Coming of Age

by Panty Girdle Kid

 

I tried to pretend I was feeling ill, but he didn't believe a word of it. He just threw a girdle at me and told me to hurry up. Not a girdle. My girdle. Even after a year, I still felt a sickness in the pit of my stomach each morning knowing that I was going to have to spend another day wearing women's underwear. It wouldn't be so bad if it was just a case of panties and tights - at least I could try to forget that I had them on. Why did it have to be girdles and bras? And today was threatening to be the worst day ever. But he surely wasn't serious. Even he couldn't be serious about this.

I cleaned my teeth, showered, and came back into the bedroom to get dressed. First to go on were my frilly panties, followed by the lace top stockings he now preferred me to wear. I picked up the Rago open girdle and stepped into it, pulling it up most of the way before stopping to fasten the back suspenders, then pulling it on fully to fasten the front and side suspenders, just as he had shown me. Then it was time for the hard part. I sucked in my stomach, hooked up the side clasps, and zipped myself into it for another day of mental and physical torture. I winced as I relaxed my stomach muscles and felt the grip on me tighten. God, how I hate the feel of that thing on me! I grabbed the longline bra and quickly fastened myself into it. Practice makes perfect. I should give lessons to the other guys at school on how to tackle their girlfriends' bras - I'd make a fortune. (Not that I have much to do with them anymore. How can I face them and pretend everything's normal when every movement reminds me that I have a panty girdle on under my school uniform?)

As I looked up to find the rest of my clothes, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and looked away immediately. I can't bear to look at myself in this stuff - I just can't - and he's got mirrors all over the house. My bottom lip started to waver as I saw my new clothes lying out. My birthday presents. Trying not to start crying - I wouldn't be able to stop if I did - I picked up my petticoat and put it on. I put on the blouse, then the close-fitting black knee-length skirt, wiggling to get it over my smooth, firmly girdled hips while gripping the hem of my petticoat between my thighs to stop it riding up. Once I had tucked the blouse in and fastened the skirt, I sat down to put on my shoes. The hem of the petticoat peeked out slightly from under my skirt when I bent over, and felt my bottom lip start to go again. I quickly put on the shoes and, struggling to regain my composure, headed downstairs (again giving the mirror a wide berth). He really couldn't be serious, could he?

He stopped to look at me as I walked into the kitchen, told me how beautiful I looked, and then forced me to stand in front of a mirror to see for myself. He then started pulling my skirt up inch by inch to reveal the lacy petticoat hem then, gripping the petticoat as well, he slowly revealed stocking tops, then suspenders, then the hated girdle in all its glory. He told me how lucky I was to be able to dress like this, and how wonderful the next two weeks were going to be. Faced with the appalling image in the mirror, I had never, ever felt so disgusted with him and so ashamed of myself. When he let me go, I couldn't get away from that mirror quickly enough. All through breakfast I waited for him tell me that he'd changed his mind but, after clearing up, he handed my the car key, opened the front door and told me to go and wait in the car while he got the luggage.

Oh no. Oh God, no. He meant it. He really meant it. I was going to have to go outside dressed as a girl! I'd dreaded it all night, been terrified rigid at the very thought, and now it was going to happen for real.

My heart pounded in my chest and my mouth went bone dry as I shuffled towards the open door. When I realised that anyone passing by would be able to look straight in and see me, I pressed myself against the wall and tried to catch my breath. I saw him standing watching me, and he was struggling not to laugh. He was sending his son out in girl's clothes and he thought it was funny! He waved insistently at me to go on, so I took a deep breath, stuck my head out the door to check no-one was around, then rushed out to the car.

I was outside! I was outside! Oh Jesus, I was outside! It was a bright, sunny summer morning and there I was, standing in the middle of our drive where anyone could see me, wearing a blouse and skirt!

I tried to open the car door quickly but my hands were shaking so much I dropped the key. I bent over to pick it up, but the more I hurried, the more it seemed to bury itself in the gravel. The back of my skirt rode up and I could feel a slight breeze on the bare skin between my stockings and my girdle (which was giving me hell as I bent over). And, looking down, I noticed just how clearly my bra and petticoat showed through the white blouse I had on.

I froze in horror as I heard the Williamsons' front door being unlocked. One of them was going to come out and see me! The tears had come now, but I had at last managed to get hold of the car keys and rushed through the passenger door just as Mrs Williamson appeared, slamming it shut behind me. I shrunk into the seat hoping that she wouldn't be able to see the outline of my bra - at least it was a fairly plain blouse that didn't look too girly from a distance. She saw me, waved, and said something about how she hoped I'd have a nice holiday. I forced a smile, waved back, and almost collapsed with relief as she picked up the two milk bottles and disappeared back into the house.

