dressers... I'll email you some links.” she added.
I scrunched my nose. “Dad won't let me look at that stuff anymore.” I said, deliberately trying to sound a little hard done by.
“It's only the age restricted websites he doesn't want you looking at.” Mum replied, “And nor do I.” she added. “He's absolutely no objection to you exploring, looking, reading or learning about stuff... he just doesn't want you lying about it or denying it.” she told me. “Do you understand?”
I gulped, frowned and nodded. Mum looked at me lovingly and smiled. I forced a smile back but didn't really know what to say. Mum broke the ice by asking if I'd like to have lunch here or in Melchester. “Here.” was my definite reply. I've sort of prepared myself for walking down the high street and hopefully remaining unseen amongst all the passing strangers, but sitting in a cafe for half an hour or more is something I'd rather avoid. Plus, having lunch here means the inevitable trip will be delayed by a good two hours as it's barely 10.30am.
“Why don't you make us both a coffee.” Mum said. “I'll see if there's owt on the telly.” she added.
I felt a surge of panic well up in my tummy as I filled the kettle. I imagined loutish boys yelling 'ey look at him on the high street and giggling girls sniggering at me. I looked at my reflection in the microwave door and saw a girl with a short 'pixie' hairstyle. I say girl but I guess young woman would be more accurate. I reckon I can pass as a girl, I could pass as an eighteen year old. I turned my head this way and that as the boiling kettle reached a crescendo. I wondered if my un-pierced ears would give the game away or not. I looked at my chest until the kettle turned itself off, then pretended that everything was normal as I filled the mugs. I smiled to myself as I tried to decide what 'normal' was; me being a girl or just dressing as one? Either way there's no denying it, I'm officially a sissy. I agitated the tea bags before squeezing them out and adding a dollop of milk. This'd real a lot stranger if I was wearing a dress, I figured as I took the two mugs of tea through to the sitting room. Mum glanced and thanked me for the tea, before turning back to the TV. I sat myself down and stared in the general direction of the telly, but my skull was full of thoughts.
I recalled the deep sense of shame and humiliation that the petticoated boys experienced in all the stories I'd read. Why don't I feel like that? I asked myself, before admitting that I do feel bit daft maybe, and if Dad walked in (for example), I'd experience the shame too. Mum watches the TV, making occasional comments and laughing at the funny bits of the Saturday morning show she's watching. On the surface it's like any other Saturday morning when I'm dressed as I should dress. Mum makes small talk and I know I'm a little quieter than usual, but other than my appearance, all feels normal. Until I take a sip of my tea that is... there's nothing normal about a transfer of lipstick on the rim of my cup.
At around twenty-past-noon, Mum asks if I'd like a sandwich and offers me cheese, egg, tuna or ham. I opt for cheese & tomato and after sinking my teeth into the soft white bread, I notice another transfer of lipstick, this time on my sandwich. “Is that supposed to happen?” I asked, showing her the pink imprint on the white bread.
“It does tend to come off.” Mum replied. “You could try smaller bites.” she suggested. “Is it coming off on you mug too?” she asked. I nodded and rotated my mug so she could see. “It's a nice shade.” she said, “Not that you've much left on.” she smiled.
After dinner, Mum asked me to wash the mugs and plates which I did without question. It's normal both at home and here at Mum's for me to pitch in with the tidying and washing up... I even vacuum occasionally too. As I dried and put the few cups and plates away, Mum pottered around. “Do you want a purse or are you OK with your wallet?” she asked.
“Er...” I said. Mum held a little black leather purse and smiled. “Will my wallet be OK?”
Mum nodded and said that lots of women use wallets these days. “Is this bag OK?” she asked, drawing my attention to a tan leather handbag with a pair of chunky leather handles and an elegant clasp. I wasn't keen on carrying a handbag but Mum said I'd need one. “You won't fit much in those pockets.” she said, staring at my tight fitting jeans, “...and you need your wallet, a lipstick, a compact and a vanity.” she said. “...and no girl goes out without a brolly.” Mum added, opening the handbag and removing a small folding umbrella. I reiterated that I wasn't keen on the idea of carrying a handbag when Mum placed a single lipstick, a silver compact and a plastic tiger print vanity mirror on the table. “It's little details like this which will ensure that you don't look like a boy with make-up on.” Mum said. “Ideally you should be wearing earrings too but...”
“I was thinking about that before.” I said, clutching my earlobe. “Do you reckon they'll give me away?”
“I'm really not sure... I can't think of a single girl your age without pierced ears.” Mum replied. “Have you thought of a name yet?”
“Er... was I supposed to?”
“Well if I have to say 'David', I think people might suspect you're not really a girl if they overhear.”
“Hmmm... I dunno.... what do you think?” I asked.
Mum listed off a handful of names and I wasn't keen on any of them. Names like Charlotte, Jessica, Danielle and Elizabeth are all too long and too flowery for me. “Ok, how about Emma, Jane, Claire?” mum suggested. They sounded better. “Or maybe Sharon or Tracey, Susan or Sarah?” Mum added.
“I preferred the others.” I said. “Emma or Claire maybe.”
“How about Emily? I've always like that name too.”
“I prefer Emma... I think.”
Mum smiled broad and wide. “Emma it is then.” she said. “This is going to be exciting.” she grinned a gleeful grin.
