Becoming Bethany

by Heidi-Jo McGillicuddy's

  

I awoke quite well rested the next morning, nestled in my cocoon of so much soft white chiffon, nylon and lace. I could smell breakfast being made out in the kitchen. "Lisa?" I called.

She entered the bedroom carrying a cup of coffee. "Good morning, sweetie," she said. "How do you feel?"

I extended my hairless arms to accept the cup and saucer from her. "Different," I said.

"Pretty?"

I considered this as I sipped my coffee in my nightie with the ruffled shoulder straps. "Kind of."

"You silly," she teased. "When you're ready, put on your peignoir and come out to breakfast."

What I needed to do was pee. As soon as she left, I got out of bed and swirled over to the bathroom, pulling up several feet of filmy material to stand at the toilet. Afterwards, I looked at myself in the mirror.

I looked like a boy in a nightgown. Without breasts, the masculine outline of my upper torso was unmistakable--as if my face wasn't a dead giveaway! My arms, while not overly muscular, still looked beefy in the sleeveless garment. I wondered if I would look better in the peignoir.

I turned the peignoir over a couple of times before I managed to locate the delicate sleeves and insert my arms. They were quite roomy, and not quite opaque; when I tied the little satin string around my waist, the outline of the lace bodice was still visible. Still, my arms looked much better draped with the luxurious white material, especially the way my hairless wrists emerged from the wide lacy cuffs.

"You've got it on backwards, sweetie," Lisa said from behind me.

"What do you mean?" I asked, turning around.

She untied the string. "You tied the right side over the left side. Like a boy would. Girls," she said, pulling the left side of the peignoir so that it overlapped the right side," always do it the other way."

"Why?" I asked, as she tied a perfect bow around my waist.

"Because we're not boys," she said, smiling demurely. "Breakfast is ready."

Fortunately, breakfast was relatively light--muffins and juice. I say this because sitting across from Lisa, draped in such sensual fabric, I soon was overcome with a urge to do something besides eat…

"Go take a shower," Lisa said afterwards, as we lay in bed all tangled up in each others nighties.

"Again?"

"You need to completely wash away the smell of pizza and Right Guard," she said. "And shave your face again while you're in there, but use the new shave gel."

I complied with her instructions, lathering up my face with pink shaving gel and shampooing with the velvet tuberose.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, Lisa was already dressed in a sweater and skirt, scurrying around the bedroom as though on a mission. "Are you ready?" I asked her.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

I took a deep breath. "I'm all yours."

"I know that, but are you ready?" She winked. "I thought we'd start off with something very basic," she said.

"O.K.," I said, wondering what that meant exactly.

She handed me a pair of white panties. I stepped into them and pulled them up. They felt wonderful, but looked, um…not quite right on me.

"We'll fix that later," she said, handing me a bra.

I noticed that these items were brand new, and more or less fit me. They certainly weren't hers. I lined up the crème colored bra cups over my non existent breasts and felt Lisa at the small of my back, pulling the ends together and hooking them.

"Are we going to stuff my socks in this again?" I asked, reminding her of what I had used for a bustline with my Southern Belle gown.

"No, sweetie," she said absently, walking back into my line of vision holding something beige and rubbery looking. She pulled out an empty bra cup and jammed the object inside. I looked down at it. It was apparently a breast form--I'd never actually seen one before--and the back of it was slightly tacky. When Lisa had it in place, she let go of it, and I suddenly felt what must have been a feminine heaviness pulling my posture slightly forward and increasing the tension on the bra straps over my shoulders.

When she put the second form in, she told me, "Now remember, when you stand, you're going to need to arch your spine and hold your shoulders further back than you normally do. It will be easier once you have the waist cincher on."

"Is that anything like a corset?" I asked.

It was. It stretched around my midsection and attached together by a series of hooks. "I know you're not fat or anything, sweetie," Lisa said, "but will give you a little…um…help."

I took her word for it, as I managed to hook the last set of hooks and attempted to inhale.

"Shoulders back, sweetie," Lisa reminded me, as she handed me a white blouse. "And remember what I said about the left side going over the right side?"

"My left or your left?" I asked, taking the blouse from her. It was soft, yet crisp--the usual feminine contradiction.

"It buttons the opposite way, sweetie," she said.