When he had finally packed the car, he got in, looked down at my skirt (which had hiked up in my rush), pulled it down over the stocking top that had been revealed, and told me with a wink I'd have to be more ladylike. He thinks I enjoy this. He really believes I enjoy wearing women's clothes. What IS the matter with him?

I spent the next few hour dreading the time that I'd have to get out of the car in public. The moment eventually came as he indicated and pulled off the motorway and into a service station car park. He parked as near the building entrance as he could, turned off the engine and got out. When I made no move to follow him, he walked round the car and opened the passenger door. Even though I should have known better I started to beg one last time, but he just reached in, grabbed my elbow, and lifted me out of the car. While he locked up and checked the doors and windows, I stood there wide-eyed with terror, frantically looking around to see if anyone was watching me while pulling at the hem of my skirt (as if yanking it down half an inch or so would make any difference). He took my arm again and we started walking to the restaurant. A car crept past and the driver looked straight at me as it went past. He knew. Oh shit, he knew! I couldn't stop myself from giving a small whimper as I waited for his reaction, but his expression never changed, and his gaze moved away towards the exit road. We walked on, and more and more people appeared. I felt my face burning as we got closer, but no-one seemed to be paying much attention to me.

When the automatic doors opened, a wall of sound hit us. The place was jammed with people, and the queue to the food counter stretched nearly the full length of the restaurant. I stared at the floor as we waited, avoiding all eye contact and flinching every time I heard any laughter. I was aware of people walking past me, and at one point a couple of older women stopped chatting and stared at my blouse before passing by, obviously surprised at the bra I had on. Why could he not have bought me normal bras? What teenage girl ever wears a longline bra? Even under a petticoat and blouse, it still showed through as a serious piece of work. I looked briefly over my shoulder after they had passed, only to find them standing a few feet away, looking me up and down and exchanging comments. My heart leapt into my mouth as I distinctly hear the word "girdle" rise above the general babble of voices, and my head snapped forward and down again.

Ten long minutes later, we made it to the counter. I could hardly bring myself to look the assistant as I asked for a Coke and chickenburger - I had no appetite, but I would have to eat something - but I knew he was hardly able to take his eyes off me. It took an eternity for the food to appear, and as soon as it was set on my tray, I picked it up and headed across to a free table in a far corner where I hoped as few people as possible would see me. As I was about to sit down, I was tapped on the shoulder and told yet again to be "ladylike" and remember what I'd practiced. I pulled the chair forward, brushed my hand across my backside to smooth my skirt, and sat down with my knees together. I spent the entire meal glaring at him as he went on about how proud he was of me, how jealous he was of me, how the girdle gave me slightly girlish hips that the tight skirt really showed off, how I might look better with breast forms in my bra to improve my bust, and so on, and on, and on. God, couldn't he ever just shut up? Why couldn't he see the agony he was putting me through? Why?

Half-an-hour or so later - though it seemed much, much longer - we left. I could see the assistant who had served us pointing me out to one of his colleagues as I returned the tray, and they both started laughing. I felt my face start to flush again and rushed out of the main restaurant area and towards the toilets. I was about to reach for the door when I felt my bra strap being plucked and whirled around in shock, only to see him standing there with a silly smirk on his face, pointing me towards the ladies door. Sitting in the cubicle ("remember not to stand up"), out of sight at last, holding my petticoat and skirt up around my waist to keep them clean, and blushing with anger and embarrassment at the sight of the girdle and stockings at my ankles, I thought about how many people were going to see me over the next two weeks and how many of them were going to realise I wasn't a girl. I thought about the people at the hotel, how I was going to feel when they figured it out, and what it was going to be like seeing them again, and again, and again - having to walk past them, meet their gaze, smile at them and even talk to them, knowing that they knew I was a boy in a dress. That they knew from the obvious outlines of the heavy corsetry that showed through my light summer dresses (even with a petticoat) that I was a little pansy boy in - Oh my God, can you believe it? - a girdle and a bra and a dress! The story would go round the hotel in no time, but I'd still have to keep up the act and pretend that I didn't notice the laughter in their eyes and the smirks on their faces, the pointing and the staring, the whispering and the giggling.

And as I sat there, imagining the humiliation to come - day after day of intense, agonizing humiliation - I finally cried, and cried, and cried.

 

 

 

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© 2002 by Panty Girdle Kid. 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.