“I'm terrified.” I replied. Mum said it was first time nerves and assured me that I have nothing to worry about. “But I don't sound like one.” I said after Mum convinced me that I absolutely look like a girl... or young woman.
“Yes, that might be a problem... just try to talk softly and not squeaky.” she advised. “And certainly not falsetto.” she said after I tried and failed to talk in a girlie voice. “I have in mind a window shopping trip rather than an actual shopping trip...” mum said, “... so we won't be in and out of loads of shops being harangued by overkeen assistants.” she explained.
“OK.” I said in spite of the fact that I'm thinking the exact opposite. Even the idea of walking to the car sends shivers down my spine, so I'm very very nervous of going to a place much more populated than this quiet suburban street.
“You need to top-up before we go.” Mum said, passing me the lipstick and the small plastic vanity mirror. I was clearly hesitant to take the items. “Most of it came off on your cup, remember.” Mum added. I took the lipstick and removed the lid. I felt myself become increasingly nervous as I twisted it and watched the pale pink column emerge from its silvery container. In the other hand I held the mirror and drew the stick closer to my lips. “It's nothing to be afraid of.” Mum said as I hesitated.
“I know... I just don't want to do it wrong.” I replied, before biting the bullet and dragging the pale pink from one side of my bottom lip to the other. I asked if I should apply it to my top lip too, or just roll.
“Just roll.” Mum advised. I did as suggested and mum said, “Perfect.”
I spent a few long seconds just looking at myself...
...It feels very strange knowing that the girl in the mirror is actually me, a fourteen year old boy.
Mum passes me the handbag and I drop the lipstick and mirror inside it, then I peer in. The only item that looks out of place is my wallet. I remove it and suggest that I maybe should have a purse instead. Mum reminded me that lots of women use a wallet these days. “I know but... it feels too...”
“Boyish?” Mum suggested as I tailed off. I nodded. Mum gave me the little leather purse and I transferred my money and cash card into it. Notes in one side, coins in the other and the card in the divider. The metal clasp snapped shut with a satisfying 'click' and I placed in the handbag. Mum suggested that I carry it in the crook of my elbow, but that seemed wrong. “I'd rather just carry it.” I said.
“Whatever you're comfortable with.” Mum replied. “If you need both hands just hang it in your elbow.” she advised. “A girl never puts her handbag down in town.” she added.
“Girl. Her. Handbag.” I said. “I still can't believe I'm doing this.”
“Neither can I.” Mum replied. “And if it's any consolation, I'm as nervous as hell too.”
“Are we going then?” I asked.
“well there's no point dithering.” Mum said. “It might be an idea to go to the loo first though... if you need to go in Melchester you'll have to use the ladies.” she added.
“Now that is a scary prospect.” I said. I went to the bathroom, pulled down my jeans. Peeled the ultra tight control knickers down and sat. Standing up didn't seem appropriate under the circumstances. I'd almost forgotten about my tackle as I tucked it all in and pulled up my panties.
“Did you sit down?” Mum asked when I returned. I felt myself blush as I nodded. She picked up her car keys and said “Right then... Emma... are you ready?”
I forced a smile and nodded. “As I'll ever be.” I took hold of my handbag and, in an attempt to appear as feminine as possible between the house and the car, hung it in the crook of my elbow.
The drive to Melchester took about thirty minutes, plus another ten navigating the city streets and traffic queues. Mum found a car park and eventually a parking space. We climbed out of the car and side by side, walked towards the exit. Mum asked me how I felt. “OK I guess. I keep forgetting how I look and then think.. oh!” I reply. “I hope I don't do something wrong and give myself away.”
“You'll be fine.” Mum replied. “I'm spending every moment reminding myself that your name's Emma for exactly the same reason.”
We left the car park and headed to one of the main shopping streets. The first thing I noticed was how people paid no attention to me, although I paid little attention to those either. Instead I concentrated on the pavement or shop windows, avoiding eye contact with anyone but my mother. Occasionally she'd halt by a window and say 'oh those shoes are nice' or 'I love that skirt' or 'isn't that nice?'.
I played along and responded accordingly, but couldn't imagine wearing the shoes, skirt or frocks she drew my attention to. We sauntered and window shopped and Mum asked how my nerves were doing. “OK.” I replied in the same super soft voice I've used since we arrived. “I'm glad I'm not wearing that dress.” I added.
“Me too.” Mum agreed. “Although I would like to see how it looks.”
“So long as I don't have to go outside in it.” I said. “No girl I know would be seen dead wearing something like that.”
Mum chuckled and agreed. “But it is a proper petticoating dress...” she added, “...made for boys, not girls.”
“Yikes.” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“I'd also like to see you in some proper girl's clothes too.” Mum said after a moment. “Like a skirt or a 'nice' dress.” she added. “Or something like that.” she suggested, drawing to halt outside a school uniform suppliers. “Dad told me you'd been looking.” she said. I felt a flood of embarrassment surge through me as I peered at the uniforms in the window; straight skirts, pleated skirts, little girl's pinafores and gingham summer dresses. “A school uniform seems to be a common prop in the stories you read.” she added.
“Yeah...” I quietly groaned. “...I'm not sure if I'd actually want one though.” We continued walking and Mum asked about one particular story she liked, in which all the boys had to wear box pleated shorts after the headmistress changed the school's uniform policy. “Ashford Academy.” I said.
