This story was originally written in 1986-87 and submitted to

"Transvestia" magazine. It was rejected by Carol Beecroft on

the grounds that it had overtones of bondage.

As with As Good As A Woman, other than some mild FEMDOM,

there's really nothing here that you couldn't see on

broadcast TV these days (and maybe even with it), but ...

Because it's *here*, IF YOU AREN'T 21, MOVE ON, BEAT IT,

SHOVE OFF, GET LOST. Get it?

FICTION?

The following account has as its base, the concept of "alternative

history." How often have you considered how things would have

been had you, or someone else, made a different decision at some

key point in your life - perhaps at a confrontation over your

transgendered feelings? Let me take you through an exercise,

then, of tracing one TG's history, and, at one such critical

point, diverging onto an alternate tangent. To add to the fun,

I won't tell you when that point occurs. As I hope to do

several of these articles, each diverging at a later point in

my real history, you'll have the means of checking your guess

when a subsequent installment is printed. Onward then....

Step Daughter

by Denise Em

I get so tired of so-called "experts" postulating that transgendered

behavior is sexually motived. Tell me that a four year old

understands sexual motivation. Then let me talk to you about

your upcoming investment in some prime Florida real estate, semi-

developed: water all ready on the property, complete with hot

and cold running 'gators.

At four, one only knows what one likes. I happened to like my

11 year old sister's skirts and sweaters. I can recall slipping

out of the top bunk very early one morning, when Sis was still

asleep, in the bottom, and sneaking into our rather large closet,

then tugging on a favorite wool pleated skirt until it came loose

from its clips. With the door nearly closed, I stepped into the

waistband and pulled it up to my chest. I was tall for four,

while my sister was barely average height for her age. Still,

the hem dragged on the floor. Plus, I had to gather the waist in

back with one hand to keep it from falling down. Thus dressed, I

would try to whirl and sway to make the skirt move about my legs

and hips.

Afterward, I discovered that I couldn't reach the hanger to

replace the skirt, so I tried to arrange it to appear as though

it had merely fallen off. Later that morning, Sis complained to

Mom that I had been messing up her clothes. For all my care, I

could have been training for the Watergate job. I wonder if she

suspected what I had really been doing with them.

Sometimes, in the next couple of years, Sis would tease me by

putting some of Mom's button style earrings on me and coo about

how cute it looked. To this day, I don't like that style of

earrings. On the other hand, at other times she would tie a

scarf on my head and apply some lipstick, but I've not been

turned off to those. But she never within my memory tried to

dress me all the way up. With all the headaches I caused her,

just before I reached teen-age, I'm somewhat surprised.

In second grade, I had a crush on a girl who had long blonde

hair and who happened to take ballet lessons. I was over at her

house one afternoon, when she showed me her new ballet costume.

Her old one was lying aside in a heap. I remarked that even the

old one was very pretty too. I didn't know what to do with

myself when she asked me if I would like to try it on. I made a

gesture of protesting, but, fortunately, not a very strong one.

So, she began to help me into it. I should have practiced this

technique carefully for use in the future, when, at 16, I was

offered one of those "golden" (to a femmephile) opportunities and

I muffed it. For the moment, though, things were going great! I

was so skinny that the royal blue satin would almost fit, even

over my clothes; it would zip up half way. I had shivered as I

stepped through the back of it; then a calm settled on me as my

shoulders came to rest in the cap sleeves. I loved the feel of

it and would have stayed in it all day, but she soon lost

interest and I undoubtedly stayed overlong in it, as she never

offered that sort of play again.

We had moved twice since then, and Sis was back to sharing a

room with her ten year old brother. Among her things in the

closet were some wool skirt sets, a crisp, cool, cotton

shirtwaist, and a red velvet spaigetti strap, full-skirted formal

that were my favorites.

One winter evening when I knew I'd been left alone for

several hours, I scrounged up a panty girdle and hose from Mom's

things, a bra, which I padded with wadded-up socks, panties and

slip, from Sis's, then I dressed from the skin out in my borrowed

finery, topped by the shirtwaist. Then I applied maskara,

penciled my brows and coated my lips light red. After selecting

a not-too-bright scarf, I combed part of my hair forward to

simulate bangs and tied the scarf to cover the rest of my head.

I slipped my feet into Sis's 2 1/2" black pumps. Now I was ready

to go out. My heart fairly fluttered with anxiety that I'd be

discovered, but all was quiet until I was two houses away. Then

a car turned onto the street. I was panic stricken, "they'll

know that I'm not a real girl!" They drove on by with no special

notice, but my pulse was racing, so I crossed the street into a

nearby alley. After about 50 yards, the pulse was back to a mere

trot, and I turned back toward my street (the nerve was lacking

to continue to the next street and walk around the half-block to

home again). Whoops! Now a car was turning right into the

alley! I was right where another alley made a "T" connection, so

I turned into it, then into someone's back yard, as the car

turned down the same spur. When it passed and disappeared into

another yard, I hurried back the way I'd come. Talk about

anxious! It was a major strain to hold my walk to a dainty pace

until I could regain the safety of home. It was not yet to be,

either. Another car was coming down the street. I dared not be

seen walking up to the house, in case those in the car knew my

family. So, I walked on by, until the car had turned the corner.

Just before I was about to turn around, I noticed someone working

in the kitchen of the house directly across from me. If they saw

me turn now, they might wonder why and watch where I went. So, I

continued on, past three more houses, trying to appear casual,

while searching form signs of activity in the windows. Then I

stopped, tried to make a thoughtful gesture, then as graceful an

about-face as I could manage. Once again, I was headed home. As

I approached our driveway, I was scanning the nearby windows for

anyone watching. Everything looked OK, so I turned in and walked

all way to the back yard. After a minute of recharging my

nerves, I retraced my path to the side door I had passed, and let

myself into the house. Safe!

Of course, the hardest part of the evening was putting

everything back. I walked up and down the hallway, living and

dining rooms, sat down to watch television, walked through the

house again, until I knew the danger of getting caught was too

great to ignore. Still, I stretched out the undressing process

as long as possible, putting each item away as I took it off,

removing my make-up last (if someone came home before I finished

that, I could always lock the bathroom door and "take a bath").

I had carefully returned everything to its original place. No

complaints now, I had developed a good memory.

A couple of years later, my parents divorced, and, though Mom

was awarded custody, she let me live with Dad when I asked to.

For a long time afterward, I thought she did it just to keep the

peace with a troublesome teenager. But I wonder now if she had

all ready noticed, but wasn't yet willing to deal with, my FPism.

Perhaps she thought that I would outgrow it in more "masculine"

surroundings.

But Dad got a girlfriend, and shortly, I got a step-mother.

Now, I was no longer tall for my age and was quite skinny.

