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Date: Mon, 19 Aug 1996 08:07:19 UTC

Subject: Girls' Clothes (1/5) (CD, mm, cons)

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Be 18+ or be gone!

Girls' Clothes

It started with my baby sitter, Barbara. I was 9 years old and the terror

of every sitter my parents engaged. Barbara was the latest in a long

string of young girls who would sit for me once and then refuse to come

back.

I gave Barbara the Treatment, too. The issue was usually about what sort

of game we were going to play to keep me occupied and out of trouble.

Keeping me occupied was the price of peace. I tried all the usual things

on Barbara, too: I didn't want to do this, I didn't want to do that;

anything she proposed was something I didn't want to do. I gave her no

peace until, finally, sleepiness overtook me and she put me to bed. I

figured that was the last of Barbara.

But Barbara was made of sterner stuff than the others, or maybe she saw

something the others didn't. Because the next time my parents went out,

there she was again. And I entered on the same campaign of harrassment.

But after I had scornfully rejected all the things she proposed, she said,

"All right; would you like to play dressup?"

For some reason I hesitated over this.

"What's dressup?"

"I mean dressing up. Put on different clothes and see how you look in

them. See how it feels to wear them."

"What kind of clothes?" I was getting--well, not interested, but curious.

I thought I'd hold off on the harassment for a bit.

"Well, I brought along a couple of costumes. I thought you might like

trying them on." She dug around in her tote bag and brought out some

articles of clothing.

"See? Here's a pirate costume. My brother used to wear it when he went

out on Hallowe'en."

A pirate costume. I was turned off already. But I was also just a little

curious. So I made no objection. I stripped to my briefs and put the

costume on. I made the usual kid noises--"Yaah! I'm a pirate! Everybody

better look out!"--but I quickly lost interest and demanded something else.

So she got out--I forget what it was, but it was some other kid thing. I

put that on and rejected it immediately. The game was beginning to pall,

and I realized that I was in danger of breaking my steady string of

victories over baby sitters. I was ready to refuse the next costume out

of hand. Barbara got a sly look on her face.

"I have one other costume, Brian. But you won't want to wear it."

"Yes I will." Contradict your sitter at every opportunity.

"No, you won't."

"Sure, I will. Try me. I'll wear anything."

"I'll bet you won't wear this. It's a girl's costume. A cheerleader

costume."

Well, it wasn't, really. Later, when I got to high school, I found out

what cheerleaders really wore and this was nothing like it. This was a

pinafore, much more modest than a cheerleader's costume and more feminine.

Barbara must have known this, but she probably thought I wouldn't know the

difference, which I didn't, and that cheerleader sounded more attractive.

It did, too; but, more importantly, the thought of wearing a girl's cos-

tume--I don't know, but I felt a mysterious attraction for it. The lure

of the forbidden, I suppose it was. Whatever it was, the moment he said

it was a girl's costume, I wanted to wear it. Wanted it even more than

tormenting my sitter.

So I put on the pinafore. It was a white skirt, a white blouse with

ruffles, and a sort of blue apron affair that went over both. It felt

good. It wasn't the cheap, sleazy material that the other costumes were

made of; this was the genuine article, and I sensed this. This wasn't just

a costume; these were real girl's clothes I was wearing. And they felt

good, very comfortable. More than comfortable: they felt as if they

belonged on me.

"Gee, Brian, you look so cute in that!"

By rights I should have objected to that word "cute." But I didn't. I

said, "Yeah, it feels nice."

"Turn around and let me look at you. Golly, you make a real nice looking

girl!"

Well, I thought it was a cheerleader's costume, so I cheer-led, dancing,

kicking, and yelling things like "Fight, team, fight! Rah rah rah!" And

the funny thing was that, while I quickly got bored with yelling, I didn't

get bored with the clothes, the way I had gotten bored with the other

costumes. That must have been because the other costumes were fake while

this was real. But there was something else, too. The skirt felt nice on

my legs, and the ruffles looked good on me. There was only one thing

missing.

"This is okay. In fact, it's real neat. But I don't have the right

underwear."

"You mean panties? You want to wear panties?"

