CanCan

by Transfemme

 

Part One: The Stage

I suppose it must have come as something of a shock for the boy next door. He and his family had moved in only a few days before, and when his mother sent him over to borrow a cup of sugar, the last thing he expected to see was a pair of firm, young bottom-cheeks staring him in the face.

I still giggle everytime I think about it.

You see, I was dancing the cancan.

Yeah, I know that sounds crazy, but I've always thought the cancan was a pretty sexy kind of dance; the idea of whirling across a stage with my skirt raised to my chin made my heart race every time it crossed my mind. I'd often wondered how it must have felt, knowing that your lacy, white underpants were on view to all and sundry.

It had taken me a while to assemble the costume, starting with a garish satin dress I found at a Red Shield store out in Chamberlain. It looked practically brand-new when I took it down from the rack. The shop-lady told me it was an authentic chorus-girl outfit, a hand-me-down from one of the local dance schools. I managed to talk her down to ten dollars for the dress and a pair of black stiletto heels I'd seen in the window. Everything fit perfectly; I literally couldn't believe my luck.

The layered petticoats were a little more difficult to locate (not to mention expensive) but I eventually came across a dancewear supplier on the net specialising in music-hall accessories. I used my mother's credit card to buy them online and had them mailed to a post-box number at Chamberlain Mail Centre. I paid her back with interest, although I didn't tell her what the transaction was for.

I picked up the lingerie at a Valentine's sale out of town, pooling my allowance for weeks in advance. The sales assistant wasn't sure whether I was a girl or a boy, but she was helpful enough once she saw the colour of my money. So helpful, in fact, that I bought four of everything; bras, panties, garter-belts and suspender stockings. Variety being the spice of life, I settled for matching sets of white, pink, red and black - except for the stockings, which I purchased in midnight, tan, and flesh-tone.

The outfit looked absolutely fantastic once I added a cincher-belt and a pair of shoulder-length lycra gloves. I couldn't wait to try it out in the rumpus room (which my imagination transformed into a 19th century Soho music hall). Unfortunately, it was weeks before found myself alone in the house. My bedroom was too small to perform in, and anyway, I didn't want to run the risk of being discovered.

By the time Mum went to spend the weekend at Grandma's place, I was almost climbing the walls. If you've survived puberty, you'll know how desperate the situation becomes when you're a teenager struggling in the grip of raging hormone levels.

Finally having the house to myself, I pulled the ensemble out of its hiding place in the wardrobe and carried it down to the rumpus room. It was large and well-lit, with plenty of space for twirling and kicking. There was a cheval mirror set up to one side of the television. Walking over to the sofa, I laid the garments out in careful order, I preparing for the afternoon's festivities.

Peeling off my t-shirt, jeans and hipsters, I stood before the mirror, ready for my transformation. I paused a few moments, allowing the excitement to surge through my system in waves of moist heat. I'd been waiting months for this moment, feeling the exhilaration building up inside me like a slowly burning fire.

Shivering with arousal, I reached for the lacy, black garter-belt.

It was the sort with adjustable suspenders and a hook-and-eye arrangement at the back. Just looking at the thing made me delirious with embarrassment. Clipping the flimsy piece of lingerie around my slim waist, I picked up a pair of seamed midnight stockings and stepped carefully into them, cautious not to tear the sheer fabric. Adjusting the suspenders to mid-thigh, I turned to pose in the mirror, enjoying the touch of nylon against my bare flesh. My legs looked long and tapering in their ebony sheaths.

Next, I pulled on a pair of pristine white panties, slipping them over the garters with a whisper of liquid satin. Delicate and nebulous, they shimmered like platinum in the lazy afternoon light. The garter-belt was plainly visible through the gossamer material. A seam ran down the centre decorated with a delicious floral trim. I was blushing at the thought of exhibiting them to my imaginary audience.

