Wouldn't it be wonderful if your mother left you alone in the house with her magic closet?|
Copyright Transfemme 2002. All rights reserved. Permission granted for internet publication.
There was a light April breeze gusting up the driveway as I helped my mother load the bags into her '57 Chevrolet. Mum had been a Chevy girl since her sophomore years, back when Elvis was still young and beautiful and the Beatles were playing art school socials in Liverpool. She'd aged well through the intervening decades, looking no more than thirty due to her fine bone structure and trim, svelte figure. People often told me I got my looks from her, right down to the opal-green eyes and platinum blond hair.
"You sure you'll be OK here all alone?" Mum asked as I passed a well-packed hamper through to the back seat, "I'll be gone for more than a week this time." Always the sceptic in matters of the heart, she was fretting that I'd be the victim of a home invasion or something while she was off spending Easter at Aunt Lizzie's.
"I'll be fine," I replied for the umpteenth time, straightening my spine with a series of audible clicks. That hamper had been heavier than I'd expected. "Stop fussing, Mum, I'm not a baby any more."
"You're my baby", she replied, brushing my hand with a feather-light touch, "and this'll be longest we've been apart, since ... well, I just don't like leaving you here by yourself. Sure you won't come out to Lakecrest with me? Elsie's looking forwards to seeing you again."
This last statement chilled the marrow in my bones. Mum's Aunt Lizzie was the stuff of nightmares; a woman whose merest glance could reduce grown men to quivering orthodontists. Then there was my cousin Elsie, a socially challenged cyber-geek with coke-bottle glasses and an eating disorder. Dinner with Dr Hannibal Lecter was preferable to a week with Mad Lizzie Woodridge and her nerdlinger daughter.
Besides, I had other plans for the vacation.
"Sorry, Mum - I've got that history report due after the break," I answered, trying to hide my impatience, "Connie Radcliffe's coming over on Thursday to exchange notes, and I can't let her down, can I?"
"No, I guess you can't," Mum agreed thoughtfully, "in the meantime, Connie Radcliffe will be spending Easter with her own family; hunting easter eggs, eating home cooked meals ..."
"Jeez, Mum, I'm not going to starve", I interrupted, almost writhing with exasperation, "you left me enough of those frozen dinners to last six months. I'm eighteen years old, I won't burn down the kitchen. I know how to look after myself."
"Yes, I know," she said, stroking my cheek warmly enough to make me shrink with guilt, "I just can't help worrying. Eighteen isn't as old as you think it is, sweetheart. I'd never forgive myself if something went wrong while I was away ..."
"Nothing's going to go happen, Mum", I almost stammered, looking down at my feet. Like most teenagers, I felt totally mortified by maternal displays of affection. "I've got Aunt Lizzie's phone number inside. I promise I'll call you every night to let you know I'm OK".
"That won't be necessary, darling. I trust you." She gave me a tired, happy look and leaned forward to kiss me on the forehead. Her hair tickled my face. She had a clean, tender smell about her, a mixture of carnations and lipstick and Pond's hand lotion. A young woman-scent, much like my own. I found myself smiling, despite my overwhelming sense of embarrassment.
"Alright", she said, running her fingers through my hair, "take care of yourself. I'll phone you up on Good Friday to see how you're doing". She turned away, opened the door and pulled out her keys. "No parties, no loud music and don't stay up too late."
"Yes Mum", I replied automatically. She needn't have worried, I'd given up sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll for lent. Like I said, I had other plans for the long weekend. I stood back as she turned the key in the ignition, gunning the Chevy's engine the way she always did before a long trip.
"Have a good time with Connie," she called over the eight-cylinder roar, then fixed me with a mock-stern look: "but not too good."
I nodded enthusiastically, trying to look as innocent as possible - which, in fact, I was. Connie Radcliffe wasn't coming over to exchange notes (or bodily fluids, as Mum appeared to think). The whole story - history assignment and all - was a lie, a red herring to legitimise my absence from the Manson Family Reunion out at Lakecrest.
"Bye-Bye, honey." Mum blew me a kiss while she backed the Chevrolet down the driveway, dual exhausts humming in deep resonance. I followed her down to the street, keeping clear of the car's wide turning circle. I lifted my right hand in farewell, doing my best to look mature and trustworthy.
"Bye, Mum. Say 'hi' to Elsie for me."