“That's the one.” Mum replied.
At the far end of this busy shopping street is the Melchester Corn Exchange. A large Victorian building which houses a variety of independent stalls selling everything from rare records and vintage clothes to high-end kitchenware and smartphone cases. For the most part its more like a museum than it is a market, which is why it's so interesting to browse. We slowly meander abound the floor level and even in such close proximity to the stall holders and other shoppers, no one seems to give me a second glance. Mum draws my attention to a collection of vintage jewellery, and in particular, the clip on earrings. She hold a pair of diamanté ones up to my ears and says they're nice, but maybe a little too old fashioned. When the stall holder says, “It's unusual seeing someone your age without pierced ears.” I can feel myself blush. I don't know what to say so I say nothing.
“She's allergic to metals.” Mum says on my behalf. “Which is a shame.” she adds. The stall holder tells us that there's a shop on the balcony that sells plastic clip-on earrings. “Oh I know the one.” Mum replies when she states its name. We wonder off and Mum informs me that the shop in question; Petticoat Junction, is where she bought my yellow dress from.
We climb the stairs to the balcony level and Mum pauses at the window display of Petticoat Junction. I'd noticed the shop before but didn't think it was anything other than a shop that sold those Lolita style dresses. Four mannequins are clad in prissy frilly dresses; on pink, one green, one blue and one white. “I'd never have guessed they were for boys.” I said as I nervously gorped at the display. “Are we going in?” I asked.
“Well we may as well have a little mooch now we're here.” Mum replied.
Inside the shop was a variety of mannequins wearing prissy frilly frocks and other outfits, including a horrific 'Fauntleroy' suit and a boy's play-suit. Numerous racks were home to a host of similar items as well as underwear, nightwear and distressingly, nappies, rubbers and nappy covers. The owner stood behind a large glass counter, but didn't address us until Mum smiled at him. “Is it anything in particular you're looking for?” he asked.
“Clip on earrings.” Mum replied. I mooched in the background, wanting to keep out of the way. The man pulled a tray of items out from beneath the counter and Mum said, “Emma, come and look at these.” I strolled over, sheepishly holding my handbag with both hands in front of me and looked at the display. “Any you like?”
“Er... I don't know.” I replied, glancing at the man.
“How about these?” Mum said, pointing at a pair of clip-on hoops. I said they looked 'OK' and the man said that he also has some magnetic earrings too. He placed a display tray under our noses. “Oh now those I do like.” Mum said, pointing to a pack with about loads of different colours. “How much are these?” she asked.
“£14.50.” the man replied.
“Oh that's good value... don't you think Emma?” Mum's voice said. “Emma?”
I was miles away. My attention was focussed on an entirely different collection of items under the glass counter and the small sign that accompanied them; Free embroidery service available on all knickers and nappy covers. The items were various style of big and little knickers, each with a different boy's name elegantly embroidered on the front; Peter, John, Martin, Stuart, Andrew, William, Trevor, and so on. “Sorry what?” I asked.
Mum smiled at me and glanced at the display that drew my complete attention. She asked if I'd like to try the magnetic earrings and I said I would. “Well get your purse out.” she suggested.
I could see myself tremble as I routed the purse out of my handbag. I passed the man a £20 note and he gave me £5.50 change, along with the magnetic earring in a little paper bag with Petticoat Junction printed on it in pink italics, and below this in much smaller lettering, the phrase 'where boys should be girls'. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” the man asked.
“er...” I peeped.
“No I don't think so.” Mum replied. “Unless you've seen anything else you like?” she asked me.
I nervously and quickly glanced around the shop. “Er, no I don't think so.” I said, before glancing back toward the assistant. I mumbled a 'thank you; before Mum and I headed toward the door.
“Be seeing you again Miss.” the man said. I glanced back and smiled before leaving the shop.
Outside was a small family group. I assume a grandmother, a mother and two boys. They waited until I'd cleared the doorway before ushering the boys inside. One of them whined “I don't want a dress.” and the elder of the two adults replied, “No, you just want to be naughty.”
Mum and I looked at one another. “Poor things.” Mum said. “Still, I expect they've brought it on themselves.”
Quietly, I said I couldn't believe that they had nappies and stuff in there too, before adding that I couldn't believe that petticoating is actually real.
“Oh it's very real Dav... Emma.” Mum replied. “Did you like those embroidered knickers?”
“No!” I blurted defensively. “I was just surprised by them, that's all.” I gulped. “I must be awful having to wear nappies too.”
“Well think yourself lucky you're a girl and not a petticoated boy.” Mum smiled.
“Do you think the bloke in that shop thought I was a girl?” I asked.
“Probably not.” Mum replied, casting a smile at me. “But he'll be used to seeing feminised boys and probably knows the difference better than anyone else.”
“Yeah I s'pose.” I replied.
“Shall we have a coffee?” she suggested as we approached the balcony coffee shop. “my feet are jiggered.” she added. I glanced down at mum's feet and as usual, she wore high heeled shoes. I'd rather keep moving but but I could hardly refuse her a rest.