"Well, er, it's a girl's dress, isn't it? Don't girls wear, uh, panties,

under this?--and stockings? Aren't you supposed to wear nylons with this?"

"No, you don't wear nylons with this kind of dress."

"Well, I'd, uh, I mean, I might like to wear nylons, too." In a lower

voice, I added, "You know...I put on a pair of Mom's nylons once...and when

she found out I caught holy...er, she, well, she bawled me out and gave me

a licking."

"Well, maybe next time I'll bring you something you can wear with nylons.

And I'll bring you some nylons, too."

Well, to make a long story short, I sat around in Barbara's pinafore all

the rest of that evening. The dress was a castoff dress of hers, of

course. Barbara was about five or six years older than I was, a freshman

in high school. Why she had kept her old clothes over all those years I

don't know. But it felt so nice on me that I forgot all about my plans for

driving Barbara crazy. I couldn't explain it, but it just felt good.

Then came bedtime and the usual struggle to get me to go to bed. I always

resisted going to bed; that was part of my strategy for tormenting sitters.

But this time it was real, because going to bed meant taking off the dress

and I hated to do that. But Barbara said,

"Okay. You've got two choices. Either you go to bed nicely, right now,

and I bring you a nice dress to wear next time, and nylons, too, and the

time after that, and the time after *that,* for as long as you want me to.

OR you make a fuss and stay up, and this is the last time we play dressup.

I won't bring anything next time. In fact, there may not be a next time.

And you can try another baby sitter, and I'll bet *she* won't play dressup,

either."

I was caught. Reluctantly, I took off the dress. I stalled on each

garment--apron, blouse, and skirt--partly as a matter of policy but mostly

because I really didn't want to take them off.

At breakfast the next morning, my mother said, "Barbara said you were very

good last night! I was amazed. What did she do, anyway? What was the

secret?"

I wasn't about to tell her Barbara's secret, which was actually my secret,

now. So I just said, "We played pirates. It was fun."

"Well! As simple as that! After all these years and all these sitters,

someone finally stumbled on the secret. Even so, I'm proud of you, Brian."

I doubt if she would have been so proud if she had known the real secret.

The next time Barbara sat for me, my first question after my parents had

gone was, "What did you bring me?"

"You mean, to wear? Oh, Brian, wait till you see it! I don't know; maybe

this will be too much for you, too girlish." And she started drawing

things out of her tote bag. "Here. Panties!"--pulling them out--"And here

are your nylons. And a bra. And a slip. And here's a nice dress."

This was heady stuff. I was excited right away, and in fact I felt a kind

of feeling I had never known before. I realize now that it was my first

sexual *frisson*. I didn't know about sexual feelings when I was nine, but

I knew this was a special kind of feeling, a special kind of excitement.

Barbara and I had started to explore a new and unknown world of forbidden

things, things that boys weren't supposed to do and that girls weren't

supposed to help them to do. And Barbara was destined to lead me deeper

and deeper into that wicked but lovely world. It was like some rare,

potent opiate, that set your head awhirl. Hastily, I stripped naked and

pulled on the panties. They were plain white cotton, with just a touch of

lace around the leg openings.

"Now you need a garter belt to hold up the nylons. I hope this fits."

She handed me the garter belt. And it fit me, well and snugly.

"Now, here are the nylons. You have to be very careful putting these on.

I bought them for you specially, because I don't have any this size myself.

And if you aren't gentle with them, you'll get a run and they won't look

nice on you. That's one of the first things a girl learns, to take care

of her nylons." I was thrilled to hear her say "girl" this way, as if she

were referring to me. "Here...roll them up, this way." She handed me a

stocking, half rolled up. I finished rolling them up. I had seen Mom do

this, and I knew what I had to do. I put my foot into the stocking. It

was so soft! Then I slowly and carefully unrolled it onto my leg. The

stocking felt funny on my leg. Funny and nice. She showed me how to clip

the stocking top onto the garters, or maybe I should say, clip the garters

onto the stocking.