Furthermore, Beth (step-mom) was taller than Mom. I was able to

fit into some of Beth's things for all of the three years that I

lived with them. Beth really liked high heels, and provocative

lingerie. When she and Dad would leave for an evening out, I had

a GRAND time! It was at this time that I discovered a way to

charge up the dressing-up sessions by deliberately increasing the

hazard. One such escapade finally led to open conflict.

Dad and Beth were going out for a late date. They weren't

even out the downstairs door before I had started selecting my

wardrobe for the evening. As soon as I saw the car leaving, I

started undressing. Beth had a strapless torsolette that she

rarely wore and that, with panties and an old girdle, formed my

foundation for the evening. Unlike Mom, Beth didn't have a

copious supply of nylon hose, so I had to be extra careful to not

snag those which I borrowed. While the folks had been getting

ready, so had I, carefully manicuring and pedicuring my nails to

smooth rounded edges. I could apply nail polish in my walk-in

closet, as it always smelled of airplane glues and paints anyway;

it was so large a closet that it had a skylight under which I had

a table where I did my assembly work.

So, I dressed in foundation, a full slip and fancy white

sleeveless shift, laced with silver threads. Adding white

open-toed pumps, which had about a three inch heel, I practiced

walking around awhile, then set about my special task for the

night.

Among the things Beth had, I dearly loved a grey wool

tailored coat with a flared skirt and self-belt. If only I could

have combined (now married) Sis' old nylon net petticoats and

velvet formal with that coat, so that it would really fill out!

Still, I enjoyed it as it was.

Anyway, I contrived to, for the evening, sew the sleeve cuffs

into the pocket openings so that it was only possible to wear it

with one's hands in the pockets. This made it difficult, of

course, to open doors or even fasten the coat's belt. So, having

finished my sewing task, I retired to my closet and applied to my

fingernails the same color that my toenails had worn since that

afternoon. When it was dry, I put the polish back, went to the

bath to comb down my "bangs", put on a scarf and apply my

lipstick. Next, I took the coat with me down to the landing

behind the front door and pulled the door ajar. Then I

positioned tha coat, so that I could belt the waist in and,

having slipped my arms down the sleeves, wriggled my shoulders

the rest of the way into the coat.

Now I was ready to step out. Alas, there was someone at the

window adjacent to our door! After I had waited a seeming

eternity at the landing, she moved out of that room. I gently

elbowed the door open enough to pass through, pushed open the

screen door, then elbowed the door knob to pull it back to nearly

closed. The screen door had no latch, so I could pull it open

through the material of the coat pocket, then I eased the screen

door closed and stepped down to the walkway.

Nerves atwitter, I scanned every nearby window for sign of

life. No one watching. It took a few cautious steps before I

regained the rhythm that I had practiced upstairs, but I felt

quite competent by the time I turned onto the public sidewalk.

The trees were so thick overhead that the corner streetlights

barely illuminated the mid-block areas. I tensed as a car

approached from behind, then it passed. Continuing to the

corner, I turned right, then kept walking until I reached the

alley that ran behind our place. Another car had passed, coming

toward me this time, and my confidence was waning, so I turned

into the alley and tried to walk quietly back to the garages.

There was no gate, so I continued up to the house. At this

point, I finally mustered the courage to say to myself, "this

was too short, and it it too early to quit or just sit around

inside."

Thus, I made my way on out to the sidewalk again and back to the

corner, where, this time, I turned left and crossed the street.

Had another car come along before then, I would probably have

given up, but now I was committed.

Most of the people in this neighborhood were old enough to be

retired, and none knew me. So, once I couldn't be indentified

with the building in which I lived, I had less worries about

being seen. As I proceded down the walk on the side opposite

our place, I noticed someone coming out onto their front porch.

He sat down and lit up a smoke. I kept moving, heels clicking,

more tense, trying desperately to loosen up. Nothing happened.

Now I was becoming ecstatic. I made it to the next corner,

turned away from our house and walked another block.

Tension began to build again. I was getting too far away to

make dashing for our yard a successful means of avoiding a

possible confrontation. Steeling my nerve with the sweet

sensation of the slip hem brushing across my nylon clad legs, I

continued around this block, across the street again and down to

the next corner. Even in this small town, Broadway was a busy

street; I just couldn't bring myself to venture on around the

block, so I back-tracked to the alley again, and minced my way

down its rough surface past our garage to the next street and

back to our street. Every moment, I expected someone to check

outside to see who was making so much noise, clicking along out

there, but it must have been much louder to my straining ears

than to where anyone actually was. The half-block on smooth

cement with no known observers left me feeling very confident

again, as I set my pace for the homebound stretch. The smoker

was no longer on his porch, so I turned up our walk directly, and

clicked my way to our steps.

Now, with great care to be quiet, I mounted the steps to our

doorway, eased open the screen door, pushed my way in, then

pushed the front door closed with a click. With my hands still

stuck in the coat pockets, I continued up the stairs back to my

room. I had just wriggled back out of the coat when I heard the

sound of Dad's DeSoto. In a panic, I unzipped the dress, dropped

it on my bed, and flung the slip over my head as I headed for

their room. I had just enough time to replace her shoes and

underthings before they started up the stairs. Quickly, I hid

the dress and coat in my closet and jumped into bed with my back

to the door.

They peeked inside, then reclosed my door and went to bed.

Later, when I could hear their snoring, I returned to my closet

and removed the nail polish, using my paintbrush rag. Then I

went to the bath to remove my make-up. With (almost) all the

evidence gone, I finally fell asleep for the night.

Next morning arrived and presented no opportunity to return

the shift and coat to their rightful place. I had to leave for

school. I could find no way to maneuver Beth into going

downstairs for a moment. I finally departed after locking my

closet. That evening, I still had no opportunity to return her

things, nor the following morning. At least she hadn't seemed to

notice them missing. That evening I walked up the stairs to

discover a very ticked-off step-mother. She had opened my closet

and found her things. I had, fortunately, and most unwittingly,

left myself an excuse. The coatsleeves were still sewn into the

pockets. She was less concerned with why I had her clothes than

why I had sewn up the sleeves. I put it all down as just a

practical joke. She didn't feel that it was at all humorous.

[It seems that's usually the case with "practical" jokes, only

those who would perpetrate one think that they are funny. I no

longer do.]

That was the best I could do under pressure. Still, I was

grateful that I had even that to fall back on. When my Dad

talked to me about it that night, he was about ready to thump me

a good one. That, he told me, was not the way to make an

impression on his new wife. But ultimately he let it go, with a

stern warning about any follow-ups. I was home free!

That is, I was for two days, until Dad had to work late, and

Beth cornered me for a talk. She put it to me quite directly:

"You were wearing those clothes, weren't you?"

I tried to deny it, but she didn't buy it. Instead she

threatened to take her suspicions to Dad. I was mortified, and

finally caved in. To her question of why, I could only answer t-

that I liked the feel of feminine clothing. No, I didn't "like"

boys. I liked girls. I LOVED girls. I loved everything about

girls, including the type of things they wear.