I knew this, of course. For years I'd been studying women in blouses and the way they buttoned the other way for no better reason than…that's how girls were used to buttoning. But I had pretended to not notice such details, for no better reason than…guys weren't supposed to notice such distinctions. The fact that I knew this womanly information, however, only made me different from other guys, and even standing before Lisa as I was in panties, a bra, waist cincher and breast forms, part of me still didn't want her thinking I was that different.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Are you sure this is what you want?" I asked.

"What I want?" she exclaimed. "Let me ask you--is this what you want?"

"Kind of," I admitted.

"So why not do it?"

"I don't want it to change anything between us," I said.

She looked at me sadly. "That's up to you then," she said. "Don't you trust me?"

I thought about that. Then, I held up the blouse, found the armholes, and stuck my hands in them.

At first, I thought maybe it was one of Lisa's blouses, and too small for me. I didn't recognize it as one of hers, but as I got my hands through the sleeves, the cuffs seemed to snag on my forearms. "It's not fitting," I was saying as I pulled the blouse around my shoulders.

"Yes it is," Lisa told me. "They're three-quarter length sleeves."

She was right. I studied in wonderment the crisp white cuffs that now circled my hairless forearms halfway between my wrists and elbows. They buttoned with not one, but two little buttons. "Cute, right?" Lisa asked.

"Yeah, I said as I began buttoning up the front. Buttoning the opposite way wasn't all that difficult, but the blouse was somewhat snugger than I was used to wearing. However, the material had a very slight, yet comfortable stretch to it, and was very pleasant against my skin. I got it buttoned up just past my bra, where the buttons abruptly stopped; apparently I would be wearing this blouse open-collared.

"Wow," Lisa gushed. "I knew it would fit you, but I didn't know how well it would fit you. Go look!"

I walked over to the mirror. My panties were now slightly and suggestively half-covered by the hem of the blouse, but more importantly, the cut of the blouse had enhanced my upper torso in a markedly flattering and feminine manner. Delicate little seams traced vertically down from my bust and over my cincher, causing the blouse to taper girlishly at the waist. I turned around, and additional seaming up my back also caused the tails of the blouse to curve outward over my hips. I also noticed how the telltale horizontal outline of my bra strap was plainly visible between the two seams.

I looked back at Lisa. She was tearing open a bright pink plastic packet that undoubtedly contained pantyhose. I'd seen her do this plenty of time before--it was, I noted, her preferred brand, but something told me that these weren't in her size.

"I know you've watched me put these on before," she said.

I nodded, took the pantyhose from her, and wordlessly walked over to sit on the bed. As I bunched up the leg of the hosiery as I'd seen her do often, I leaned forward and felt my breast forms gently pushing the soft white material of my blouse onto my shaved, naked thighs, and I shivered. Then I gingerly placed one foot into the leg of the hose, aligned the seam at the end along my toes, pulled it up to my knees, then repeated the process with the other foot.

Finally I stood, pulling the panty part of the pantyhose up under my blouse and over my panties. Lisa came over and inspected. After a moment's consideration, she pulled my waistband out, reached into my panties, and rearranged my penis with one of her small, pretty hands. That didn't accomplish what she was trying to accomplish, so I took the initiative from her, pushing my genitals down towards my crotch, then pulling the pantyhose back up and creating a reasonably flat front while not squishing my testicles to death as I'd feared.

I took a step towards the mirror to study my now nylon-encased legs. They felt wonderful--smooth and soft, and I just wanted to see them from afar, but Lisa stopped me. "You don't want to run them by walking barefoot in them," she said. She went off to get something else, and I stared down at my toes, marveling at how they looked now, wondering how they'd look with painted nails, when she came back, not with a pair of shoes as I'd assumed, but a dark blue skirt.

I took it dumbly. I had a hunch it would fit me as well, but holding it, there was no question that I had long since passed the point of no return. Thus far in my life, I'd spent it entirely in pants, save for a few furtive cross-dressing experiments as a child, and a few hours in petticoats for the Heritage Day Parade, of course. But this was a symbolically new gesture; when I had this skirt on and walked out the door (as I knew I shortly would be doing) the only thing protecting my satin-covered crotch from public display would be a hemline that would continually need to maintain a southern position from my groin. Sitting, standing and walking would now take on a whole new set of boundaries.