I put on the other stocking and clipped it. I looked down on my stocking-

clad legs. They looked so neat!...all smooth and nice, and with that

darkish color that nylons give your legs. And I liked the way they felt

on my legs, sort of squeezing them, but not too tightly. By this time, my

plans for driving Barbara crazy had all been forgotten. Barbara wasn't a

sitter any more; she was a collaborator in a forbidden, dangerous, highly

exciting game.

"Now you need a bra. All I had in anything like your size was an old

training bra, and I don't know whether it will fit you. Here, try this."

I didn't really know what a training bra was. The thought passed through

my mind that maybe it was a bra for training boys to wear dresses. But it

had been hers, so that couldn't be what it was. But I liked that idea; it

appealed to me powerfully. The idea--oh, gosh!--of being *trained* to wear

girls' clothes was exciting. She slipped the loops over my shoulders and

fastened it in back. It was a little loose, but I didn't mind.

"Well, I guess it's okay," Barbara said. "But you're kind of flat chested.

You need to pad it out with something. Do you have hankys--I mean, hand-

kerchiefs?"

I didn't have as many as I would need for this, but I had socks. I raced

up to my room, feeling the air on my body and the funny, cool feeling of

the air on my nyloned legs. How nice that felt! I came back, stuffing a

sock into each cup of the bra as I went. By the time I was back in the

den with Barbara I had a fairly respectable pair of little boobies.

"Oh, Brian! You look darling.... Oops, I guess I shouldn't have said

that. You look very nice, Brian."

"No, that's okay, I look darling." I put my hands over my head, stretched,

and turned slowly around. "I like looking darling."

"Stop it, Brian, you're acting too much like a girl."

"Well, I am a girl. I mean, you're making me into one. How do you think

I'm going to act?"

"Well, okay, we're making you into a girl. But you're acting silly, just

the same. Now here's the dress." After the excitement of the panties,

stockings, and brassiere, the dress looked like an anticlimax. It was a

plain blue affair, sleeveless. The top buttoned up the front, and a zipper

at the side drew in the waist. I put it over my head and wriggled into it.

Suddenly it dropped into place about me, almost as if it knew that I was

supposed to wear it, that it was supposed to be on my boy's body. I

fumbled with the buttons and realized that they buttoned the other way.

I got it buttoned and pulled the zipper tight. I started to walk over

to a mirror too see how I looked, but Barbara stopped me.

"Shoes, Brian. You can't go running around in your nylons that way..."

("In my nylons!"...In *my* nylons! I liked the sound of that.) "...or

you'll ruin them. Here, put these on." They were a pair of high heeled

shoes. "Now these are good shoes. The other things are old clothes,

except for the nylons, which I had to buy. But your feet look too big for

my old shoes. These are shoes I wear now. Be very careful with them."

High-heeled shoes! Somehow I hadn't anticipated that. With trembling

hands I put them on and buckled them. Then I stood up, and almost fell

down again. I was going to have to learn how to walk in them. I tottered

carefully over to the mirror. I was a strange sight. From the neck down,

I was a pretty girl in a blue dress and nylons. From the neck up I was a

boy with a funny look on his face. So I was careful to look only at the

part of me below the neck.

But everything felt so *nice!* I had that same feeling I had had with her

pinafore last time, the feeling that somehow these clothes belonged on me,

that they were right for me.

"Oh, Brian, you do look lovely! You're enjoying this, aren't you? Come

here and let's put some makeup on you."

I came back and Barbara got out her compact and a lipstick. She dusted

some powder on my cheeks, then started carefully applying the lipstick.

I stopped her.

"No, let me put it on. I want to learn how." Naturally, I put on too

much. Barbara got a tissue and carefully wiped off the excess.

I wish I could put into words how I felt. The dress suited me, the hose

suited me, the bra and panties felt nice next to my skin. I looked in the

mirror again. My face looked better, but my hair...it wasn't really long

enough. I wore it long, longer than most guys, but not really long enough

for a girl. I thought, "I'm going to have to let it grow out..." and then

I realized what I was thinking. Unconsciously, I was planning to do this

again, to dress as a girl again, and to keep doing it whenever I could, and

to try to change my appearance--well, to change my hair, anyway--to be more

convincing as a girl.