She sent me to my room, to come out only for dinner.

Dad worked a half day on most Saturdays. As soon as he left

for work the next morning, Beth wanted to talk again. She felt

that I didn't respect her. She thought my sneaking around in her

things was a personal affront. She claimed that perhaps I would

learn more consideration if I had to be a girl full time for a

few months. She allowed that such wasn't possible, but she was

determined to approximate it, as well as could be arranged.

I was informed that things would be different for a while;

how long, would depend on how I responded. Starting that very

day, I was going to start sharing the housekeeping chores.

Furthermore, I was not to go anywhere after school until I had

come home and checked in with her. Now, to help me to get into

the spirit of things I was to go back to my room and change my

underthings for those she would issue me. I was led to her room

and handed a cotton bra and nylon panties, both white. When I

hesitated to take them, she asked if I'd rather have Dad resolve

this.

That did it, and a few minutes later, I was back in the hall

with my "new" underthings, beneath my jeans and T-shirt. I knew

that the straps showed through at the shoulders, but at least the

"A" cups didn't make much bulk in front. I did exactly as I was

told for the next three hours, and our place was looking good;

but, I was getting concerned that Dad would come home and see

what was under my T-shirt. Worse, Beth wanted me to carry out

the trash; the cans were clear back at the alley, behind the

garages. There would certainly be other people out at the time.

I balked, and she threatened to send me out there wearing falsies

and lipstick. Once again, she got her way. I hurried, and got

through it with no undue notice -- how do YOU spell relief?

Finally, she allowed me to remove tha bra, but insisted that I

wear the panties all night.

Very early the next morning, she came into my room and

awakened me, and left another pair of panties. I was to put

those I was wearing in the laundry hamper when I got up. Now, I

was worried! Would I have to go to school wearing panties? That

day, we went to visit friends. I largely forgot about what I was

wearing except when using the toilet. We came home late, and

when Dad was out of hearing, Beth checked that I was still

wearing the panties and directed that I "wear them all night."

Monday morning arrived and Beth was in my room to wake me.

She held out no new panties this time; she only reminded me to

come straight home, and to be sure that yesterday's panties got

into the wash. The flood of relief bouyed me well past lunch.

That afternoon, Beth was waiting for me at the top of the

stairs, dainties in hand. Seeing her there as I ascended, I knew

what was up, so I didn't even hesitate as I took the proferred

articles and headed for my room. When I reemerged, there really

wasn't much to do, so she decided we'd beat the dust from an area

rug. We rolled it up, carried it down to the back yard, and I

beat it with a paddle, until she was satisfied. Then we rerolled

it and carried it back up to replace it on the floor. She had me

dust the living room furniture; by the time I was done, it was

nearly time for Dad to come home, so I was allowed to remove the

bra.

Tuesday, I got up, dressed for school, smuggled the panties

into the laundry, and carried out a normal day. When I got home

after school, ther was no step-mother. There was just a pair of

red panties and matching bra on the hall table. Subtle! When

Beth arrived a half-hour later, I was watching "Bandstand" with

the lingerie in place under my clothes. She let me finish the

program, then I had to help her in the kitchen. As 5:30

approached, and we were still at it, I reminded her of the time.

With a reproachful look, she asked whether I was going to hold to

our agreement without griping or not? Then she "suggested" that

I finish my part of the job. It was only when we heard the

distinctive sound of the DeSoto pulling up, that she released me

to change out of the red bra, conditioned with the direction that

I put it back on at bedtime. A dire warning followed about me

having (or rather, not having) it on at anytime that night should

she choose to check on me. When she awakened me Wednesday, I was

still wearing it.

I reminded her that track practice started the next day, and

I'd be home late. She cautioned me not to tarry afterward. That

afternoon, again, she wasn't home, but next to the expected

underthings was a note describing what she wanted me to start

doing. One hour later, she arrived to find me nearly done. Dad

was late coming home, so she delayed my changing 'til much later

than usual. That became the pattern. I wasn't allowed to change

out of "my" lingerie until Dad came home.

Thursday, I arrived home barely half an hour before Dad was

due. Beth was watching TV and merely said, "in your room, dear".

Lying on my bed was a black push-up bra, with panties and garter

belt to match, as well as a pair of hose. "Why all this?" I

asked, in as even a tone as I could coax out of myself.

She replied, "You left me so little time, I have to have some

way of compressing your lesson."

I stripped, rolled on the hose, put on the garter belt, then

the bra, then pulled on the panties, and replaced my pants,

T-shirt and shoes. She had me carry out the trash. I carried it

in front of me to hide the new "bumps" on my chest, but coming

back all I could do was hurry and hope. I had hardly reached the

top of the stairs, when we heard Dad parking. She only let me

remove the push-up bra; the garter belt and hose had to wait

until bedtime. I hoped Dad wouldn't want to wrestle tonight. If

he felt one of those garter tabs - Uh, oh! So, I found something

very important to study for the evening.

Beth hadn't said anything about wearing the bra to bed, and

she went to bed herself without leaving any further instructions.

I was afraid to be caught not doing her wishes, so I took what I

hoped was the safest course by donning the bra for bed, as I had

the night before. When I was awakened Friday morning, I couldn't

read the look on her face - enigmatic, I guess you'd say.

However, she said nothing about what I was wearing, so I figured

my judgement had been adaquate.

There was never practice on Fridays, and the nearest track

meet was three weeks away. So, I arrived home early to find a

cotton bra awaiting, with nylon panties, plus a V-neck sweater,

all in white. The sweater would have been a good fit on a real

girl of my size, not loose, as I like my T-shirts. Again, trying

to maintain an even tone, not wanting to be censured for

complaining, I commented that everything showed against the

sweater. The only reply that drew was that it would show even

more if we padded the cups. I shut up.

I was given something to carry down to the trash. It was too

small to carry as a heavy load in front, so I really hurried! I

arrived at the cans just as someone else was leaving, but was

amazed, and gratified, that I didn't get even a sideways glance.

I returned upstairs with no other encounters. I dreaded that the

law of averages might soon run out on me. When the routine work

was done and Dad proved to be late, I was "invited" into the

living room to watch TV and make small talk until he came home.

It was during this time that she began to insist that I try to

talk more in a more feminine manner, as long as I was dressed

"that way." She encouraged me to pay attention to the girls at

school, and practice the way they talked, in private, of course.

Saturday, I awakened to find a fresh set of panties on top of

my underwear. I dressed and ate breakfast, then Dad left for

work. Immediately Beth steered me back to my room, to exchange

my T-shirt for the V-neck sweater which I had worn yesterday. We

then loaded up the laundry and headed for the laundromat. It was

still plenty cool enough for a sweater, but I just knew someone

would notice that it was a girl's sweater. But no one gave any

indication of noticing. Perhaps some people were just too polite

to make an issue of what they saw.