I put on a matching white underwire brassiere, adjusting the shoulder straps with vaguely shaking fingers. My tummy was fluttering with anticipation; the girl in the mirror was tall and slim and quite beautiful. Shining blond hair tied back in a long ponytail, she looked maybe sixteen years old; her large blue eyes and tiny mouth giving her an innocent, child-like appearance.

Turning around, I looked back over my shoulder, enjoying the curve of my figure; the lush, full shape of my bottom. The panties were a little high -cut at the back, exposing a generous amount of cheek on either side. I wriggled my fanny impishly, smiling back at myself. Raising one hand, I slapped myself, very hard, on the right buttock, leaving an angry red mark. My smile broadened in pleasure. I needed a good, hard spanking; I was an extremely naughty girl, after all.

Returning to the business at hand, I pulled on the petticoats, their flouncing bulk accentuating the luscious swell of my hips. Two layers of alabaster frills, an absolute pre-requisite to dancing the cancan. Waved above the waistline, the crinolines formed a kind of backdrop for the underwear, a curtain raised to exhibit the panties and stockings.

However, the costume wasn't quite complete.

I drew the satin hemline over my head, allowing the dress to drop into place over the massed petticoats. It was beautifully designed, with a halter top and a full-circle skirt that swept down to just below the knee. The frock was ornate and rather gaudy, red and black stripes ran the length of the skirt. Lace traceries embellished the bustline. I finished my preparations by pulling on the long, crimson gloves and fastening the cincher around my waist. And then I was ready.

I posed in the mirror, stepping forward on one foot and lifting the petticoats to reveal a saucy black garter. My heart was racing in my chest, my eyes twinkled with mischief. Was this how it felt, waiting backstage while the band warmed up its horns and strings? I could almost hear the murmur of the crowd, the popping of corks and the clinking of glasses. In a very few moments, I'd have to run onto the stage with my panties on full display. My entire body was trembling with expectation. Gazing into the mirror, I saw a rich, pink glow suffusing my features.

Snatching up two handfuls of flocked white lace, I conjured up a packed Victorian nightclub on the south side of London. For one second, I could almost see the chandeliers flickering overhead, the coils of smoke rising to the rafters, the dim shape of the audience beyond the footlights. The band had started up with a clashing of drums: I was being summoned out before the crowd. It was time to reveal my gauzy white underwear to the world!

Grinning my most brilliant smile, I raced onto the stage in an avalanche of gossamer frills. I launched into my routine with a series of classic high-kicks, straining my garter-belt to the breaking point as my feet swept towards the ceiling. A vast star of joy seemed to explode in my belly. Heart pounding in ecstasy, I spun into a long, wheeling pirouette, skirts flying out in a perfect circle. I orbited around the room, exposing my panties all the way up to my belly button. Stockinged thighs flashed in the mirror as I whirled past, my hair flailing about my shoulders.

Every nerve in my body seemed to tingle with electric fire. Drawing a deep breath, I pitched forward into a cartwheel, scissoring my legs in mid-air to allow the crinolines to fall away. I paused at the height of my arc; suspended upside down with my petticoats cascading over my head. Cool air whisked between my thighs as I went over, almost shrieking in rapture. It was wonderful, better than I'd ever imagined.

Landing gracefully on my feet, I whipped the dress back up to my throat and kicked my heels over my head, giggling like a child as I leapt from foot to foot. The audience roared its approval, their deafening shouts echoing around the ceiling. I rushed forward, waving my skirt as high as it could go. I felt sweet, feminine and unbelievably naughty. Tight black garters snapped against my haunches, virginal white panties glared in the mirror.

The performance lasted about ten minutes. Pulse thudding in my temples, I careened through a succession of kicks, handstands and flip-flops, taxing my gymnastic abilities to the limit. My stockings crept imperceptively down my thighs, exhibiting more bare flesh until the suspenders were as taunt as violin strings. Wild exhilaration filled my veins; I spun ever faster, giggling and screaming as my petticoats rose and fell.