"All I need is perfume," I said.

"No, Brian. Cologne is out. Because you won't be able to wash the scent

away, and there'll still be some on you in the morning, and your mother

will know. Girls notice things like that."

I suppose you could date the beginning of my life as a crossdresser from

that disastrous time I put on Mom's stockings and got caught, but I've

always dated it from that second evening with Barbara, when she dressed me

up completely, even to putting on makeup.

That evening was the first of a long series of evenings. Barbara became

my regular sitter. And with each visit she feminized me more thoroughly,

more convincingly, more deeply. I don't think Barbara was into the femin-

ization business generally--that is, I doubt if she had ever feminized

any boy before, or any man later on. But there was a certain mysterious

chemistry between us that had been there ever since that very first time;

she sensed a need I hadn't even been aware of, and responded to it.

My parents were delighted, because their problem child had suddenly become

so docile and cooperative with sitters, or with Barbara, at any rate. And

in fact on the few occasions when Barbara couldn't make it and my folks

had to use another sitter, I gave no trouble. Barbara's dressup games had

broken my habit of tormenting sitters, and when she didn't come I was too

bored to make trouble. I just sat at the computer and played games.

This went on for a few years, with Barbara saving everything she herself

had outgrown so we could use it in our games. She told me once that every

time she got something new, she would think, "I wonder how Brian will look

in this." When I was eleven, Barbara bought me a couple of pairs of

panties of my very own, which I hid inside the case of my computer. I

couldn't wear them very often, but sometimes after school, if Mom wasn't

home, I would open up the computer, fish out the panties, and wear them for

a couple of hours until Mom got back. I could usually predict when she

would arrive, but when I missed it and she came home before I had changed,

I would just slip on my pants, go into the bathroom, change into regular

boy's briefs, and flush the toilet.

I remember one evening in particular. I must have been twelve by then.

Barbara was old enough to drive now, and this evening she had driven over

to my place. After my folks were gone, she went out to the car and got a

big suitcase out of the trunk. Inside, she opened it up; she had brought

a complete outfit! The dress was a strapless evening gown, with all the

fixings.

We set to work. I stripped and Barbara handed me the panties. These were

black and covered with lace. I began to get hard. I hadn't worn black

panties before, and they were sexy. Barb didn't know about "gaffs"--those

things you wear to tuck your penis out of sight--and of course I had never

heard of such a thing. In any case, the gown would be full enough to cover

it up. I just put the panties on with my penis pointing up underneath

them. Then I put on the garter belt she had brought, also black and full

of lace, and a pair of black nylons. Wow!

She gave me the strapless bra, also black, and what a contraption that was!

It was like the top half of a corset, with bra cups, or actually half-cups,

at the top. Barb warned me that it would be uncomfortable, and it was,

terribly, but I was excited to be wearing it. She had also brought a pair

of breast forms. Not real ones, which were expensive; she had sewn little

pink silk bags and stuffed them with something--I think it was chunks of

foam. They didn't look terribly real, but they were good enough to fill

the bra cups.

The gown itself was blue taffeta, and I fell in love with it. It went on

marvellously, and was just the right length. "This was my first strapless

gown," Barbara said. "I've been waiting for you to grow into this, because

I knew you would look just scrumptious in it. And you do!"

I spun around in the dress, making the skirt billow out and swirl around

me. Then we set to making me up. Barb had brought everything this time:

foundation, blush, mascara, the works. Slowly and patiently she made me

up, stopping now and then to examine her work. She let me apply my own

lipstick, which by now I was an expert at doing. Finally she got out a

pair of earrings and clipped them on me.

"Oh, you're just such a *darling!* Come, look at yourself in the mirror!"

We went over to the mirror, and I didn't recognize myself. Her makeup had

transformed my face to the point that it no longer looked like me. Many

years later I read a lot of transvestite fiction, and in those stories

there is always a moment when the young man, transformed, looks in the

mirror and sees a lovely girl there. I always believed that, because I

remembered this evening with Barbara, when that had happened to me: I

really had looked in the mirror and seen a girl. I couldn't get over it:

that girl was *me*, Brian!