"Will do." She swung away from the curb, gripping the wheel with both hands, and thundered off in hail of gravelstones and exhaust fumes. Top down, hair flying in the April slipstream, she looked maybe half her age, a precocious young cheerleader on her way to the Big Game. I stood in the street waving goodbye until the Chevy vanished over the crown of Summerhill Road ...
And literally bolted up to the house.
I was almost fainting with excitement by the time I reached the front door. It had been months since I'd had the place to myself, and I was literally trembling with expectation as I considered the day ahead of me. Locking the door with a swift, loud clack, I scampered through the living room, kicking off my sneakers without a second thought. I was free, alone to do whatever I pleased over the next ten days.
Loosening my t-shirt at the waist, I hurried past the staircase, dodging though to the main hallway. My pulse slammed into overdrive as I imagined all those delicious satin treasures closeted away in the Back Room. The walls seemed to flash by in a strobing montage of frames, prints, and fashion illustrations.
The Back Room was a spacious, two-level extension with picture windows, spotlights and high ceilings. It was festooned with pot plants, drawing tables, dressing torsos and sewing machines. Mum used it as both a design studio and a reception area when she was meeting with clients. It was a feminine, creative place, rich with her aromatic presence: scented bath oils; long departed roses; a touch of Red Door. I loved this room almost as much as I loved her.
The back wall was lined with mirrors. They dominated the studio from corner to corner, but were little more than a facade for the long, walk-in closet which housed my mother's private collection. Very few people even knew it was there, mainly because it contained the pieces she never intended to sell.
Mum's design sense leaned towards the strange and the fantastique. She often drew her inspiration from the excesses of fashion history - La Belle Epoch, French Rococo; anything with a Parisian flavour. Needless to say, it had been an absolute wonderland during my early childhood, seeding my dreams and igniting my most volatile desires. In the course of years, the Back Room had become my stage, the theatre on which I enacted my most secret fantasies.
Did Mum suspect? Possibly; there was very little she didn't know about me.
Halting by the wall of mirrors, I scrutinised my reflection critically, putting a slim hand to the back of my neck. Removing a sequined elastic binder, I allowed my thick, blond hair to cascade past my shoulders. The image in the mirror immediately began to alter. With my hair sweeping down in a shimmering arabesque, I looked small and fragile; a pretty teenaged girl in oversized blue denim.
A shiver swirled through my tummy like a dash of ice water. Quivering with delight, I threw off my t-shirt and jeans, tossing aside the meaningless vestments of my male identity. Turning back to the mirrors, I adjusted my hair to cover my slim shoulders, almost dizzy with anticipation. I felt short of breath, my thighs started to shake with high-wire tension. I was impatient to finish the change, eager to climb into my costume and begin the afternoon's performance. Stepping closer to the mirrordoor, I studied my face and figure for imperfections. There were very few, even at this range.
I was rather fortunate in this respect. Possessing a sexually ambiguous appearance, I could easily pass for female. I had the androgynous lines of the Waif, the huge, liquid eyes of the Child. My Mother once remarked - in all seriousness - that I could have modelled girls' fashions on any local catwalk. Even lingerie.
I padded over to the closet, revelling in my bare thighs, my smooth, ivory skin. It was so wonderful, so liberating, to shed my male identity. Nearly three months had passed since I'd emerged from my gendered prison; twelve agonising weeks locked in a boy's rancid body, counting off the empty, interminable days. Well, all that was finished now. Literally.
Although I didn't know it at the time, this was the very last hour I'd spend on Earth as Ben Woodridge.
Stepping through the mirrordoor was like entering a world of whispering velvet shadows. The Walk-In was my portal to another realm, a place of enchantment and silken magic, a shrine to all things feminine. For me, it would always epitomise the exotic and the mysterious; the questions I could never ask, the knowledge I could never share.
My veins were throbbing with sultry heat, my belly felt as tense as a coiled spring. Aroused, exhilarated, I wandered naked along the rows of brassieres and corsets and garter-belts and bustiers and luscious, gleaming panties, my head spinning like a vortex. I was drowning in a whirlpool of shame, bliss, and guilt.
And longing. Longing; vast and endless.
Reaching the end of that tunnel of forbidden pleasures, I arrived at the Alcove. The Alcove was my Mother's private dressing room, a little salon housing mum's favourite pieces. Over the space of maybe a hundred visits, it had become my theatre of dreams. Its charm and fascination were bound up with its essential femininity; the room was heavy with the presence of woman. I could almost taste my Mother's perfume in the pastel-print wall paper.