I finished up with by bending double and tossing my skirts over my back, baring my ripe, pantied bottom to the entire room. Breathless with arousal, I stood with my heels together and my dress hanging over my head. I clenched my bottom-cheeks impulsively, listening to the crowd cheering; thundering for more. I smiled to myself in pure, innocent delight, prepared to stand up and give them the encore they deserved.

Just at that second, someone cleared their throat behind me.

 

PART 2: THE BOY NEXT DOOR.

My eyes widened in surprise.

Lips parting in a silent gasp, I peeked out from below the frothy curtain of my petticoats, still doubled over with my bottom thrust out in rude display.

There was someone standing at the door of the rumpus room. Someone I'd never seen before. A boy about my age, maybe a year older. Tall; taller than me, and much wider across the shoulders. He was wearing a Chamberlain High School jacket and holding something in his right hand, although neither fact register with me at the time. He was staring at me (or rather at my derriere) slack-jawed and speechless, astonishment stamped all over his face in capital letters.

'Ohmygod!!' I cried, remembering how high-cut my underpants were at the back, how much creamy white bottom-flesh they exposed. I swung around and straightened up, flipping my skirt over to a more modest position. I stared back wordlessly, my face darkening with embarrassment. How long had he been standing there? How much had he seen? What was he doing here?!

His eyes seemed to refocus, as if he'd just come out of a trance, then he cleared his throat again.

'Hi ...' he said, raising his hand in unconscious greeting, 'I ... I'm from next door ... I've ... I just came over to ...' That was as far as he got before he remembered he was holding a coffee mug in his right hand. A rather large one with a Starbucks logo on the side.

'How did you get in here?' I demanded, feeling more than a little scared. He was far bigger than me - built like a linebacker on steroids, in fact. I stepped away from him, feeling small and weak and vulnerable. He was blocking my sole exit from the room. I looked anxiously around, wondering how I'd get past him if it came to trouble.

'Oh ... I'm sorry, the front door was open', he replied red-faced, gesturing over his shoulder with the Starbucks mug, 'I knocked for about two minutes, but no one answered, so I ...' his voice trailed off and I saw that he was nearly as embarrassed as me. Two bright spots stood out on his cheeks. Despite his size, he looked like a very small boy caught with his hand down the cookie jar. He offered me a sheepish, apologetic grin, his eyes roaming over my costume - particularly the bustier.

'What do you want?!' I exclaimed, covering my tiny cleavage with both hands. It was a reflex action: He was a stranger, I was standing here in a low-cut dress. I wanted to cover up, hide myself from this lumbering monstrocity. How could I have been so stupid as to leave the front door open? Now my secret was out: he'd seen me capering around the rumpus room with my skirt over my head.

And he'd seen my bottom.

'Nothing ...' he replied uncomfortably, 'I mean, my mother sent me over for a cup of sugar ... she's making a cake, and we only moved in two days ago ...'

'A cup of sugar?' I asked, starting to calm down. He obviously wasn't going to hurt me. He now seemed less of a threat than when I'd first seen him standing in the doorway with his shoulders bulking out the frame. Now that the initial shock had passed, I was able to take a closer look at him. He had a surprisingly open expression, almost devoid of thoughtless, adolescent cruelty. He was big, but he wasn't mean.

'Yeah, a cup of sugar', he said, and rubbed the back of his neck with his huge left paw, having exhausted his vocabularly for the time being. I searched his features carefully, uncertain how to proceed. Could I trust him? Would he keep what he'd seen to himself? I lowered my hands to my sides, realising I didn't have much choice now that the cat was out of the bag.

Unless, of course, I could come up with a convincing lie.

'You're probably wondering what I was doing', I said, sweeping a gloved hand around the room.

'Oh .. no, I didn't ...' he started, looking more uncomfortable than ever.