Barb had taught me to dance by this time. We put on some records and began

to dance. Barb herself was just wearing jeans and a T-shirt that evening,

and when I caught sight of us in the mirror, it looked as if she was the

man and I the woman. (Barb led, too.) My gown swirled about me as we

danced, and my earrings danced, too. I'm sorry to say that Barbara never

took me out of the house dressed up; what a wonderful thing it would have

been if we could have gone to a ball that night! How I would have loved

to be the belle of the ball, with all the guys looking at me with admiring

glances!

The big change came the next year, when I was thirteen. Barbara was a

senior in high school then. One evening when I was dressed up, the door-

bell rang. I was petrified. I had on a frilly pink dress and was in full

makeup and heels. Barbara went to the door, and I could hear her arguing.

"George, I've *told* you not to come see me when I'm sitting with Brian!"

George was her current boyfriend. He was good looking, but a little crude

in his manners, and I didn't like him much. But while Barbara was shouting

at her, he must have pushed his way past her, because I heard him coming

down to the rec room, pursued by Barbara. I would have run to my room and

hidden, but he was already half way down the stairs before I thought of

this. I was caught.

George stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me. "Who's the girl?" he

asked Barbara, who by this time was right behind him.

"Er...that's...er...."

"Where's Brian? Where did...?" He stopped suddenly and a look of recog-

nition dawned in his eyes.

"Well, well, well! *You're* Brian, aren't you, little girl? Little girl

Brian. Brianessa. Brianella!" He started to snicker.

"George, you've got to keep quiet about this," Barbara warned him. "You

breathe a word about this to anybody and it's all over between you and me.

Understand?"

George gave a gulp. "But it's too much." He gave a short laugh, a sort of

a snort. "Brian as a little girl. He is, too. He looks just like a girl.

It's perfect." He turned to me. "Hey, little Brianella, can you give us a

kiss?"

I shuddered. I didn't like the way this was going at all. George advanced

on me and reached out. Then suddenly I knew what to do. Before he could

grab me, I forced myself to grab *him*. I made myself throw my arms around

him, give him a big hug, and plant a kiss right square on his lips.

My tactics worked. He had planned to embarrass me, but when I took the

initiative away from him and, instead of ducking and running, forced myself

to grab him and kiss him, he was the one who was embarrassed--but not too

embarrassed to hold me a little longer than I held him and to prolong the

kiss. I felt his lips starting to open and broke away.

After a few minutes, Barbara succeeded in getting rid of George, but that

wasn't the end of it. George lived a block away from us, and one afternoon

the next week, as I was coming home from school, he waylaid me.

"Well, if it isn't Brianella!" he said. "Are you wearing your panties,

little girl?"

I said No.

"Why aren't you? You're such a nice little girl! And you give such nice

kisses to your boyfriends." He had remembered that. My little triumph

over him that evening last week was about to turn around. I had won the

battle; I was about to lose the war.

"I think I'd like a little girl of my own," he went on, "and I think you're

just the one. Come on."

He grabbed my arm, not painfully, but hard enough to keep me from pulling

free. We went to his place and in the back of his house. There was a

garage there, taller than most, and in the top of the garage, there was a

sort of loft. We stopped before a ladder.

"Go up," George said.

I stood there.

"Get up there, you little faggot, or I'll beat the living shit out of you!"

I slowly climbed the ladder.

The loft was full of junk--old tools and boxes mostly. George sat me down

on a box and stood before me.

"Now we're going to see just how good a girl you are." He opened his fly.

"Pull it out."

There was no doubt what "it" was. I was thirteen, now, not an ignorant

little nine-year old kid, and there wasn't any doubt in my mind about what

George wanted. I just sat there, petrified. But there was something else,

too. I had been bullied as a boy, as I guess most boys are, except maybe

for the bullies themselves, and the adrenaline was running. But there was

something else. It was like the excitement that I felt when dressing up

with Barbara. I realized that this was a turning point. If I did what he

wanted me to, he was going to make me do it again. And again, and again,

just as I had gotten into dressing with Barbara again and again. He would

turn me into his personal sexual servant. And there was something about

that possibility....