The Alcove was set out like a 1920s lady's boudoir, furnished with art deco lamps and trinket boxes. A small but elegant make-up table stood at the far end of the chamber, its dark, enamelled surface littered with cosmetics and picture frames. Next to the table was a hand-carved chest of drawers. It was an antique, over ninety years old according to my mother.
I knew from prior incursions that it was full of imported hosiery; French Dior stockings, Spanish thigh-highs, Italian lacetops. There was full-length mirror beside the chest and low, padded stool near my feet. Overhead, a flurry of European underwear hung from a customised clothing rack set into the wall. The Alcove resembled a high class lingerie store; tiers of shimmering unmentionables seemed to stretch off as far as the eye could see.
All mine, for the next ten days.
Reaching up, I took a black garter-belt off a clip-hanger. It was an intricate web of midnight lace, woven into complex floral patterns. Six adjustable suspenders hung from the red-trimmed belt, their cleats covered with precious scarlet bows. It was an extraordinary piece; regular belts only have four garters, but my Mother has a passion for the unusual. Needless to say, it was hauntingly beautiful.
My breath caught in my throat as I fastened the luxurious fragment into place. It sat taut against my nipped waist, a translucent strip of sheer decadence. Cool, teasing fingers seemed to drift over my naked flesh as I started toying with the straps, stretching them down to mid-thigh, then releasing them with a satisfyingly loud snap! Moistening my lips, I sank into the sweet depths of my fantasy. I could almost feel my body change and melt beneath my gently probing palms...
Surfacing for air a few minutes later, I selected a pair of tan stockings from the chest of drawers. The choice of colour was an impulse; I normally wear black denier when indulging in one of my performances. But today was unique. In some obeser way, I was becoming aware that I was crossing some sort of boundary, one I'd never realised existed until now. Placing my right foot on the padded stool, I slipped the hose over my toe and drew it carefully up my calf.
Attaching the stockings was a complicated process (particularly since the belt had an extra set of suspenders). My hands shook as I adjusted the straps into position. Cross-dressing is a kind of agony: a sweet, sensuous torment that leaves you breathless with yearning. The stockings seemed to soften the shape of my legs while accentuating their natural curvature. I smoothed them out against my thighs, tugging gently at the insubstantial material.
The racks above me were slung with lingerie of every description; slips and camies, basques and corselets, French-cuts and bikinis. Rising up on tip-toe, I started searching through the hangers for a matching set of bra and briefs, one which would complement the garter belt perfectly. A minute later, I found precisely what I wanted.
Placing the brassiere on top of the drawers, I paused to study the underwear a little more closely. They were a pair of wickedly high-cut thong panties; diaphanous black satin edged with a brazen red trim. The triangle was a mass of insolent scarlet frills, the waist band was encrusted with tiny rose petals. They looked almost insufferably naughty stretched between my fingers. And I couldn't wait a moment longer to try them on!!
A huge smile stole across my face as I bent over and stepped into the thong, wriggling my tushie as I slipped them up my slender, stockinged thighs. The lace brushed against the denier, sending a thrill through my entire nervous system. I looked into the mirror, simmering with rapture. This was the most wonderful part of my dressing ritual. Drawing on a pair of panties was like assuming an entirely new body. A soft, yielding body, pliant and sensuous.
I ran my fingers over my stomach, tracing little circles around my belly button. Lips parted in near-ecstasy, I began to undulate slowly in the mirror, my hair spilling down my chest like a blond avalanche. I closed my eyes, caressing myself with gentle, questing strokes. And once again, I experienced that sense of change - of transformation - as if my form was shifting and running beneath my fingers.
Long minutes rolled by. Time seemed to spin out into some infinite blue void, where I drifted on a sea of immeasurable joy. The whole world seemed to fold and bend around me, and for one infinite moment, I felt as though I were falling - falling so deep and fast that I would never stop. Falling, perhaps, through the finely woven mesh of the universe itself.
Drawing back from the brink of climax, I opened my eyes and leaned against the wall. Hangers clashed and fell from the rack; I ignored them. I was breathless with exhaustion. Large indigo flowers seemed bloom across my field of vision. I willed my pulse down to a more acceptable level, gradually collecting my wits. What in God's name had just happened to me? I'd visited the Alcove at least a dozen times over the last two years, and although I'd often felt its subtle magic, the sensation had never been this ... intense.
The mirror continued to hover beside the antique chest, daring me to peer into its crystal depths one more time. And I did.