'I was rehearsing for our school musical', I explained, blushing to the edge of my hairline, 'we're doing a Moulin Rouge number on Bastille Day'. I guess it sounded plausible enough, if you ignored the fact that I'd been dancing without any music whatsoever. I watched him closely for any sign of disbelief. His reaction startled me:

'Really? Well, it looked pretty good from where I was standing'.

'How much did you see?'

'Just about everything', he replied without thinking, then realised how his words might have been interpreted, 'I mean, just the last couple of seconds, that thing where you bend over and ...' he closed his mouth, evidently deciding it would be better to quit while he was ahead. He glanced down at his feet, unable to make eye-contact.

It suddenly occured to me that he'd swallowed my explanation far too easily. I'd neglected to mention that I attended an all-boy's academy, which would have made more sense if he thought I was male. Why did he feel so embarrassed? Why couldn't he look me in the face? Here he was, staring down at his Doc Martins, like a little kid who'd broken the neighbour's window. He was almost acting as if ...

The penny dropped for me at that moment.

He thinks I'm a girl, I thought incredulously, this hulking great lugoon thinks he's talking to a girl. There was another pause in the conversation while I considered the implications of this revelation. What was happening here? How had he mistaken me for a woman? He couldn't be that slow; no one could. Stereotype small-town jock though he was, The Boy From Next Door wasn't a complete moron. I could see that much, at least.

'You ... came over for a cup of sugar?' I asked, feeling my spine relax somewhat. The words cycled through my mind with clarion-like intensity: he thinks I'm a girl: he saw me dancing the cancan, and he thinks I'm a girl! He's standing here talking to me face-to-face and he STILL thinks I'm a girl!! That means ...

'Yeah, if that'd be alright', he answered, holding up the mug with an almost comically self-depricating look. Aw, shucks ma'am, I'm so sorry about all this. Just gimme my cup a' sugar and I'll be on my way.

'OK,' I said, feeling a genuine smile rising to my lips, 'you want to come out to the kitchen?' I stepped towards him, hearing my stilettoes clocking on the floorboards. Nylon frills brushed against my thighs, raising static along the stockings. My sense of touch seemed to have been amplified a hundredfold, I was almost painfully conscious of everything touching my skin. Flimsy white panties, clinging to my hips. Whispy black garter-belt, nestled snugly around my waist. Long, taunt suspenders, stretching along my legs.

'Sure', he nodded, 'lead the way'. He stepped aside, allowing me to pass into the main corridor. My skirt rustled gently as I pushed by, giving him a shy sideways glance. He was so huge; I was frankly amazed that he'd fit throught he front door, open or closed. He fell in behind me without comment, two hundred pounds of all-American beefcake squeezed into a Chamberlain jacket and a pair of faded blue levis. And carrying a Starbucks coffee mug in his right hand.

I could feel his eyes wandering over my bottom as we walked out to the kitchen.

 

PART 3: MILK AND COOKIES

On reflection, it must've about the dumbest thing I'd ever done in my life up to that point. I had to live next door to this guy and his family; how could I have been crazy enough to think I'd get away with it? In a perfect world, I suppose I would have been straight with him from the start; told him I was biologically male (even though my genetic disorder gives me a highly feminine appearance) and that he'd simply caught me fooling around in a ten dollar dress I'd bought at the Salvation Army a few months ago. He's a regular guy, he'd understand my position. Probably shake my hand and invite me out for a beer as soon as we were both old enough to visit the local watering hole.

Maybe he would have. Who knows? As I later discovered, Pete Fuller had about the sweetest nature to be found on God's green earth, not a malicious bone in his entire body. I might have saved myself a hell of a lot of trouble by just coming clean. I certainly would have saved myself the humiliation of having to strip down to my panties and stockings in a crowded Westside Bar ... but I'm getting ahead of myself.

 

 

 

*********************************************
© 2002 by Transfemme. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.