I couldn't wait. I took the skirt from Lisa and nearly jumped into it, pulling it up over my hips, feeling the soft satin lining slide past my nyloned knees. Lisa got behind me and guided my blouse into the waistband for me, then I felt her close the back button and pulled up the zipper.

I tried to reach behind me to feel the way the skirt smoothed over my backside, but before I knew it, however, Lisa was pulling it back up--way up. It was bunched around my hips as Lisa tugged down on the tails of my blouse, pulling it snugly over my shoulders and breast forms. Then she gently pulled my skirt back down, smoothing it over my thighs. It felt wonderful--so soft and ladylike. I was grateful for the cincher--the skirt was tight around my waist, but now I could feel how it rode what few curves I had. As I relished the satin shroud around my thighs, and looked down at my shaven, pantyhose-clad ankles, I knew I was looking less and less masculine by the second, and I was loving it.

I wondered what sort of shoes Lisa had purchased for me. Certainly she had not done all of this shopping for me only to let me wear sneakers! I found myself hoping she'd bought me a pair of pretty pumps, possibly even with stiletto heels and pointed toes? I looked at her, my mouth hanging open, standing stupidly in my stocking feet.

"I picked these out special," she said, handing me a pink and white shoebox.

I took it, feeling the weight of my new shoes shifting inside. Tearing off the top, I pulled away the white tissue paper to see a pair of shoes even more beautiful than I'd imagined.

They were pumps, of course. I was no expert, but I estimated the heels were at least three inches high--not the highest heels ever manufactured, but for a newbie like me, they were more than adequately feminine. But what made them a dream come true was the series of straps I saw on them, and the little buckles hanging open.

"Let me show you, sweetie," Lisa was saying. "Sit down."

I sat on the chair of Lisa's vanity and extended a stockinged foot towards her. She gently guided my toes into the pointed toe of the shoe and brought the little strap around the lower part of my ankle. Then she looped the strap snugly into the tiny buckle on the side. I held up my foot, extending my new stiletto with amazement as Lisa expertly put the other shoe on me and buckled it as well. The narrow strap wrapped around my shaven ankle beautifully. Lisa smiled up at me from down around my nylon-encased knees. "Are you ready?" she asked.

She held my hand tightly as I stood up. Amazingly, the added three inches in height felt almost natural; as I walked over to the mirror, I felt a natural spring enter my step that I hoped was girlish, anyway. The satin lining around my skirt swished. "Try to walk with one foot in front of the other," she told me, "and take small, quick steps."

"Like when I was wearing the hoopskirt?" I asked.

"Exactly," she said.

The skin on my legs tingled from the pantyhose as I want back over to the mirror. (Sheer energy, indeed!) Once there, I could only gape at myself.

With the heels on, I noticed that my ankles had taken on a slightly more curved appearance. Turning sideways, I also noticed that my butt was sticking out more. "Arch your back, sweetie," Lisa instructed. "Shoulders back." I did as she said, and watched my open-collared white blouse gently stretch over my now protruding breast forms. Remembering my day in hoopskirts, I brought up both of my arms so that they no longer hung loosely at my sides; I let my hands dangle limply at the end of my wrists, and noticed how the cute, double-buttoned cuffs slid girlishly back on my hairless forearms.

Lisa took one of my wrists now and put a narrow-banded woman's wristwatch on it; then she handed me a black purse. I wordlessly slipped it over one white shoulder and felt it hang snugly just below my armpit. "I have a couple of other accessories for you," she said, "but I think we need to have you sit back down so I can make you even more beautiful."

I nodded. The sight of my pallid, short-haired male face coming out of the stylishly fashioned open collar of that white blouse was an unfortunate one. Still clutching at my new purse, I carefully stepped back over to the chair at Lisa's vanity, smoothed the back of my skirt, and sat down. There was no tell-tale bulge at the front of my skirt; my manhood was carefully hidden inside my pantyhose, and I now crossed my legs and arranged the end of my skirt at the end of my smooth, bent knees.

"Close your eyes, sweetie," Lisa said. "This shouldn't take long. At least I hope it doesn't. Your appointment isn't for another couple of hours or so."

"What appointment?" I asked.

She shook her head and winked. Then she bent down and gave me a big wet kiss on the lips. "Before I put your lipstick on, sweetie." She kissed me again.

TO BE CONTINUED

  

  

  

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