I was beautiful. More beautiful than I'd ever imagined, more beautiful than a boy has the right to be. A delicate, rose tint suffused my face, neck and shoulders. My lips looked darker than maraschino cherries. My eyes were wide, glittering emeralds flecked with diamond highlights. My trim, girlish figure seemed to have altered in the Alcove's muted atmosphere. Arms a little rounder, waist a little thinner, hips a little wider. Even my features - effeminate though they already were - seemed to have softened into an ageless, childlike pout.
If only I could look this way all the time, I thought wistfully, picking up the brassiere and sliding my arms through the straps. I'd wanted to be a girl most of my life, and I would have traded almost anything to have my wish granted. That was my concept of paradise, the image I took to bed with me every night: to suddenly wake up young, female and stunningly attractive. What more could a boy possibly want?
Reaching back, I clipped the bra into place, then made some minor adjustments across the chest and shoulders. Like the panties, it was a tight fit - far more constrictive than I'd expected. Mum was a small lady, never having worn anything bigger than an A-cup so far as I new. Nonetheless, her brassieres usually hung limp across my flat chest. By contrast, this one felt at least two sizes too small.
Still watching myself in the mirror, I swept my hair back over my shoulder to give myself an unobstructed view of the brassiere - and everything else I was wearing, of course. Striking a catwalk pose, I planted my hands on my hips and admired my reflection from a variety of angles.
The girl looking back at me was utterly breathtaking.
Her long, shapely legs bent slightly inward at the knees, their supple length exaggerated by the tense black suspenders. The red lace trimming the garter belt was garishly bright, as were the frills on her flimsy little panties. And strangely, in the dim lamplight of the Alcove, she seemed to have pert, ripening breasts filling out the low-cut bra she wore. The illusion was faultless. I was looking at a pretty teenaged girl in her underwear. No - I was a pretty teenaged girl in my underwear.
And yet, at the same time, the girl in the mirror wasn't me, not exactly.
Her face was captivating. Coy, tender, and totally innocent, the face of a Botticelli Venus. Her eyes were pools of demure laughter. She smiled, her teeth flashing brilliantly in the mirrored darkness, and I suddenly knew she wasn't as innocent as I'd first supposed. No: she was naughty, terribly naughty, and she revelled in it. I watched, fascinated, as she dropped me a teasing, little-girl wink, the kind that could bring a grown man to his knees. She was the most mischievous creature I'd ever seen, standing there in her bra and panties and nebulous tan stockings.
I turned completely sideways, examining myself in profile.
And realised something was wrong.
No - not something.
The girl in the mirror had breasts.
It wasn't a trick of the light; some hallucination sparked by adolescent daydreams and a rush of endorphins. Two small, perfectly formed breasts were straining the underwire cups to the breaking point. Smooth, alabaster flesh overflowed the flimsy black lace. My mouth gaped in open astonishment, my hands flew up to confirm what my mind simply couldn't accept.
I had breasts.
"Oh dear GOD!!" I cried in alarm, stepping away from the mirror. There was no mistake. My hands were fondling a pair of lush, firm orbs; I could feel their engorged tips swelling against my fingers. How could I have missed them before?! I should have noticed while I was putting on the bra, easing myself into the cups and re-adjusting the shoulder straps. It wasn't the kind of thing a teenaged boy could ignore - even a cross-dresser like myself. Breasts don't grow on trees, and they certainly don't bloom on pubescent males, no matter how effeminate they happen to be. My head was reeling in confusion. This was crazy. I was crazy, I must have been.
But I wasn't. Somehow, I knew I wasn't losing my sanity. This was really happening. I had undergone some kind of metamorphosis, right here in my Mother's dressing room. My entire body had transformed, altered - right down to the width of my hips, the texture of my skin, the contours of my lips ...
And a rather unpleasant thought occurred to me. A notion so frightening that I could barely bring myself to consider it.
"Mother of God", I whispered, looking down.
Standing closer to the make-up table, I lowered both hands to my panties, gingerly hooking my thumbs through the hipstraps. There really was no other alternative. Sooner or later, I would have to find out how extensive the transition had been, whether I'd become completely female in every sense of the word. There were, of course, a thousand other questions crowding my mind, but they'd have to wait. Right now, there was nothing more important than this. I had to know.
Still, I hesitated. The implications were overwhelming. What if my fears were right? What would I do? How could I explain this to Mum (Mummy) when she returned from Aunt Lizzie's (Leisa's)? Maybe she wouldn't even recognise me - nobody would, I'd changed so much. No one would believe my story, they'd call me a liar, a freakshow. I'd end up in a padded cell! Things were happening too fast; I wasn't prepared for this. Only five minutes before, I had wished for just such a miracle (if only I could look this way all the time), but right now, faced with the possibility that I might be trapped in a female body ...
