There was nothing I feared more than discovery. The thought of my secret being revealed had haunted me almost as long as I could remember. Like most TVs, I'd begun voguing in early childhood. Even then, I'd known it was something which had to be concealed at all costs. Cross-dressing is an activity which carries as much shame as it does joy. Part of it is the guilt imposed on the practice by mainstream society, but mostly, it's the overwhelming potential for exposure. And exposure is inevitable. Despite all the safeguards, escape routes and precautions you take to evade detection, you're going to be found out. One day, you'll miscalculate your margin for error. It may be a window left open, a scrap of black lace lying forgotten on the floor, or an insignificant lapse in your normal routine. The circumstances are largely irrelevant. Whatever the reasons, your secret is going to be disclosed. It's unavoidable. The subsequent humiliation is nothing short of devastating. It has to be the transvestite's worst nightmare.
Of course, I'd forgotten that I was no longer a transvestite.
Hearing Mum's voice raised in counterfeit rage, I forgot everything that had happened over the past thirty minutes. Suddenly, I was a boy again, standing in the back room of our big colonial-style house in Summerhill. Eighteen year-old Benny Woodridge, high school senior and part-time sales assistant. Benny Woodridge; art school reject and complete romantic failure. Benny Woodridge; cross-dresser, auto-voyeur, and all round-sexual deviant, decked out in his Mother's underwear.
Her exclusive designer underwear, to be precise.
"Mummy!!" I cried, almost falling over myself as I swung around to face her, "Mummy, I ... I was just -" the words trailed off, my brain clicked into panic mode. How in God's name could I explain this?!
"Don't worry, I know what you're doing", she cut me off good-naturedly, "not as if it's the first time I've caught you trying on my lingerie."
She came towards me rolling her eyes in feigned exasperation, like a long-suffering parent dealing with a spoilt child. She was wearing the same blue jeans and printed top she'd worn in earlier in the day (although the colours seemed somehow richer). She advanced on me in quick, businesslike strides, her freshly blow-dried hair bouncing about her shoulders.
"You ... you know?" I asked incredulously. Her words didn't make sense. She'd never seen me dressed (or undressed) as a girl before. If she'd had even the slightest suspicion, she'd never dropped so much as a single hint. For my part, I'd been meticulously thorough in covering my tracks for more than a decade. It was an obsession which bordered on paranoia. She couldn't have known.
"How did ... how did you find out?" I stammered in a breathless, little-girl lisp.
"Don't play coy," she answered, seemingly oblivious of my rising hysteria, "you've been raiding my wardrobe since you turned fourteen".
She halted a few feet away, hands planted resolutely on her hips. Scrutinising my trim, shapely thighs, she shook her head ruefully. I began to wilt before that critical stare, almost collapsing with embarrassment. I placed both hands over my panties in a desperate - and wholly unsuccessful - attempt to bury the evidence.
"Mummy, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -" I started, feeling my face blazing the colour of a maraschino cherry.
"I've told you before", Mummy interrupted dismissively, "you can borrow my dresses any time you like, but my underwear drawers are strictly off-limits."
Reaching out faster than I could react, she took me by the arms and spun me around so I was facing the mirrors. My jaw dropped as I caught sight of myself once more: a slim, frail girl clad in little more than a whisper and a prayer. I looked like a child playing dress-ups with her Mother's corset and garters. Much younger than my eighteen years anyway. Thirteen, fourteen at the most.
(Oh Christ Oh god, I'm NOT a boy, I'm a WOMAN; no I'm a GIRL; NO I'm a LITTLE girl)
"Did you really think I'd let you wear that to Aunt Leisa's?" Mummy was saying. She leaned over my shoulder, pointing to my reflection: "you're barely out of high school, Bianca. Now take off that ensemble before you tear the material. Those stockings alone cost over two hundred dollars. Dior originals."