We found a table overlooking the lower level, its myriad of stalls and bustling shoppers. A waitress took our order, which for me was very nerve racking. She can't have been much older than I and I feared she'd instantly realise that I'm not a girl. But if that was the case, she made no hint. I watched her leave and studied her outfit; think black tights, short black skirt, tiny white apron and a plain white blouse through which her bra could be spied. “She looks nice doesn't she.” Mum said. I nodded. “But try not to stare.” she advised.
“Sorry.” I said, turning my attention back to the vibrant and bustling floor below.
“Why don't you try your earrings?” Mum suggested. I proposed waiting until we get home but mum said she wanted to see how they looked. She suggested the clear 'crystal' pair and fitted them for me. “Verynice.” she said with a smile. “Do they feel OK?”
“I think so.” I said as I gently touched one.
Mum reminded me of the mirror in my handbag and suggested I have a look. “They look really real.” I said.
“They do.” Mum smiled, before advising me to top-up my lippy whilst I have my mirror out. It felt both thrilling and scary doing such a girlie thing in such a public place. But what the hell, I look like a girl so acting like one's hardly going to turn any heads.
Mum asked if I was enjoying my day out and I said I was. “Although deep down I'm panicking like crazy.”
“That's just excitement.” Mum smiled before looking beyond me. “This looks like us.” she said as the waitress returned with a tray bearing two cups of coffee. She placed them on the table and I meekly said 'thank you'. Mum looked ta me and smiled. “You suit being a girl.” she said. “I'd like to do it next time too.” she added.
“Next time I stay?” I asked.
Mum nodded. “Of course I'm sure Dad won't mind if you want to be a girl at home too.”
“I dunno.” I replied. “It feels OK with you but it'd feel weird with Dad.”
“You've been saying that it feels weird all day.” Mum smiled. “But I know what you mean.” she added. “The thing is, it's not fair to hide this aspect of yourself from him... which is precisely why we're here now.”
“How do you mean?” I asked, nervously looking around.
Mum chuckled and assured me the my father wasn't going to appear out of nowhere. “I mean hiding things from him, and him finding out and then you lying about it.” Mum explained. “Your father and I talked about what to do for the best and we both agreed that the best thing to do was to bring you out... no secrets, no lies.”
I gulped and sort of agreed. “I guess I should apologise to him.”
“I think so to.” Mum said. “Your father loves you more than you could ever imagine and the lack of trust you've showed him in recent weeks really hurt him y'know.”
“I do trust him.” I claimed. “I just... didn't want him to think I was some sort of... freak.”
“I know.” mum replied. “But the thing is Emma...” she paused, “...in assuming that he'd think you were some sort of freak, you demonstrated beyond a shadow of a doubt that you didn't trust him.” she informed me. “Instead you decided that he'd be a trans-phobic bonehead... the sort of person who'd write the same sort of ignorant and incendiary blog comments that you wrote.”
I gulped as a deep sense of shame flooded through me. Mum's absolutely right now she's explained it to me. I nervously thumbed my coffee cup and stared at the pink lipstick on its rim. “Yeah you're right.” I said. “It's just hard because everything tells me I shouldn't be like this.” I added, looking down at my chest and my clothing.
“And everything tells me that you can be like this... if you want. And I suppose the next step is to discover what 'this' is.” Mum replied. She'd lost me, and I guess my expression said as much. “Whether it's a full time girl, a part time girl, a full time boy who likes to dress as a girl, either some of the time or all of the time.” Mum explained. I nervously glanced around, hoping that no one is within earshot. Only a few of the balcony tables are occupied and thankfully none near us. I suggest we take it slowly, one step at a time and Mum agrees. “Are you ready to go?” she asked, checking her watch. I nodded and finished the rest of my coffee. “Don't gulp like that Emma...” she said. “...it's not very lady like.” she smiled.
“Sorry.” I said.
Mum waved her hand, grabbing the attention of the waitress and asked for the bill. Then she suggested I check my lipstick as most of it is on the rim of my cup. I guess girls do this stuff instinctively, I figured as I routed the little vanity mirror and lipstick out of my handbag. Although I felt shy and somewhat silly, it felt nice being a bit girlie in public and it being OK. I caught a glimpse of the waitress in the mirror as I admired my reflection. “It's a lovely shade.” she said as she placed the bill on the table.
“Oh thanks.” I said, trying to sound girlie. She smiled wryly at me as Mum routed in her purse. I dropped my lippy and mirror into my bag and felt myself going bright bright red. I cursed myself for going all falsetto as it can't have sounded in the least bit convincing.
The waitress thanked Mum for her tip and bid us both a good day before leaving. Mum and I left too and headed back along the balcony that encompassed the old Corn Exchange. As we approached Petticoat Junction, a women appeared from its door. She is followed by the two young boys and they're followed by who we assumed was their grandmother. I can empathise with the look of embarrassment on their faces as each wears a very prissy dress. Mum and I pretend to look at a display of greeting cards but we're both watching the two freshly petticoated boys as their mother (we assume) fusses with the their headbands (with a big satin bow on), before telling them to hold hands then marching them off. “That must be awful.” I say under my breath.
“Well from what I've read about 'proper' petticoating, not the fictional stuff you read...” Mum began, “...most petticoatees find it to be a very rewarding experience, once they've got used to it.” she told me. “Of course there's the initial stage fright and fear of being laughed at, but petticoating a naughty child is far better than smacking one.” she adds.