I was afraid.
I wavered back and forth, trying to find a solution, and alternative, a way out of this insurmountable paradox. There was none. I was paralysed with fear, shaking on the verge of tears. Why had this happened to me? All I'd wanted was a holiday from myself, a chance to act out a few of my idle fancies. I was a boy for God's sake, a boy! I didn't want to be a girl!!
(yes, you do)
(no I DONT)
(yes you do: if only I could look this way all the time)
Inhaling a long, steadying breath, I stared into the mirror and began to ease my panties down. My heart was thundering in my throat (though with excitement or terror, I couldn't tell). The frilled waistband slipped down my hips with infinite slowness, revealing the truth an inch at a time. The newly exposed skin was very pale, almost white. I could see the traces of a bikini line curving down my lower belly.
I stood very, very still, hardly daring to breath. An inexplicable sense of calm was descending over me. I took the panties down another inch, revealing a haze of silky, blond pubic hair - so fine and downy as to be virtually invisible. From this distance I looked nude, untouched. Below this, the ivory flesh folded over into a tiny, dimpled cleft - pure, pristine, and absolutely virginal. And that was all I needed to see. I could already feel my features tainting with a fine, pink blush.
I was a girl.
I sat down on Mummy's make-up chair - an unobtrusive art-deco piece I'd never noticed before - and tried to make sense of what I'd just seen. Sliding my panties back into place, I felt drained, numb. My former panic had subsided into vacant shock. Something impossible had happened, something devoid of rational explanation. I should have been devastated, hysterical, yet all I felt was a listless torpor, bordering on indifference. Ten minutes ago, I'd been a boy. Now, in violation of all logic, I was a girl.
(and your point is ...?)
Perhaps I was simply thunderstruck - incapable of expressing any emotion. This was a revelation beyond all sanity, and my young mind had shut down, unable to deal with the conundrum. Maybe all my systems had overloaded at once, causing an intellectual short circuit. Well, whatever the circumstances, my trepidation seemed to have vanished as swiftly as it had appeared, along with the confusion and anxiety.
So I sat and waited. Switching off the lamps, I hovered in the darkness, breathing through a girl's lips. I gradually became aware of my body - my female body - as my pulse slowed and tranquillity began to flow through my veins like a cool, soothing balm. I could feel every inch of my form: the sensuous flow of my belly, the fleshy hollow at the base of my throat, the gentle throb of my nipples. And as the minutes trickled by like sweet molasses, I realised that I was not completely without emotion. Beneath my arctic detachment was a small geyser of warmth so subtle I hadn't recognised its existence until that moment.
It was relief.
I stood up, automatically checking my stockings, and stepped away from the make-up table. Despite the dread I'd experienced only ten minutes before, I was relieved. The miserable, crushing weight of manhood had been eliminated; decades of frustrated anguish and self-loathing erased in a single morning. No more guilt, no more shame, no more slinking around the house like a pervert. I didn't need to pretend any more. The masquerade was over.
Leaving the Alcove, I made my way back through the quietly rustling tunnel of the walk-in. It flashed through my mind that the closet seemed to have doubled its length since I first stepped inside. It was an optical illusion of course, must have been. The mirror set at the far end gave the walk-in a impression of great distance; rows and racks sweeping off into infinity (then again, the ceilings seemed higher too, and there were no mirrors mounted up there ...).
I didn't give these spatial distortions much thought, however. I felt free, deliciously free and uninhibited. Unencumbered by the burden of a masculinity I'd never understood, my mood shifted once more. Relief turned swiftly to euphoria; I'd been liberated from my gendered prison, casting aside my false masculinity as easily as a snake sloughs its skin. The shackles were off.
The possibilities seemed endless. I would finally know the joy of being a woman. An entirely new world was opening for me; a world previously denied by an accident of birth. I was a girl; young and beautiful by any standards, and I could do anything I chose. Naturally, there would be problems to deal with; questions to ask and answers to seek - but those were concerns for tomorrow. Today, I would rejoice.
Thus, I emerged from the closet.