When we returned home and had brought everything inside, I

was handed one of the bras that we had just washed, and a

gabardine skirt. After I had made appropriate changes, we put

all the remaining clothes away. While we cleaned the kitchen,

she encouraged me to talk and made corrections when I sounded too

clearly "out of character." Finishing that left me just enough

time to vacuum the living room and hallway before Dad came home.

I had to hang up the skirt and sweater at the back of my closet.

Dad mentioned that he was impressed with my cooperation

during the past week. He was surprised that I was helping Beth

so much. I just tried to be casual about it, remarking that it

wasn't as though I had hated her or anything.

[Later, in 'Nam, I learned a saying that certainly applied

here. It was the one about when you have 'em by the precious

parts, their hearts and minds will follow.]

Sunday, Beth and I were alone awhile and she told me that she

felt I was responding very well and that if I kept at it, perhaps

she could let me off the hook soon.

The balance of the week was pretty much a repeat of the

previous one, allowing for Beth's small escalations. Take, for

instance, after Tuesday's track practice, I was rushed to my room

to find a push-up bra, panty girdle, hose, pedal-pusher type

pants (mid-calf, no pockets, side zipper), a cotton blouse with a

"Peter Pan" collar, and pink sneakers. She had been to the

Goodwill store again.

I guessed that she intended for me to go outside in these

things, because I had seen a trash sack waiting to be carried

out. Rebellion began swelling within me, until I was barely able

to push it back with the thought of Sunday's conversation. I

wondered, though, how MUCH longer? How much further will she

push before she quits? Or will she keep pushing however long it

takes for me to break? No, I couldn't believe that. I mustn't.

I stripped and donned that wardrobe arrayed before me. As I

exited my room, Beth stopped me, told me to open my mouth, and

proceeded to apply a coat of dark pink lipstick. She let me blot

it on a tissue, then we started the housework. When it was

nearly time for Dad to arrive, she had me carry out the trash.

Some neighbors were all ready home and panic was beginning to

rise. It later turned out that she already knew that Dad would

be late getting home. This time I made it to the cans OK, but

one the way back I had to pass an old couple who lived behind us.

I percieved a searching look from the woman, but when I turned

the corner of the garage, neither was looking back at me. By

then, I must have been either beet red or pale as a ghost. As

fast as I could move without running, I rushed back inside our

door.

My agitation obvious, I was asked what happened. When I told

Beth, she gave me a most important lesson. If one acts as though

one belongs there, and as though one is supposed to be doing what

is being done, most people won't bother to notice - it is the

furtive acts that attract attention. She reinforced this with

the comment that I did belong out there, dressed as I was,

because she had told me to. Then she gave me another load and

sent me out again.

This time, I tried to assume a posture of absorption, with a

deliberate, but hurried pace. I gained the cans uneventfully,

but on the way back, I nearly knocked over one the two elderly

ladies coming around the corner of the garage. They lived in one

of the apartments above it. To my good fortune my voice was only

recently starting to change, and I was so startled that it jumped

to the upper octave, as I steadied the lady, squeeked out an

apology, and hurried on. Behind me, they sounded more concerned

about each other than about me. But even when I was safely

inside and upstairs, I was only barely under the panic threshold.

Again, Beth pulled the details out of me, and again she

handed me another load, telling me I was doing just fine, but to

slow down, as haste could cause greater problems than those I

hoped to avoid. I stood there, nearly petrified at the prospect

of another confrontation. Worse, Dad was due at any time. What

if he should come home while I was outside?

"Go on, now; that's the last load," she said, giving a nudge

toward the stairs.

"Only one more time," I thought, "but, one more time, now, is

like the second dhole following Mowgli through the gorge. The

bees have all ready been alerted!" Beth cleared her throat; I

took the hint. This was the lesser hazard.

Once again at the bottom of the stairs, I steeled myself for

the gauntlet. Trying to see if anyone was looking (though I

don't know why, I couldn't turn back, or even dare falter), I

eased down the steps to the walkway and started for the garages.

It appeared as though the only one watching was my step-mother,

from her vantage point at the kitchen window. Having made it to

the cans again, I deposited my load and turned back the way I

had come and right into the most piercing stare from a woman who

lived on the other side of the alley, whose house faced Broadway.

She said nothing, and somehow, I brazened it out, without

breaking into a run. But, once again, Beth could see my

agitation and had to hear about it.

To this day, I am amazed that none of this ever came back to

haunt me. I don't know if Beth had merely intercepted the

reports, or just no one wanted to bother about it. Recently, it

has occurred to me that she might have even primed the way with

those neighbors whom she knew.

Friday evening, after I had finished my chores and redressed

in nearly normal attire, I discovered at the back of my clothes

rack something beige and fuzzy. It was a skirt and sweater set.

Oh, brother, what if Dad should see that hanging there!

I knew that Beth would be angry if I messed them up, so I

couldn't just hide them somewhere. Furthermore, Dad had no

particular reason to look among my clothes, so I decided to

rearrange things so they'd sandwich and hide the new addition.

At dinner, I learned that Dad had an all day project for the

following day, instead of the usual half-day. A grim feeling

settled upon me. Beth was planning something BIG for tomorrow.

So, why was I both excited and apprehensive?

Saturday morning, Dad left early. Beth came into my room to

tell me it was time to start my bath. I reminded her that I'd

had a bath late last evening. She replied that this one would be

special.

Indeed! After I had started the water running, she added

some fragrant oil to it. She also left shampoo and conditioning

rinse on the edge of the tub.

I went through the motions of washing myself, then shampooing

my hair. I had to ask how to use the conditioner. She explained

what I needed to know and told me to towel my hair to still quite

damp, when I was ready to get out.

With my towel wrapped around my hips, lava-lava style, I

headed for my room with no illusions as to what awaited me there.

Halfway down the hall, I was intercepted.

"Why are you going around uncovered, like that?" Beth

demanded.

I told her that I didn't think that I was being immodest.

She explained that, under the circumstances, I should have

covered my breast too; then she told me to return to the bathroom

to rearrange my towel before going back to my room, and, please,

show more grace in my walk! Also, be more careful about my

inflection; think feminine!

So, a "girl" made the trip back from bathroom to bedroom.

There, I dressed in the panties, bra and falsies, and girdle that

awaited, then I asked Beth what else to do. Telling me that I

was sounding better, she came in, set down a box and handed me a

slip with lace bodice and hem. After I had dropped the slip over

my head and arranged it over my padded bust, she had me sit down

and handed me a bottle of dark pink nail polish. She started me

doing my toe nails first, then, after I had started on my finger

nails, she proceeded to roll such of my hair as she could get

onto rollers. Where she couldn't get hair around a roller, she

securely clipped it to what hair there was, or, at the very

bottom, to the roller above. After experimenting a bit with the

bangs she had left, she trimmed what she said was the absolute

least she could take from them to even them out.