Her fingers touched my spine, settling between the shoulder blades. A moment later, my bra went loose as she unclipped the back strap with a classic one-hand snap. I stiffened in surprise, a cold thrill swept through my midriff, making my breasts jiggle gaily in the mirror. My hands flew up to catch the brassiere before the cups fell too far.
"MUMMY!!" I cried in alarm, "what are you DOING?!!" But I already knew what she was doing. She was undressing me, peeling away my fragile dignity in successive layers. The way she usually did whenever she caught me rifling through her panty drawer (which was crazy, because this was the first time it had ever happened). I gaped in the mirror, eyes bulging until they seemed to fill half my face.
"A little late for false modesty isn't it?" Mummy laughed as she removed the bra and dropped it over the arm of the sofa nearby, "I must've seen you naked at least a million times." Again, her words confused me. Mum hadn't seen me nude since I was - what? Eight? Nine? But this woman wasn't my Mum, was she? And I wasn't Benny Woodridge any more. My name was - what had she called me - Brenda? Bianca? Yes, that was it; Bianca.
All of this streaked through my mind between two heartbeats. There was more: images and memories poised to swirl up from my subconscious. Thousands upon thousands of them; thoughts and words and recollections of a childhood I'd never lived. A veritable tornado of information. Far too much to process under the circumstances. Particularly since I was virtually swooning with anticipation.
My Mother was disrobing me in the middle of the Studio.
She was placing my ripening young body on open exhibition, displaying my lush, round breasts before the picture windows. Wailing in protest, I placed my fingertips over my nipples, gasping as the cool morning air whickered around them. I had never felt so exhilarated in my entire life. Yes, that's what I said: exhilarated. There was shame, doubt and a touch of disgrace; but there was also excitement. Excitement verging on arousal.
Here I was, a beautiful teenaged girl wearing nothing but a black lace garter-belt and a pair of flimsy, red-trimmed panties (and stockings, of course, two hundred dollar Dior originals many women would have killed for). I couldn't lift my eyes to the mirror, knowing how small and defenceless I must have looked. Forget the fact that most of my fantasies revolved around panty parades and public exhibitions. This was different; indescribably different. All the years I'd spent lolling about in my satin daydreams, I had never imagined that being relieved of my underwear could be so erotic. This was no fantasy. This was reality, and there was nothing virtual about it.
"Mummy, I can undress myself!" I complained, looking back over my shoulder, "I'm not a baby, you know!!"
"You're my baby", she replied offhand, her words bringing on an eerie burst of deja vu, "now stop wriggling your hips and hold still." However, before I could consider the Twilight Zone implications of her last remark, I felt her fingers looping through the waistband of my thong. A rush of gooseflesh spilled over my bare shoulders as I realised what she was about to do:
(she's going to PULL my PANTS down!!)
"MOMMA!!" I squealed in horror, "STOP IT!! DON'T!! I can get changed UPSTAIRS!!" But Mummy wouldn't hear of it. She had too much invested in this outfit (which had cost her close on a thousand dollars) to allow it to leave the Studio, much less entrust it to her daughter's inept care.
"No, you'll get changed down here, little girl. That's the price you pay for sneaking around behind my back." She slid the panties down with both hands, rippling the lace against my inner thighs. I inhaled sharply, caught entirely off guard by this impromptu striptease. I risked a glance in the mirror, compelled by an impulse I couldn't resist.
It was ironic: I'd never seen a girl this naked before.
Yes, I'd had my share of centrefolds and videos and sleazy porn sites on the internet, but they were so obviously contrived that I'd never had much interest in them. This was different. This was real flesh, immediate and voluptuous. I wasn't simply looking at a girl, I was a girl; and the experience filled every one of my senses.
I stood with my palms crossed over my tiny blond pubic thatch, gasping like a fish while Mummy lowered the thong over my knees. I shimmied my thighs automatically, watching in fascination as they dropped lightly to my ankles. My pale, ivory skintones had deepened to the colour of a ripe strawberry, my dark, throbbing nipples were jutting out almost an inch from each breast. The suspender belt was way too tight, bulging out the soft tissue on either side of my waistline.