Taking two steps into the Studio, I froze in mid-stride, bewildered for the second time that morning. The (back)room looked bigger. No, not just bigger - gigantic. The dimensions had altered; space itself had expanded, thrusting out in all directions. I shook my head in mute astonishment - the room had been enormous to begin with: now it was colossal, the size of a city block. Picture windows loomed as tall as skyscrapers, pot plants waved their ferny heads below an impossibly remote ceiling. The carpet beneath my feet ran off as wide and open as an Olympic stadium.
(carpet?? We don't have carpet in the Back Room!!)
(yes we do. We've always had carpet in the Studio)
(no, we DON'T!!)
Pushing those nagging, conflicting voices to the back of my head, I continued to scan around the Studio, the Back Room, whatever it was now. The whole place looked unfamiliar. Things had been shifted, displaced. The furniture had been moved, ever so slightly. The curtains had been replaced by slimline blinds. Looking towards Mummy's work space, I noticed a brand new IMac, a garish lavender monstrosity complete with all the peripherals, seated proudly on an Ikea computer desk. This was unbelievable - my Mother had never touched a computer in her life, refused to even consider the option.
Even the light was different - sharper, brighter, more vibrant. Flooding in through four skylights (which hadn't been there an hour ago), it was a brilliant, midday radiance, not the ruddy gold of an April morning. The Studio's wallpaper blazed in the eye like a Surrealist painting, demanding and strident. The room was virtually dripping with fluorescence, burning with summer fire.
In fact, there were colours I'd never seen before in my life - hues and pigments for which I had no name. I gazed around, slack jawed with amazement. My visual abilities had been jacked-up, amplified a thousand fold. Later, much later, I would understand this apparent miracle, but standing there watching the walls stream with iridescence, I was mesmerised with awe. I felt as though I'd been blind since birth, and my sight had been restored in a welter of dazzling colour.
Then something caught my eye which drove all thought of the visible human spectrum from my mind.
There was a hamper sitting on Mummy's work table. An Easter hamper, much the same as the one she'd bought for Aunt Lizzie (Leisa). I walked over to the table, telling myself this couldn't be right. Despite everything else that had happened this morning, I was reluctant to accept this one small discrepancy. It couldn't be the same hamper. I'd loaded it into the Chevrolet (Caddillac) less than half an hour ago. Damned near slipped a disk putting it in the back seat, I remembered that much at least.
And yet here it was, bulking out the work table with its kitschy cellophane wrapping and its gaudy pink ribbons; an oversized basinet stuffed with chocolate eggs, preserved meats, glazed fruit and a hundred little delicacies that only a certified lunatic like Aunt Leisa (Lizzie?) could possibly appreciate. I shook my head, thoroughly perplexed by this violation of the laws of cause and effect.
Perhaps I should have seen it coming. We aren't in Kansas anymore, Toto. I'd walked through the wardrobe and found another world (except my closet hadn't led to some place where it was always winter but never Christmas, not by a long shot). This wasn't my home, wasn't even my universe as it turned out. I should have listened to the duelling voices in my head, should have read the signs and known what to expect.
But I didn't. It was too early for such revelations. I'd only been female for a matter of minutes, and yet my libido had taken a quantum leap into overdrive. My dreams were coming true. The mystery of the hamper could wait another day. Another ten, in fact; Mummy was well on her way to Lakecrest and I had a girl's body to play with for the next week and a half. Who gives a toss about Aunt Leisa's Easter Basket? The performance of the century was about to begin, and I was the star attraction.
Dismissing the morning's events from my thoughts, I wandered back over to the wall of mirrors. I had to investigate myself at extreme close range, map out this uncharted territory with hand and eye and softly roving finger. My temperature began to rise once more. Sultry images invaded my imagination: scenes I'd never pictured before that instant. I'd never felt so aroused in my life - this would be the ultimate physical transgression. I would ravish myself, touching and stroking and teasing until I passed out.
Fortunately, I was dressed for the occasion.
Smiling deliciously, I replaced a fallen bra-strap over my bare shoulder, then made some microscopic adjustments to my panties. I could actually feel the waist band stretched lightly across my tummy (a not wholly unpleasant sensation, truth be told). The garter-belt lay against my waist, hiding my belly button behind a flaunting of black lace. I was completely absorbed in my lingerie, entranced by its seductive beauty. I didn't hear the footsteps tapping down the staircase on the other side of the house. I didn't hear them approaching the Studio, a firm determined tread echoing down the main corridor. I didn't even hear the door open behind me as she entered the room trailing a cloud of Red Door.
All I heard was her voice: high, clear and underscored with dry amusement:
"And what do you think you're doing, young lady?"
To be continued.
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TG crossdressing college-age caught magic