I reached into his fly. I felt his shorts inside. I could feel the fabric

stretched by George's growing erection. I started fumbling for the opening

in his shorts. George loosened his belt a notch and undid the top button

on his trousers. I found the opening and reached inside. Hair. I felt

his thick, curly pubic hair. Working downward, I felt the base of his

penis. My heart skipped a beat. George opened the fly wider with his

hands. With some difficulty, I worked his penis, which was hardening

rapidly, out through the opening in his briefs and out of the fly.

"Kiss it, little girl!"

I moved toward it. It was sweaty and smelt of masculinity. I put my lips

to the end of it. I could feel how smooth the skin was. Soft and tender,

and yet hard. I kissed it.

"That's my girl. Open your lips and suck on it."

I opened my lips, but kept my teeth clenched. He pushed the tip in past my

lips. I realized that my own penis was hard, too. And in a sudden rush of

excitement I *wanted* his cock in my mouth. I craved it. I wanted to be a

girl for him. I opened my mouth wide and pushed my head onto his penis.

It was too long for me; I got only about three quarters of him into my

mouth. I ran my tongue over the bottom of it.

"Yeah, that's the way. Suck on that cock, girl. You're my girl, now.

*My* girl. My own private girl who's going to...ahhh!...who's going to

suck me off any time I want it. Come on, keep sucking that cock, girl!"

I continued running my tongue around it. I drew my head back, so my tongue

was right under the base of the crown and licked it.

"Yeah, that's the way," he said again. "You like that, don't you! You're

a real natural, a natural-born cocksucker. You're my own little slutty

girl now. I bet you wish you had your panties on, don't you? Then you'd

be a real girl. A real cock-sucking girl."

I guess there's a sort of instinct that certain men have, that tells them

how to suck a cock. I had never done this before, but somehow I knew just

what to do.

"Take that cock into your hot little cunt, Brianella. Suck on it with your

cunty mouth. Don't you wish you had lipstick on? You could leave red

lipstick marks all over my cock!"

I tightened my lips about his penis and started working up and down the

shaft. I kept moving my tongue as I did so, so I was licking him and suck-

ing him, both at the same time. George kept calling me his slutty girl and

his little cocksucking cunt.

Then suddenly he stopped talking. I felt his penis grow harder in my

mouth, and hot. Then he gave a gasp. I felt the pulsations along the

bottom of his cock, and he began to come in my mouth. I didn't dare

swallow. I didn't want to; I was afraid it might make me sick. His cum

was jetting into my mouth, filling it up. Just when I thought I wouldn't

be able to hold any more, his spasms tapered off.

George held his cock in my mouth as it softened. Then he pulled my face

right up to his body, sealing my lips.

"Swallow it! Swallow."

I thought I was going to be sick. But there was nothing I could do. I

tried opening my lips, but he just pressed my face harder into his crotch.

"Come on, tramp. Swallow it!"

I swallowed. And again.

"Okay, little Brianella. You're a real girl now. A girl that sucks guys'

cocks. A little cocksucking girl." He released me. "Here. Lick it

clean."

I put my lips back on it and sucked the last drops of cum off the head.

"You're my own slutty little cocksucking girl now. Brianella. Nellie!

That's what your name is going to be up here. Nellie." He started tucking

his penis back into his pants. "From now on, you're going to do this for

me any time I want you to, Nellie. And I'm going to want it a lot."

As he zipped his fly, he said, "Next time I want you to wear your panties.

Next time you're going to strip down and suck me off wearing nothing but

your panties. Got that? You're a little girl and little girls wear

panties."

"Not on gym days," I objected.

"Every day," he said. "You can change in the john before gym if you don't

want the guys in gym to know what a little girl you are. And you can

change back after."