Now, Beth had me retrieve my latest present (via the Goodwill

Store, again) from my closet and helped me get the sweater over

my head without dislodging any of the rollers. The, she guided

me as I applied maskara and penciled my brows, which she had

"adjusted" with tweezers. After I had applied the pink lipstick

to her satisfaction (about five attempts), she helped me arrange

a scarf over the curlers, and stood back to admire her handiwork.

By then, my nails were dry, so I rolled on the sheer, silky

hose she had brought in, and attached them to the garter tabs of

my girdle. After I had stepped into the skirt, I was led to her

room to be given a pair of tan sandals with 1 3/4" heels.

Beth had me practice walking up and down the hall in them,

then once down and back up the stairs, giving suggestions as to

how I could move more gracefully.

"It's time to load up," she stated, pointing to the laundry.

"I'm going to the laundromat like this," I thought? My eyes

must have opened clear past my brows.

"Don't worry," she said, comfortingly, "you look just like

many teen-age girls around town."

Some of the edge came off my developing anxiety as I thought

of how my Mom had spoken disparagingly of the girls who went out

in public in curlers, though less so, if they at least covered

them with a scarf.

I didn't know how much more of this I could handle, but I

picked up the first of two loads that it took each of us to get

everything down to the car. Trying to blank my mind, so that I

wouldn't think of my approaching doom, I didn't notice that we

weren't going the usual way. When I finally realized that Beth

was driving to a different laundromat, I began to lose some of my

tension. Unfortunately, most of it returned, when I saw all the

people in the one to which we did go.

As we sorted out things into the machines we had selected,

one older lady remarked about how nice it was for someone to have

help from her daughter. Torn between the urge to break up and

the urge to crawl into the nearest crack, I pretended to not hear

and fought to appear non-chalant.

Beth, however, answered her in the affirmative with a beaming

smile (or was it a "Cheshire Cat" grin?), and suggested that I

help the lady carry her finished laundry to her car. I was

caught in a double bind. If I complied, the lady would have a

longer opportunity to observe and, possibly, detect, my charade;

if I balked, I was sure to draw attention, almost guaranteing my

exposure, plus step-mother gets ticked. The best odds were with

a quietly cheerful, even absent-minded, compliance.

Friend, I have come to the conclusion that much of bravery is

having insufficient imagination to conceive of a third

alternative beyond the task itself and death. "That which the

mind of man can conceive and believe...", don't you know! So, I

"braved" it out, and completed this little chore, absolutely

amazed, after I was able to think about it, that she showed no

indication that she suspected anything was awry. She even

thanked me, dear, holding my hand a moment, between her own.

Just before we were ready to leave, I saw another woman

observing me with a questioning look on her face. Did I know

her? No. I'd been "read"! I didn't know the term then, but I

was well aware that I didn't do everything in a feminine manner,

and could see that she saw it. She knew!

We were just finishing the folding, when she walked over to

Beth. "That's quite the daughter you have," she opened.

Beth smiled faintly, "thank you."

"Does she go out with you often?" she asked.

Beth replied obliquely, "I'm only the step-mother," then

picked up a basket to take to the car. I followed her with a

load of my own, trying to do it gracefully, without any

exaggeration.

The woman was still standing there, when we returned for the

other baskets.

"She's so helpful; I imagine that she's a very reliable

girl."

"Very," was all Beth would answer.

"We could use some reliable help at home, maybe once a week.

Just light housekeeping, sometimes help with the dishes after a

bridge party. Would she like to earn some money?"

Beth had a strange look on her face. "She all ready has a

very full schedule, but if she wants to...?"

"Beth!" my mind screamed; then I realized that, at least, she

had allowed me a graceful out. "Ah, I, uh, really don't have any

extra time available, but, thank you anyway." Immediately, I

picked up my other basket and started for the car.

"Wait," she entreated, "at least let me give you my number,

in case you change your mind; something could come up, you know."

She pulled a notepad from her purse. "Please," as she hurriedly

wrote, "it's SO hard to find good help. Keep this for a week or

so, at least, will you?"

She was sounding so sincere, as she handed the slip to Beth,

but I knew that she knew I wasn't anyone's daughter. What was

she after?

Beth accepted the paper, "We have to go now, thank you --

goodbye." She picked up the last basket and followed my retreat

toward the car. The woman was still watching intently as we

pulled out of the lot.

It was past lunchtime, so we found an A&W and pulled in for

car service. It was a good thing that the waitress was quite

busy. She hardly paid any attention to me even when Beth had me

place my own order. Still, trying, not very successfully, to eat

french-fries in a feminine way didn't much help my confidence.

We weren't quite done when some fellows pulled up in the next

space. I could FEEL the looking-over I was getting, but somehow

felt less threatened over exposure by them than by girls of the

same age. They'd KNOW!

On the way home, Beth asked me if I'd like to take up the

woman's offer, after all. I didn't know what to say. I said

nothing. "Come on, dear, tell me how you really feel. If you

don't want to try it, I won't consider it complaining. You won't

HAVE to go there, but if you're willing, it just might turn out

to be very good experience."

"Beth, she knows I'm not a girl! I could see it in her eyes,

and hear it in her voice at the very first."

"Watch your inflection, dear. Yes, I suppose she did know

what she was doing..."

I interrupted, "Then, she might have something really ter-

rible in mind." A thought suddenly struck me, "Do you know her?"

Beth had never seen her before. She thought that, most

likely, the woman was just intrigued by my predicament and wanted

to share in my "instruction", Beth's euphenism for what I felt

was my calculated embarrassment.

If Beth's methods had been designed with the intent to burn

me out on dressing "en-femme", for the near future they had

achieved their purpose. I felt that if I never wore anything

girlish again, I'd be just fine, thank you. I told her that I'd

rather not, if I had the choice. She said it was OK, but she put

the note in her purse.

I don't believe that Beth ever called the woman, but don't

think that I wasn't expecting her to turn up for weeks afterward.

Finally, we were home again, and all the clothes were put

away. Beth and I sat down and had a lemonade. She told me how

proud she was, both at the way I'd behaved today, and the way I'd

stuck through without complaining. She mentioned that it was too

bad that I didn't have more hair, so that she could really do

something with those rollers, because we had one more trip to

make. But, she continued, I'd do all right as I was. She pumped

me up some more, closing with the encouraging news that I was

almost done.

After the lemonade, she helped me to touch up my make-up,

then we went back down to the car and drove to the next town to a

chain store that specialized in "budget" misses size clothing.

All the way she kept me talking, occasionally giving advice to

keep my voice and inflection sufficiently feminine. I found that

I was beginning to enjoy this, when I could forget what I was

doing. We we arrived, it occurred to me that there was an outlet

of the same chain in our own town; I was grateful that we hadn't

gone there.