“Yeah I guess.” I replied as we left the frontage of the card stall and sauntered toward the steps. “It's just boys though innit... what about girls?” I asked, adding that they can misbehave too.
“Not as much as boys though. Surely you agree that for the most part, girls are much better behaved than boys.” Mum replied. Yep, I suppose I can agree with that. Mum continued, “And since reading about petticoating, I believe that the reason most girls are well behaved is because... well it's obvious really... they're almost always petticoated and always have been.”
“I've never though about it like that before.”
“That's because you've been focussed on the fantasy rather than the reality.” Mum reminded me. I didn't reply but grunted in agreement. We descended the wide stone staircase and spotted the two boys in their prissy party dresses on the ground floor. I'd have expected everyone to be staring at them open mouthed, pointing and sniggering, but as far as I can tell, they go mostly unnoticed. A spy a handful of people looking at them and smiling, but no sniggering are taunting as far as I can see. By coincidence, we end up following them down the busy shopping street. Their party dresses shimmer in a resplendent glow under the afternoon sun. “They do look sweet holding hands like that.” Mum commented.
'Sweet' isn't a word I'd use. They look more like sissies than sweet, I think as I put myself in their shoes. They must about eight, maybe ten years old but are dressed like six year olds. I recall the display of nappies for older children and teens in the Petticoat Junction shop and wonder if... I shake that thought from my skull as I don't want to think about it. Instead in visualise the heavyweight control knickers I'm wearing and glance down at my groin. They've squished my boy parts almost out of existence but their tight hold on me doesn't feel as uncomfortable as it did when I first pulled them on. Maybe I've simply gone numb down there. The two boys and their guardians join a bus queue and Mum and I soon pass them. Still holding hands, they appear sheepish and nervous, glancing up at the occasional passing stranger and possibly expecting each and every one of them to point and laugh. But no one seems in the least bit bothered, in spite of the fact that they're clearly boys with boyish hair cuts wearing bright girlie party dresses and dainty little shoes. I wonder if it's the same case with me. Maybe I'm not fooling anyone and it's perfectly clear that I'm not a girl, only no one's in the least bit bothered.
Mum breaks my chain of thought when she draws my attention to a window display. “I love this boho style.” she says as we draw to a halt. Five or six mannequins clad in floaty maxi skirts and dresses look out at the passing shoppers. For me there's too much pattern and too many colours, and in some cases, too much crochetry. “I think I prefer plainer stuff.” I say as we begin walking again.
“I'd like to buy you a dress if you'll let me.” Mum said. A surge of electricity ran up my spine. “In fact I'd like to buy you lots of things now you're...” Mum didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to.
“You've already bought me these.” I said, glancing down at my skinny jeans and slouchy top. I considered the yellow dress in my wardrobe too, but thought it wise not to mention it.
“I know but you can't have just one outfit.” Mum replied. “Of course there's your petticoating dress too, but it'd be nice to have a few nice skirts & blouses, some nice shoes and a pair of those short shorts all the girls wear with black tights or leggings.” she suggested. “And you'll probably claim you don't want it, but some school wear might be nice too.”
“What for?” I quizzed.
Mum reminded me that my Dad had found evidence of me looking at girl's school uniforms, and that a girl's school uniform is a common 'prop' in the stories I read. “Are you are a schoolboy.” she said quietly so none of the passing strangers could overhear. “Maybe you could be a schoolgirl when you're doing your homework?”
“Oh I dunno.” I replied as I imagined the reality of the idea. “What if one of mates called round?”
“I'm sure your father wouldn't let them in.” Mum replied with a chuckle.
“That's the other thing... it'd be weird in front of Dad.” I moaned. “I know he has to know... but I'm not sure I'd want him to see me like this.”
“You're doing it again David.” Mum said abruptly, and a little too loudly for this busy shopping street. “Your father has nothing but love, trust and respect for you... it's about time you got over yourself and gave him the trust and respect he deserves.”
“Yeah, sorry... you're right.” I replied. Mum smiled broadly at me. “But that doesn't mean I'm going to wear a girl's uniform when I do my homework.” I insisted. “But I might wear something like this at home... occasionally... maybe.” I added.
Mum looked me up and down and smiled. “You can wear whatever you like, whenever you like and wherever you like.” she told me. That was good to hear. “But don't forget that you're still only fourteen, so you'll also wear what you're told occasionally too.” she added in a more serious tone of voice.
I emitted a nervous chuckle. “You're starting to sound like one of the mother's in those stories.” I said, being half serious, half jovial.
“A man hating lesbian mother?” Mum asked with a grin.
“I don't think that anymore.” I replied. I could have said 'yes' but I figured I'd best demonstrate that I've moved on.
“I'm glad to hear it.” Mum replied.
We shared a smile and continued walking, chatting and window shopping. I know it sounds strange but I keep forgetting how I look every now and then. I'll catch a darkened reflection in the occasional shop window and think 'yikes I'm a girl!' which is followed by a small surge of fear and excitement. I keep seeing people looking at me and worry that they'll realise that I'm not what I appear to be, but they're just casual glances from people who don't know me from Adam... or Eve. Even if they do realise the truth, they're not sneering, sniggering, pointing or laughing at me.