So that's what I did. A couple of times each week George would lie in wait

for me on my way home from school, and I would climb up in the loft with

him and suck him off, wearing nothing but my panties. George always talked

to me while I was sucking him, calling me Nellie, calling me a fairy and a

slut, calling me his little sex-girl and calling my mouth a cunt. It took

me a couple of months before I began to admit to myself how much I loved

these sessions. The first inkling was one afternoon when I expected to run

into George--it had been three days since our last encounter--and he didn't

show up. I was disappointed, and I realized with a shock that I had been

*looking forward* to sucking him off. Why it took me so long to realise

this, I don't know, because evenings after I had been with George I would

masturbate, remembering what it had been like with him.

And George was right. I was his little cocksucking girl. And once I knew

that and realized that I *liked* being his little cocksucking girl, I set

myself to become the best cocksucker I could. I don't know whether he ever

got blow jobs from Barbara. I kind of doubt it, because she somehow didn't

strike me as the kind of girl who would do that, although you never know.

But I was going to make sure he got better blow jobs from me than he ever

could from Barbara, or from any other female girl. I was going to be the

best, the hottest girl he ever had.

George devised a further refinement. He had me bring a selection of my

girl's undies and leave them in the loft, hidden in one of the boxes. Then

he would have me strip and put on various garments. He also got some kind

of padded blanket or quilt from somewhere, so we could lie down for sex.

Barbara, of course, knew nothing of all this. She was still supplying me

with things to wear, stockings and pantyhose as well as panties, and I told

her that I had a hiding place for them. I didn't tell her that the hiding

place was a box in George's loft.

Barb would ask me sometimes what I wanted and buy it for me. This was the

way I got my black bra and panties, almost like the ones I had worn with

the evening gown. The evening when I put them on for her was memorable,

because the panties were silk, or satin, or something like that, and the

combination of the color and the smooth texture drove me wild.

Once, when she asked me what I wanted, I fished out a catalog for her.

Victoria's Secret, I think it was. I pointed to a teddy I had seen there--

black and lacy, with long ruffled garter straps on it.

"Oh, Brian, that's *terrific*," Barbara exclaimed. Her voice dropped; it

got a low and sexy sound that it often had when she and I were playing

dressup. "You'd look adorable in that. But it's so expensive. I can't

get you that. Look at the price!"

I handed her the money. "I know it is," I said. "I'll pay for it. I've

saved up. Just get it for me. Or one like it. Please."

What I didn't tell her was that I wanted it for George. The moment I had

seen that teddy in the catalog, I knew I wanted to suck George off wearing

it.

And I did. I brought it over to George's place in an old paper bag. I

showed it to him, holding it up in front of my body, and his jaw dropped.

This must have been the first time that he realized that I was as much into

these sex sessions as he was.

"Oh, man! Oh, man!" he kept exclaiming. "C'mon, Nellie girl, get into it

and do me!"

I put it on and lay back on the improvised mattress-quilt, striking a girl-

ish pose I had seen on a model in the Victoria's Secret catalog. George

was upon me in an instant, stripped to his briefs, straddling my chest, and

pushing his cock into my mouth.

Two days later George was waiting for me again. When we went up into

the loft, I had a surprise. There were two other guys up there already.

George turned to me.

"Welcome to the club, Nellie. This is the Nellie Club, and you're the

guest of honor. This is Andy and this is Fred. Go get that thing,

whaddaya call it, that teddy, and put it on.... Guys, wait till you see

this!"

I knew what was coming and was excited. This was *really* being a girl!

I was going to be a girl for these three guys! I went and got the teddy

and put it on; then I put on a pair of black nylons and clipped them onto

the garter straps. Then I put just a touch of lipstick on my lips. The

guys were naked by the time I was ready; they gave me a chorus of whistles

when they saw how I looked.

Well...this is the story of my crossdressing, not of my sexual adventures,

so I'll just draw the curtain over the scene that followed. Let's just say

that they were *very* satisfied with their girl, and that their girl was

*wonderfully* satisfied with them. I ended up with cum all over my face.

My teddy was quite thoroughly mussed up by the time we were through, and my

stockings were in tatters, but it had been worth it! This was the first of

many meetings of the Nellie Club, whose membership grew over time, and they

were always thrilling.

My initiation into girlhood was complete. I was never going to need

surgery, I was never going to need hormones. All I would ever need was

a pretty dress and a nice man to use me.

Princess Pervette

August, 1996

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