Beth led me through the racks, looking at this and that,

fending off the sales girl with, "we'd like to just look for a

bit, we'll call when we find something interesting." She pulled

several dresses off the rack, held them against me, then put them

back. Eventually, we were at the lingerie section. Pulling one,

then another, of the waltz length nightgowns out, she asked my

opinion, held it up to me, then agreed or disagreed. When we

finally agreed in favor of one, mint green with a satin yoke, she

handed it to me along with a bill large enough to cover the

purchase, then sent me ahead of her to the sales register.

Saying as little as possible, I laid the gown in front of the

girl and paid the bill. She gave me the change, bagged the gown,

then handed it back to me.

By then, I was hoping that she couldn't hear my heart

pounding. Holding my purchase to my chest, I started toward the

door. I had to turn back, though, as Beth asked me whether I

didn't need some nylons, insisting that surely, I must. So, we

turned to the hosiery counter.

I wanted out of there. The girl must notice something wrong

soon. I picked out a package which Beth indicated would fit, and

used most of the remaining money to pay for it.

The hose went into the bag with the gown and again, I headed

for the door. Beth stopped me once more, to look at something

she wanted. Then we went back to the register to pay for it. As

the clerk handed Beth her change, she asked, "Is this some kind

an initiation stunt?"

Beth returned, "Why do you ask?"

"Because," she explained, "your 'daughter' is really a boy,

isn't he?"

Beth replied, "Let's just say that it's a 'learning

experience' that I had discovered was very sorely needed."

"Oh! Well now, is "she" enjoying her lessons?" She looked at

me straight in the face.

I didn't know what a "retorical question" meant back then,

but i knew that this one needed no answer; she all ready knew it.

Beth had not included blusher as part of my make-up, and by

now, I had no need of it whatsoever.

Receiving no immediate answer, she continued, "And what did

you do, to provoke your mother going to all this effort?" Her

hand swept an arc covering the length of my person.

Darned if i was going to answer, short of a gun to my head.

"Were you sassing your mother?" she continued.

"It's not important," Beth interjected.

"Certainly." she replied. "So, how far is this going? Umm,

i can see some marvelous possibilities!"

She reached out for my hand, and pulled me along, back among

the racks.

I looked back at Beth with terror in my eyes. She just

smiled and nodded her head to tell me to go along.

The clerk kept up a regular patter, explaining how they'd

received some new things in just that week that would be perfect

for a girl my age. She pulled out a full skirted dress which was

patterned with pink and grey stripes that were about two inches

wide. The boat neckline was the latest fashion, which was

fortunate for a "girl" like me who didn't have much cleavage to

show from the more common scooped neckline.

I just stood there dumbly, so she draped it over my arm, then

pushed gently on one shoulder to steer me toward the fitting

room. "Go ahead, try it on," she urged.

My posture must have shown that I was ready to bolt, no

matter the consequences, for Beth walked over and helped guide me

into the room.

A thought suddenly struck me, and I played what I hoped was

THE trump card. "There's no point for me to try it on, we have

no money left to buy anything else." I was pretty sure that was

true and was even more certain that Beth wouldn't lie about it,

if I was right.

Unfortunately, for my peace of mind, the clerk had an answer

ready. "Girls come in all the time, to try on things, when they

and I know that they have no intention of buying. It's expected.

It'a part of the business.

"That's one difference between the boys and the girls. If

you want to be a girl, you have to learn to do things like this

just for the fun of it."

Only now was i beginning to think that she might have been

primed for this visit. I said so. She denied it; as did Beth.

Then i asserted that i most certainly did NOT want to be a girl,

so there was no need for me to learn any more about trying on

dresses and such.

"Oh, I think you DO," she hugged my shoulders with the palms

of her hands, and stared right into my face again, "otherwise,

you wouldn't have allowed yourself to get this much involved."

"You don't understand," I started to protest.

"Maybe not," she conceeded, "but I do understand that you

didn't run away when your mother started getting you set up like

this. I think you like it, but, of course, your ego won't let

you admit that to anyone else.

"Well, now you're found out, so give up the deception.

Relax, and enjoy your adventure into femininity."

At that, she nudged me onward into the cubicle, "Come on,

now, let's see how you look in that dress."

Hesitant from indecision, I slowly removed my skirt and,

then, was struck by another thought, "What if someone comes into

the store while I'm doing this?" But, having gone that far, the

excitement of doing this very feminine task overrode my terror.

Then Beth joined me in the cubicle and helped me remove the

sweater without dislodging the curlers.

Next she helped me lower the dress over my head and arms and

zipped it up for me. After handing me the self-belt which

belonged to the dress, she rearranged my scarf, while I tied the

belt in place.

"Why, it looks darling on you," the clerk gushed. "Here,

walk to the wall and back," she added, guiding me away from the

mirror.

As fate would have it, I had just reached the wall and was

turning about to walk back to the cubicle when two girls,

obviously older than I - maybe 18 - entered the store. By some

miracle, my panic didn't cause me to bolt, or do anything

obviously out of character. The clerk excused herself long

enough to greet them, and returned while they browsed through the

section where the sportswear seperates were. She returned with

another dress in hand.

"Let's see how this one looks on you."

Inside the cubicle again, i was frozen, in shock. I just

couldn't go out there again, while those girls were out there.

My expression must have spoken volumes, as Beth did all the

talking.

"Now take it easy, you're doing just fine. Don't worry about

them; they're too absorbed in what they're doing to pay any

attention to you - besides they can't be bothered with someone so

much younger than them."

Again, she helped me remove the dress I had on and to put on

the second dress, then pushed me outside to see myself in the

mirror. The clerk was right there, ready to comment.

"Very good. I think the first was more YOU, but this looks

quite good on you, too."

Her hand swept down the aisle toward the wall, and I

dutifully began walking toward it, praying the Beth was right

about those two girls. If they made notice, I didn't know what

I'd do - maybe faint. When I turned to retrace my path to the

mirror, I discovered she was wrong! Their heads were up watching

me! But, they turned again to the racks in front of them when

they saw that I could see them watching.

Beth had me turn this way and that, in front of the mirror,

inviting me to see how it looked from various angles. Meanwhile,

the clerk fetched another dress to try.

I was rapidly becoming a nervous wreck. Nevertheless, I

somehow continued trying on outfits, while the girls finished

looking around and left. At that point the clerk guided me to

the front of the store - "into natural light" was her excuse -

where i could be seen by anyone passing by.

A woman, close to age 30, i guessed, chose that moment to

walk past the window and into the shop. She had to walk right by

me, to enter. Again, the clerk excused herself so that she could

greet her newest customer.

This time I was relieved that she did so, as it occupied the

lady's attention. I took advantage of that lapse to return to

the cubicle. Reentering it put me in a position to view the lady

again, much to my discomfort, as I perceived a rather quizzical

expression on her face, directed my way.