The thong was now coiled around my heels. Mummy patted my right leg just above the back of the knee, a signal I recognised instinctively, as if I'd been doing this all my life. I stepped carefully out of the panties, one foot at a time. Mummy draped them over the sofa, then turned back to me, beaming in parental amusement.
"Alright, you can take off the garter-belt too," she instructed, absently gesturing towards my belly button, "and be careful with the stockings. Run a ladder through those and you'll be paying me back until Thanksgiving - next year."
Hesitating only a few seconds, I followed her directions, bending over to unclipped the suspenders. I had to bite my lip to suppress a fit of the giggles. I can't begin to explain how terribly embarrassing this was, taking off every snip of clothing in front of my mother. My tummy tingled with warm, liquid pleasure. She was treating me like a little girl, reducing me to the level of a helpless child. And I was enjoying it.
I dispensed with the stockings, handing them over to Mummy with a demure smile, then reached back to unhook the belt. Waves of abject humiliation were surging through my bloodstream, my heart was ready to burst like an over-inflated balloon. My hands fell away to my sides, exposing my dainty, feminine cleft. What was the point in hiding myself now? She was my mother, there was nothing I could keep secret from her. I was melting, dissolving in a torrent of ecstasy.
"OK, come on", Mummy's voice was a remote buzzing in my ear, "we don't have all day. Aunt Leisa's expecting us for lunch at one." The words didn't quite register on my consciousness. I was aware she'd spoken, but all meaning was submerged beneath a tide of corpulent delight.
Noticing my lethargy, Mummy gave me a gentle nudge towards the doorway, then followed through with a well-aimed slap to the posterior. Not a loving pat on the fanny, either. This was good, hard smack on the bottom, my reward for skulking around in her wardrobe like a thief. Instant justice: very hard, very quick and very sharp.
A white-hot star of agony exploded across my right buttock; I shrieked in hurt and surprise, leaping forward at least three feet. The pain was immense, unspeakable, streaking halfway down my thigh like a bolt of lightening. I whirled around with a yelp, covering my fanny with both hands. She had SPANKED me!! I gaped at her in red faced shock. I couldn't believe it. She hadn't punished me like that since I was ten. Yet here I was, small, naked, eighteen years old - and she had SPANKED me!!
On the bottom!!
"Mummy!! That HURT!!!"
"It'll hurt a lot more if you keep us late", she replied, both eyes sparkling with warm-hearted threat, "now run upstairs and get dressed. I've laid your clothes out on the bed."
She started walking towards me, still smiling that gentle, indulgent smile, and I understood that she wasn't kidding. No, she was deadly serious: if I delayed my departure another two seconds, she'd put me over her knee and paddle my bare cheeks as if I were no more than six years old. No excuses, no questions, no second chances. And worst of all - there would be nothing I could do to prevent it.
Voicing a little scream, I turned and fled for the door, my hair whipping out in blond streamers. I scampered across the carpet like a frightened doe, a vivid, scarlet hand-print pulsing on my sleek, round haunch. Oh dear God, how it stung, how it throbbed, a burning reminder of my juvenile status in the domestic hierarchy. Yet despite my searing discomfort, I was giggling. High and sweet and carelessly. I could hear my laughter echoing off the walls as I approached the staircase. Why was I laughing? No idea. Maybe I was hysterical. Maybe I'd finally lost my mind. Or maybe I was happy. Happier than I'd ever thought possible. An hour ago, I'd been male; a big, lumpish boy fumbling around in his mother's underpants. Now, I was a naked alabaster nymph gliding past a dozen open windows, my perfect body gleaming in the late morning sunshine.
I hit the stairs at a full run. This had indeed been a day of revelations.
To be continued...
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