“What do you think of the nautical look?” Mum asks.
I turn my head toward whatever shop we're passing and look in the window. The mannequins wear shorts and cropped pants with stripy tops and there a couple of skirts and dresses too. The palate is all blue and white, with life belts and fishing nets forming a backdrop to the display. “Yeah it's OK.” I said.
“Those sailor dresses are sweet.” Mum says, almost pressing her nose against the window as she peers at the little girl mannequins, one wearing a blue one and the other wearing white.
“I think they'll be a bit small for me.” I reply.
Mum grins and says it's a pity. “I think that type of dress is both timeless and ageless.” she said, “But they need a straw hat instead of those fisherman's hats.” she added.
I said that I've never liked the idea of hats, unless it's winter of course when I'll wear a woolly hat, but other than that, I never wear them. Mum asked me if I liked the dresses and I felt myself blush when I confessed, “I do actually... the blue one's a bit like Tohru Honda's...” I stopped myself short.
“Who's Tohru Honda?” Mum asked. “One of those Anime characters?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Ah... it'll be one of those Japanese school uniforms you're thinking of.... what do they call them?” Mum replied, “Sailor Fuku I think.”
“Something like that.” I replied, knowing full well that that's what they're called.
“Hmmm.” Mum said as she turned and smiled at me. “Come on, let's get going... the car park's on a meter.”
What was a slow saunter became a more determined walk as we headed back to the car park. Mum unlocked the passenger door and I climbed in, resting my handbag on my lap as I fastened my seat belt. “That wasn't so bad was it.” Mum said as she squeezed my knee and grinned at me.
“No... it was nice.” I replied.
“Next time we'll go proper shopping instead of just window shopping shall we?” Mum suggested. “I would like to help you to choose a dress or something.”
“Yeah maybe.” I replied. “Nerve racking at it would be, I would be nice I think.” I said as I imagined the scene; looking, choosing, trying and buying.
“And I'd love to buy you your first bra.” she said.
I gulped. “A proper one?” I asked.
“Of course.” she replied. “I noticed you looking at the flat bras in the petticoating shop but I dunno... I like the idea of buying you a proper girl's bra more than a boy's one... especially if it's your first one.”
“I was a bit surprised that they actually make them for boys.” I said. “I can't really see the point if they're flat.”
“They're flat because they're for boys.” Mum replied. “Petticoated boys who unlike you, David... don't wear a couple of pretend boobs to help them look more like a proper girl.”
“Why not?” I asked. “I thought that was the point of petticoating.”
“No love, the point of petticoating is to put boys in girls clothes to make sure they behave themselves.” Mum explained. “If I'd petticoated you this morning, you wouldn't be wearing any make up and I wouldn't have styled your hair, and I most definitely wouldn't have let you choose a girl's name to use for the day.” she told me.
The thought of that sent a shiver down my spine, and not in a good way. I wondered if she'd have still brought me to Melchester if she had petticoated me instead of letting me cross-dress, but decided not to ask her. I strongly suspect I'll be wearing that dress sooner rather than later and hope to God that it'll be in the safety of her home and nowhere else.
“So what would you like to do this evening?” Mum asked as we drove through Ashton Meadow; a quaint little town between Melchester and home.
“I don't know. Is there a film on maybe?” I said. “Or do you have something in mind?”
“Well... I was thinking that it might be nice to teach you a few girl things.”
“Such as?” I cautiously asked.
“Making your hair look nice, doing your own make-up, how to paint your nails, stuff like that.” Mum said. “And I noticed this morning that your legs and pits could do with a shave.” she added. “We could have a girl's night in and get a take-away pizza.”
“I'm not so sure about shaving my legs.” I said. “I have got PE to consider.”
“I doubt anyone would notice.” Mum replied. “They're a bit hairy but not that hairy. Anyway you could tell them you've taken up cycling, they all shave their legs.”
I chuckled at the lameness of her excuse. “I haven't even got a bike.” I reminded her.
“Well they might not know that.” mum replied. When we arrived home, a spent a moment looking at myself in the hallway mirror and in particular, my new magnetic earrings. Although tiny, they make a big difference and look like real earrings. Mum said I could get my ears pierced if I wanted, “Then you could wear proper earrings.” she said, adding, “And lots of boys have both ears pierced these days, so it wouldn't look out of the ordinary when you're in boy-mode.”
“Boy-mode?” I smiled.
“Yeah.” Mum grinned.
We didn't get started on 'girl-school' immediately. We watched TV and chatted, had a snack and flicked through a few of Mum's fashion magazines. After a snack, she showed me how to file my nails, not that I had much to file. Then she showed me how to apply nail varnish, which was easy enough doing my left hand but my right hand was a lot trickier. Once my nails were dry, Mum suggested I re-do my lipstick and the first thing I noticed was how my lips and nails were almost the same shade of pale pink. “I'm glad you noticed that David... it's nice to match your lips and nails and it's always worth buying nail varnish and lippy in tandem.”
“I don't think I'd ever have to guts to actually go out and buy make-up.” I replied.
“You worry too much.” Mum said, before informing me that her friend Liz who works in Boots, said that she gets at least one bloke in each day buying cosmetics and even hosiery.
“What's hosiery?” I asked.
“Tights and stockings.” Mum told me. “I thought you'd have known that.”