The clerk allowed her to look about a few moments, while she

brought still another outfit for me to try. I changed into this,

while the clerk saw to the lady's desires. I really dreaded

going outside the cubicle again, while she remained in the store;

she had all ready paid too much attention to me for my liking.

But, Beth wouldn't allow me to dally. Out again, in front of the

mirror, then down the aisle to the wall, with a nod toward the

front of the store when i turned.

This dress had a rather straight skirt, and I found myself

really enjoying the sensations of the hem pulling against my hose

as I took each step. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see

the lady's head was turned my way, but, perhaps getting into the

spirit of things, I had made the decision to enjoy feminine

feelings I was experiencing - indeed to revel in them. I turned

and walked back to the aisle, then back to the mirror.

"Strange," I thought, as I turned one way, then another, how,

suddenly, my fears, though still present, no longer interfer with

the very feminine attitude that was gradually permeating my

being.

I turned from the mirror and minced my way over to the racks

to select another outfit to try on. As i was returning to the

cubicle, i discovered that the lady had also made a selection,

and was entering the only other one, right next to "mine". She

was giving me a looking-over as we both approached, our eyes

meeting just as we reached the doors to our cubicles. Her's

wasn't an unfriendly expression, exactly, but I couldn't quite

find a name for what I sensed, as she disappeared into her

cubicle immediately. Is was while I was changing, that I decided

that it was essentially a critical one.

Beth joined me inside, knowing that I'd need help again,

since I had picked out a sweater set. Even with her help it took

me long enough to change that I heard the other lady exit the

other cubicle, before I was quite ready. When everything was

back in place, I found myself torn between wanting to go out and

show off and the fear that I'd be ridiculed by the lady outside.

"Come on," Beth urged, gently pushing me toward the door.

I made hand motions directing her attention to something

outside the cubicle. Either they were too obscure or Beth just

wasn't interested in my concerns.

"Speak up," she demanded.

Throwing my hands up from the elbows, in as feminine a manner

as I could manage, I surrendered to fate and paced out the door.

The mirror was all ready in use, so I changed directions so that

I could wait my turn away from the lady's gaze. I had hardly

taken a step when I was called back, by an unfamiliar voice.

"Miss! Young Lady! You're welcome to use the mirrors now."

I turned again toward the mirrors, and discovered that I'd

have to pass right next to her to get there. Moreover, she

turned behind me after I had passed by, watching as I ambled the

last few steps to get in place.

"That IS a lovely set for you," she offered. "You should see

what it will look like in regular daylight."

I uttered a soft "thank you" as I followed her gesture toward

to front of the store.

At least the straight skirt tended to limit me to short

steps, for she followed right behind me, drawing the clerk and

Beth after.

"See how her facial color appears different in this light,"

she described to the others, "so the color of the outfit is even

more complimentary to her.

"It's too bad that your hair is up, dear, then the full

effect would be realized."

I blushed. She had to be able to see how short my hair was,

at this close. She ceased speaking, so I took the opportunity to

start back toward the dressing area, stopping at the mirrors

again, to get one last all-around view. Then turned back to the

cubicle.

With Beth's help I removed the sweater, and restored it and

the skirt to their hanger. I was almost disappointed that there

turned out to be nothing else ready for me to try on. About to

ask for something else, my mind suddenly kicked into gear, "What

am I DOING? I need to get OUT of here; I don't belong here - not

looking like THIS!"

Fortunately, Beth was content to let me get back into the

clothes which I had been wearing when I came in. Again, the lady

finished changing before I did, and was at the counter paying for

her purchase when I hung the last two items on the "return" rack.

"You aren't getting that lovely sweater set?" she asked.

I didn't answer for what seemed to be a long time - maybe a

couple of seconds, actually - hoping that Beth would help out.

Deciding that she wasn't going to, I replied softly, "It's

more money than we have left after our first purchases," holding

up the sack containing the gown and hose.

"What a shame," she said, giving me an odd look, "It was so

becoming on you." Then she returned her attention to the clerk,

who smiled reassuringly.

After giving the lady her change, the salesgirl placed her

purchase in a bag and handed it to her, saying "Thank You for

shopping with us."

"My pleasure," the lady answered, adding, as she turned her

head, glancingly, in my direction, "It certainly is nice that

your store has PRIVATE dressing rooms.

"Goodbye," she offered in closing, followed by giving Beth

and me a sort of secretive looking smile as her gaze passed us.

In another moment she was out the door and gone.

Trembling, I was ready to make my own way out the door, but

way stopped by Beth.

"The saleslady was very nice letting you try on all those

things wasn't she?"

I couldn't miss the "hint, hint" implicit in her inflection.

In the best feminine voice I had, I offered, "Thank you very

much, ma'm, I've had a wonderful time here." I was amazed at

myself; I actually meant it!

The clerk replied, "Well, thank you for shopping here, I hope

you come in again - both of you."

You're very welcome," Beth concluded. Finally, we left the

store.

It was late afternoon, by then, so we went straight home.

Again, we sat down and talked, over another lemonade. Then she

had me untie the scarf and remove the rollers, after which she

tried a couple of ways to arrange the curled hair. She had to

give up, with such short hair. So, she sent me to my room to

undress, then to the bath to clean off the make-up and rewash my

hair. When I was done, only a pair of panties and the new

nightgown remained in my room. I put them on and Beth had me

turn one way, then another to see how the gown fit. Satisfied,

she had me remove it and dress in my usual T-shirt and jeans.

I had almost forgotton to take off the nail polish, but

remembered when I started to put on some socks. While I removed

it, Beth asked me whether I wanted my purchases put away in my

drawers, or would I prefer keeping it in one of hers. "May I,

please, keep them with yours?" I pleaded. She told me where, in

the middle drawer, they would be. "Since they're yours, you can

have them anytime," she told me. "But," she warned, "if you want

to borrow anything of mine again, you must ask me first, do you

understand?" I nodded my head in agreement, thinking that after

she got through with me, I would never again want to wear them.

When Dad arrived home, I hurriedly checked myself over to see

if I had missed anything, then retreated to my closet to busy

myself at a balsa wood wing assembly.

Monday, after school, I was home as usual, and found, as

usual, a pair of panties awaiting, but this time with a different

sort of note. It merely told me that the afternoon was mine,

"...have fun." I changed my undershorts for the panties, then

went in to watch "Bandstand". When it was over, Beth was still

not home, so I left the house for a friends place, until dinner.

After dinner, I mentioned to Beth that I wished I had known

she wasn't going to keep me home today, as I had to skip another

invitation in order to get home on time. She told me that she

still wanted me to come home first, but, because I'd been so good

the last two weeks, I could plan on having the afternoons to

myself, unless she scheduled something with me.

Tuesday, I fully expected her to load me down again, but she

only handed me a fresh panty and told me she expected to need my

help the next day.

Thursday morning, I told Beth I'd been asked to a girl's

house after school. She told me to stop by the house first.

When I got home she wasn't there, but there were the fanciest

pale blue panties I'd ever seen. they were smooth tricot inside

and all lace covered outside. I put them on, and somewhat self-

conciously, made my way over to Jennifer's. It was a most

interesting experience, doing homework with her, reminded each

time I shifted position that I was wearing panties probably not

unlike her own. I felt as though there existed a sort of special

kinship, though I dared not let her know.

When I got home, Dad had all ready eaten and left to see a

friend. Beth checked to see if I was properly dressed

underneath, then explained that these panties were mine, and

handed me a box with the other four in the set, telling me to put

them away. I asked her if I couldn't, please, keep them with the

other things she had given me (I wondered if she could hear in my

voice that I really didn't want them). Her reply was that I

could crowd her out of her own drawers that way. I didn't think

fast enough to point out to her that all she had to do was stop

buying me things, instead, I just pleaded that she keep them.

She said OK, then pointed out that one pair was mint green,

just like my nightie, insisting that I put them both on, right

then. I headed for my room to undress, when she called me,

saying that the gown was in her drawer, remember? I told her

that I knew it was. She explained that I wouldn't have anything

to put on if I didn't first get it. A few minutes later, I was

in the hall wearing nightgown and panties; they did indeed match.

Beth loaned me a robe to wear while I ate a light supper,

then ushered me off to bed, where she reclaimed her robe. She

tucked me into bed and gave me a kiss on the forehead, "Sweet

dreams, dear." I couldn't sleep. I was listening anxiously for

the sound of Dad returning. When he finally came home, quite

late, I pulled the covers up around my neck, and prayed that he

wouldn't look in. He went straight to bed.

Friday morning, I was all ready awake when Beth came into the

room, bearing a robe. She pulled back the covers, "Come on,

sleepyhead, your father is gone." I slipped into the robe and

followed her to the breakfast table. After eating, I returned to

my room to dress for school. She stopped me, "If you wanted to

save the extra trip after school, you could just wear your

panties all day." I told her I didn't see how that wouldn't

cause problems. She returned, "Only if you have to strip for

P.E." She handed me a note for the school, asking me to be

excused from participating in P.E. today, due to my asthma. "You

could wear your white ones today." It didn't sound to me as

though I had the option, but I didn't ask. I just walked to her

room and picked out the white panties from the set, then removed

my night clothes, and dressed for school. The note worked. I

walked Jennifer home from school for the first time in three

weeks.

Monday, not having another excuse, I came straight home. No

panties were out. I went to her drawer and picked out a pair of

"mine", and changed underwear. Then I left for a friend's house.

The rest of the week went by essentially the same. Friday, I

was out very late at our first track meet. Dad was all ready

home. There were no panties in my room. I gave a very questing

look at Beth, who met me in the kitchen. I asked if she was

going to bring out my panties. She told me they were mine, I

didn't have to ask for them. I finally slipped into their

bedroom while Dad was engrossed in the TV, picked out another

pair, and changed into them in my own room.

Saturday morning, Dad took his one Saturday per month off.

Before we left for Beth's daughter's place, about 100 miles away,

I placed a pair of "my" panties into her bag to go with us. It

was no small challenge to make a change and stow the old pair,

while we were there, but I seemed to have done so without notice.

I hadn't counted on the Mother/Daughter relationship. Sunday

morning, while helping step-sis with the dishes, I discovered

that she had been told somewhat of my situation. She indicated

that, if she got the chance, she'd help in my "education". She

was sure, she said, that she could get her husband to go along

with it, if she handled it right, and then she'd really get to

work on me.

I had planned to spend a few weeks there, come summer,

because the rabbit hunting was so good. On the way home, though,

I started formulating a plan to abort the earlier ones. I didn't

want her to have 24 hour control of me under those conditions.

The following two weeks were more of the same. Finally, on a

Saturday morning, as we were doing the laundry, I asked Beth when

she was going to let me off the hook. She had a puzzled look,

"you are off; you have been for weeks."

Did I hear right? "I mean about wearing the panties

everyday."

"What about them?"

"Do I have to keep wearing them everyday?"

"They're your panties; you may wear them whenever you want."

"Can I not wear them whenever I want, too?"

"'May I'."

"All right, MAY I not wear them when I choose?"

"I told you that weeks ago."

"You mean I've been changing into them all this time for

nothing?"

"I thought you liked them."

"AAAHHGGGGG!"

Monday, I called up the stairs, "I'm home!" Beth

acknowledged. I asked if she had anything for me to do. No.

So, I told her where I was going. She said OK, and I left

without ever going upstairs. No way, Jose, was I going to get

into girl's things again!

My resolve lasted a full six weeks, until our next trip to

visit Beth's daughter and family. We had driven there Friday

evening, right after Dad had come home from work.

Early Saturday morning, Dad had gone somewhere with

Charlene's (my step-sister) husband. She cornered me, asking how

my "girl lessons" were coming. I tersely replied that those were

all over now. She probed about whether I was still wearing

panties. I denied that I was. She persisted, "but, you do wish

you were, don't you?" I denied that, too. "How about if I loan

you some, wouldn't you like that soft silky feel against your

bottom? I bet you'd love it."

Charlene was quite heavy, way beyond my size, so it wasn't at

all hard to insist that I didn't. She finally backed off, but,

afterward, I realized that I would have loved to let her put me

into feminine things, as Beth had done. My decision was reversed

again. I would stay with step-sis for part of the summer, after

all.

It was Tuesday, before I got the nerve up to go into Beth's

lingerie drawer. Even then, had she been home, I'd have waited.

Carefully looking over "my" stack of panties, I selected a yellow

pair, because they weren't visable without moving the others.

After carefully replacing the top ones, I hurried to my room to

change.

Next morning, I smuggled the panties into the wash before

leaving for school. When I returned, Beth wasn't home, again.

This time I selected the mint green pair, and took "my"

nightgown, too, and hid it under my mattress. After changing

underwear, I called Jennifer, then left for her house.

That night, I pulled the nightgown from its hiding place,

thoroughly enjoying its silkiness as I let it slide down over my

head and arms. Too quickly, I had to slip into bed and cover up.

When I awoke to the sizzle of bacon frying, I undressed with

every sense at full alert. Ready for school, I again smuggled my

nightwear into the laundry, and began my day.

Beth was in the kitchen, when I arrived home after track

practice. As I finished pouring a glass of milk, she put her

arms around my shoulders, giving me a hug from behind.

"I see my little girl has come back," she said softly. "I

had almost thought she was gone for keeps." Then she added, very

caringly, "She's welcome to stay with us as long as she likes."

I turned to face her; unable to speak, I just nodded.

"Do you think she'd like to go out again, this week-end?"

Beth asked.

After a long pause, I nodded again, trembling.

THE END?