“I thought they were just called tights and stockings.” I replied.
“Well you've certainly got a lot to learn about being a girl.” mum grinned. “Shall we do something about those legs?” she suggested.
“Shave them?” I asked, fearfully. “With a razor?”
“Well we could take the bulk of it off with my Ladyshave...” Mum said, “Then I'll show you how to shave them properly with a razor.” she added. “You take your jeans and jumper off and I'll fetch the Ladyshave.”
“My jeans and jumper” I gulped.
“Well you can't shave your legs with your jeans on and you can't shave your pits with jumper on.” mum stated. I fearful expression must have swept my face as mum went on to say, “One thing girls don't do is worry about other girls, including their mother, seeing them in their underwear. Anyway I saw you in your knickers this morning, it's not like you've got anything I haven't seen before.”
When Mum returned, I was sat sheepish and shy in my knickers and vest with my hands strategically placed. She smiled at me and waved her pink Ladyshave before passing it to me. “Just start at your ankles and work your way up.” she advised.
“How far?” I asked as I turned it on, then off again.
“All the way to your knickers.”
“As high as that?” I gulped.
“Well you might want to go higher and give your bikini line and belly a trim if it needs it.” she told me, “But I'll let you do that in the privacy of your room 'coz you'll have to take your knickers off.”
“It's weird hearing things like 'my' knickers.”
“Weird in a nice way I hope.” Mum said.
I nodded but wasn't really certain if that was the whole truth. It's also weird in a freaky humiliating way, or maybe I just think it should be. It's definitely weird in a nice way too. I flick the switch and begin trimming my few dark brown leg hairs down to a millimetre or less. It takes longer than I thought it would, and now I've trimmed half of my right calf and shin, I realised that I had a lot more hair than I thought. 'Had' being the operative word.
“How do your knickers feel anyway?” Mum asked as I trimmed. “Are they still tight?”
“Yeah but I'm kinda used to it now.” I replied. I'm also kind of used to talking about 'my' knicker too. “They're a lot different to my normal undies.” I add as I take notice of the grip they have around me, from groin to waist.
“Control knickers are a lot different to normal knickers too.” Mum said. “I'm sure you'll find normal knickers a lot more comfortable.”
I gulped. “Have I got some?” I asked.
“Well I was keeping them as a surprise.” she replied.
I felt myself blush and mum drew attention to the fact. “Oh don't mum.” I replied, smiling as I ran the trimmer up over my knee. “I think I went bright red in the cafe when the waitress said my lipstick was nice.” I recalled. “I can't believe I went 'oh thanks' in a really girlie voice!” I grinned.
Mum chuckled and told me that it wasn't the best voice I'd used today. “But you had plenty of foundation on which will have hid your blushes.” Mum said, adding that most of it had come off through the course of day.”
“It just falls off then?” I asked.
“Powder tends to.” Mum replied. “So foundation and eye shadow does need checking.”
“I only checked my lippy.”
“Well you're only a beginner.” Mum smiled. “There's a lot more to being a girl than meets the eye.” she informed me. “You boys have no idea the lengths we go to to look good.”
“I think I'm starting to realise that... this is taking ages and I've not even done one leg yet.”
“It's looking good though.” Mum smiled.
“You think?” I asked, running my fingers over my barely noticeable stubble.
“I dunno... it just looks...”
“Yeah... and thin.” I add as I put my legs together and observe the difference.
“I think the word is 'slim'.” Mum said with a smile. “You could do with some sun on them.” she added.
“Do they look OK?” I ask.
“Of course.” Mum insisted. “Lets always look nicer with no hair on them... even men's legs... I think everyone should do it.” she claimed.
I continued trimming and after what seemed like an age, both legs had been trimmed down to stubble, all the way up to my big tight knickers. My armpits took a fraction of the time. Mum asked if I had any chest hair and a shook my head. “Right... lets run a razor up them.” she said before taking me up to the bathroom.
Mum half filled the bath whilst I stood over the sink and removed my make-up. It was weird seeing my old boyish face emerge from beneath the lipstick, powder and paint. Once done, my mother kindly averted her eyes whilst I removed my vest and peeled of my knickers before lowering myself into the shallow bubbly bath. Mum sat on the loo seat and gave me tips as I lathered up my shin and calf before carefully pulling a pink Venus razor up my leg. I rinsed the razor and repeated the process, over and over until my lower leg was completely smooth. “This is actually quite relaxing.” I said.
“Pampering is one of my favourite pastimes.” Mum smiled before giving me a few more tips as I shaved my knee, and the tricky area behind it. Eventually, my left leg was completely smooth from ankle to thigh and I started on the other leg. I told my mother that I much prefer using the razor than the shaver and Mum said that so long as I keep on top of it, they'll just need a quick 'whiz' a couple of times a week. “It's nicer to shave in the bath than the shower, I find.” Mum told me. “It's not something you want to rush and I tend to shower off afterwards.”
“I can't believe how smooth they feel.” I said once I'd shaved both legs. They seemed to glisten and the bubbles and soap suds slid off them effortlessly. Mum told me how to shave my arm pits and suggested that my chin could do with a quick 'whiz' too. “With this?” I asked.
Mum smiled and nodded, telling me that it's pretty much the same as my razor, “Only it's pink.”
I didn't say anything to mum but I loved the fact that my fingernails are also pink as I shaved my armpits. It seems to make my fingers look shorter and my hands look daintier. I noticed that hairs on the back of my hands and forearms and asked about it. Mum said I could removed those hairs too, if I wanted, but said a depilation cream is better than a razor. She took hold of my forearm and ran her fingers down it. “I don't think you're too hairy so I wouldn't worry about them.” she said. “Bleaching is another trick we use.” she added before explaining how it works. I shaved my face using the same pink razor but didn't feel quite so girlie as I had when shaving my legs or armpits. Mum left me alone whilst I washed the gel out of my hair under the shower. It felt fantastic as I sponged my super smooth legs, but I also experienced a tinge of guilt... I am after all trespassing on female ground and if any of my friends found out, I'd struggle to justify it. Of course I could just be honest and tell them that I like being a bit girlie, but I can't see their responses being that positive.
Mum tapped on the door and opened it as I was towel drying myself. She told me she'd put some pyjamas on my bed. “It's a bit early for jim-jams isn't it?”
Mum told me that it's almost 7.00pm and there's not much point me getting dressed. “There's only your yellow dress anyway.”
“I could just put my new jeans back on.” I said.
“You could... but I want to see you in your new pyjamas... you never know, you might like them.”
“Are they girl's pyjamas?” I asked knowingly. Mum smiled but didn't reply. I followed her to my room to see a pair of girl's 'shortie' pyjamas. My jaw dropped and in a mournful tone I said, “You've got to be joking... princesses?!”
“Aren't I bit old for princesses?”
“If girl's your age didn't wear them, they wouldn't make them in your size.” she said. “And you're never too old for princess pyjamas.” she grinned.
I think I'd rather wear my bath towel, but knew I wasn't going to get out of wearing my new girlie Pjs.
I sat on the edge of my bed, keeping the towel tight around my waist. I'd have preferred something without all the princess guff printed on it, but I could be worse, I figured.
“You'll want some clean knickers on first.” Mum said as I slowly and shyly reached for the shorts. “There's some in your drawer.”
I reached over and pulled the handle. Earlier today the drawer was completely empty. Now it's home to a single pair of knickers and one pair of pink fluffy socks. Unlike my control knickers, these are white cotton with a cherry print, red elastic around the leg holes and waist, and a little red bow stitched on the front. I didn't waste anytime stepping into the and pulling them up as I didn't want to be naked for any longer than necessary. “How do they feel?” mum asked.
“OK.” I replied, feeling myself blush as I looked down at myself. These knickers don't squish and squash like the others did, but are still a snug fit. I pulled on the little shorts a little more slowly since they felt so nice as I slid them up my hairless legs. With the pyjama top on, I looked down at myself and felt like a sissy. “Why did she have to buy me princess pyjamas?” I silently asked myself. I sat on my bed and pulled my fluffy socks on, before running my hands up my legs.
“Are you glad you shaved them now?” Mum asked.
I smiled and nodded. “Yeah... but I think I think everyone's going to notice in PE class.” I added with a gulp as I stretched my legs out in front of me. “They look like girl's legs.” I said, resting my hands on my lap and admiring my girlie hands too.
We went down to the sitting room and I sat on the sofa. I tried to watch TV but could keep my eyes off my legs, or my fingers for that matter. I guess the PJs aren't that bad either. Yeah they're a bit too cute but I guess girl's like that sort of thing.
“What kind of pizza would you like?” mum asked, passing me the take-away menu. As usual, I went for the ham & pineapple and Mum ordered one with anchovies on. “Can I paint your toenails whilst we're waiting?” Mum asked, wielding the same tiny bottle of pale pink nail varnish that I'd painted my fingernails with.
“It doesn't hurt!” Mum giggled as she wedged a foam toe spreader between my toes.
I could feel myself trembling as she carefully started on my pinkie and worked her way slowly toward my big toe. Like boarding a roller coaster, it's both scary and thrilling having my toenails painted. After ten minutes, mum was satisfied that they were try and realised my toes from the two foam spreaders. First I waggled them just to flex my toes. Then I waggled them to watch my toenails shimmer. Mum said I could put my socks back on but I wanted to leave them off for a while."Why don't you put a pair of your new earrings on?" Mum asked.
"Oh I'd forgotten about those!" I said as I leapt up and grabbed my handbag. I struggled to get them straight so mum helped. I admired them in the little vanity mirror and asked if I could put some lipstick on.
"Of course." Mum smiled. "And after the pizzas I'll show you how to do your make-up if you want."
"Oh I'd forgotten about those!" I said as I leapt up and grabbed my handbag. I struggled to get them straight so mum helped. I admired them in the little vanity mirror and asked if I could put some lipstick on.
"Of course." Mum smiled. "And after the pizzas I'll show you how to do your make-up if you want."
I nodded and smiled and thought what my friends might think if they knew what I'd been doing today. I tried to watch TV but spent more time looking at my legs, fingers, toes and PJs. I spared a moment to think about all the petticoated boys I'd read about and wondered why hardly any of them seem to enjoy the experience as I'm doing. Maybe this PJ (whoever he or she is) should write about the nicer side of petticoating instead of the depressing shite where it's all doom and gloom?
Author's note... I guess this one really should be continued.